A 52-Hertz Whale (20 page)

I didn't tell him that I'd been thinking about pretty much that exact question ever since Turnabout. But I told him how it went down. The ride situation got all messed up because Sara's mom was supposed to drive them but Sara bailed and Sam ended up riding with Becky and me. And right away, there was this sort of relief that I wasn't with Charlie. Which is weird. We've been best friends since fifth grade, so it was strange that I was glad he wasn't with us. But without him around, there wasn't this worry every time I spoke that he might try to one-up me. I swear, I could tell a story about getting kidnapped by aliens, and he'd be like, “That's nothing compared to this one time when I got kidnapped by aliens . . .”

When we got to the dance, as Sam was climbing out of the car, this envelope fell out of his jacket pocket. I grabbed it off the seat and it said James on it. I asked Sam what it was, and he gave me this sly smile and said, “Tell you later.” After that I basically forgot about it. But during the dance, this little dance circle broke out, and there's James Turner right in the middle of it, going nuts. I mean, it wasn't like good good, but his enthusiasm was like a fourteen out of ten, like he was a baby or something and had just discovered that there was this thing you could do with your body called dancing. It was one of those things where you're sort of embarrassed for someone and a little happy too, because that kid usually acts like such a stiff. People were going nuts cheering him on. And right in the middle of it all, Charlie comes up to me and tells me about the limo (I haven't mentioned the limo to Sizemore, because if he told my dad I might never play soccer again). I was like, “Why? What did Turner do?”

And Charlie was like, “He only came here with the old video camera creeper who tried to kill me the other day—no big deal.”

“Don't you think maybe you're exaggerating a little?” I said.

“He karate-chopped my head! Just because he sucks at karate doesn't mean he wasn't trying to kill me. We can't let him get away with it.”

I didn't really want to do it, but I remembered the envelope that Sam had, and I figured it was part of the plan too, a little continuation of the stuff I did to Sophia's poster. And Sam's super nice usually, so I figured if Sam was going after Turner he must really deserve it. I was going to go ask him, but Charlie was telling me I had to go out to the limo right then and do it before more cars showed up outside the gym.

Oof, that scraping sound. Way worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.

Now I don't know what's going on, because ever since the dance Sam won't talk to me, and I don't really feel like talking to Charlie.

Hope you're feeling better by this time next week,

Me

APRIL 2013

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: April 5, 2013 at 2:12 PM
Subject: RE: The Movie

Darren????

Everything okay?

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: April 5, 2013 9:09 PM
Subject: Follow Up

Dear Mr. Peter Brammer, PhD:

Thank you for the email you sent a month or so ago and my apologies that I am just now responding. I have been busy both scholastically and extracurricularly.

First, I wanted to let you know that I did not raise the funds I sent to GNEWC myself and I feel it unfair to take even a lion's share of the credit. In fact, my fellow students at Carlsburg High were instrumental in contributing to the cause that we both care so much about, and they really deserve the appreciation for the $5,346.27.

Second, I am pleased to hear that the donation has been put to good use and that your research may yield some answers in what caused those six whales to beach last year. As you may remember from our brief phone conversation at the time of crisis and my many subsequent inquiries thereafter, I was very concerned about one juvenile in particular named Salt. Has your team determined a cause of death yet? I am guessing either parasitic disease or sonar interference played a role, but I am only an amateur cetologist, not an expert like you.

Sincerely,

James Turner

P.S. Did you receive the other funds I sent?

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: April 13, 2013 at 4:12 PM
RE: Follow Up

Dear Mr. Turner:

Forgive my delayed response. I've been out in the field for the past few days and I completely forgot to turn on my out-of-office message. Yes, we did get the other donations, and I am sorry that once again no one acknowledged these gifts sooner. This afternoon, I put a thank you note addressed to your fellow high school students in the mail. Your humility with regards to your role in the fundraising effort is, I must say, refreshing and it helps revise somewhat my unfavorable opinion of your generation as self-absorbed and entitled.

Regarding our research, we are making some good headway. I expect to meet with the team in the next few weeks to go over our initial conclusions—at which time I will get back to you. I appreciate your interest, as our work can be quite isolating and we can forget that we are not alone in our efforts to protect this vulnerable and intriguing species.

Best,

Peter

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: April 26, 2013 at 9:48 PM
Subject: Hey

Dearest J-Man,

Sorry I've been out of touch. Congrats on the growth spurt.

I believe I may have had a sort of emotional growth spurt since my visit to Philly. At least I hope so. With me, it's always hard to tell. While knowing full well that the best way to move forward is to put one foot in front of the other, I tend to take a step forward, then one backward to where I started, then a couple at odd diagonals, then I do an ungraceful pirouette, and generally stumble through life as if I'm drunk or, if you're a teetotaler, have a really bad inner ear infection.

In this case, as always, it was adversity that pushed me toward a deeper understanding of myself. Which really gets my goat. Why can't I become a better human being during a period of relative calm, in which I eat oatmeal with fresh berries every morning and go to the symphony occasionally? Not that I've ever had such a period. And it actually sounds a little boring, now that I think about it.

Anyway, it started on my plane ride home. Freaking airlines. Forced me to check my carry-on bag at the gate because I was in Zone Seven Thousand and they ran out of room in the overhead bins. Then, as I imagine it, the baggage handlers proceeded to use my bag as a tackling dummy in an impromptu football practice in preparation for their big game against the ticket counter people. At least that's what it looked like when I got my bag back.

And of course, what was in there?

My hard drive.

With all the footage I'd shot of you on it.

Completely shot. Took it to a data recovery place and everything. No dice.

As I'd committed a considerable amount of money, a fair amount of time, and an INSANE AMOUNT OF DREAMING to the documentary, I was understandably vexed by this occurrence. In this instance, “vexed” is the diplomatic way of saying that I subjected a whole host of airline employees to a tongue-lashing that would make drill sergeants blush.

And then I had a meltdown.

Kind of like the one I'd had when Corinne broke up with me, but this time it was actually a little bit worse. Because, of course, I still had hopes that making this amazing documentary would impress the hell out of her and make her want me back, even though I'd sensed that tendency earlier and tried not to fall into the trap. And aside from that, the doc meant a lot to me because you and your story mean a lot to me, and I wanted to share it with other people so they could see what a cool little dude you are. I've grown a lot through our correspondence and friendship—there, I said it, I'm friends with a fifteen year-old (cue an old lady clutching her pearls, “Oh my!”).

Anyway, I was miserable for a few weeks, sitting around watching movies every night, eating like crap, buying weird crap I saw on infomercials (if you ever need a water clock or a boot and glove dryer, let me know), and generally hating my life.

And the worst part was that I had some real problems that didn't directly involve Corinne, and of course the only person I wanted to confide in about them was Corinne. But I knew there was no way I could start spending time with her and whining about all my problems to her, even if she let me. I'd just end up getting hooked on her again.

So I made a movie.

Written by Darren Olmstead. Produced by Darren Olmstead. Directed by Darren Olmstead.

Starring Corinne.

It was the hardest project I've ever been involved with, even though I conceived it and shot it in about five minutes. I handed her the script, asked her if it looked right, and she said it did. I asked if she'd be in it, and she looked up at me with this sad smile that contained more than a hint of pity too. I didn't care. I knew what I needed to do.

Here's the entire script. She said it just as I wrote it. No changed lines, no improvising.

“Darren, you're a good person, and we had some great times together, but I'm happy in my new relationship. However, you need to know that even if this relationship ends, you and I aren't going to be together. We had our time, and that time has passed.”

I'd like to thank the Academy . . .

I have a private link to it, and if I ever feel myself starting to pine for her, I pull it up, watch it (sometimes a few times), and get my head straight. It can actually be a calming experience. Maybe I can become the guru of Rejection Meditation. Anyway, for now it's my own
Seven Up
. I just hope I don't have to keep making them every seven years.

Anyway, that's where I'm at. It's not the perfect place, but I don't think there is one.

I hope you're doing well and that you're still loving and advocating for whales. And I hope you're being good to Sophia and she's being good to you. That's all you can really try for, right? Say hi to Mrs. D'Angelo for me.

Your friend,

Darren

Let me say that again:

YOUR FRIEND,

Darren

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: April 27, 2013 at 5:02 PM
Subject: RE: Hey

Hi D—

I'm sorry to hear about the hard drive, especially after all that you went through to make the doc. It sounds like your resulting project, though painful, was maybe even more meaningful. But I must admit that I was getting strangely excited to see how I would look on the big screen. Sophia gave me some pictures from the dance and the purple cummerbund was kind of sick (Urban Dictionary, 2013).

Speaking of Sophia, we've been hanging out pretty often. We made a pact that if I went to her dance recital in June, she'd take a tutorial on cetaceans with Prof. Turner (aka me!). So far, she's addicted to old Cousteau videos, but
Whale Wars
gives her a tension headache. I figure one out of two isn't bad. We're also doing our Honors English project together, which means that I actually had to read
Moby-Dick
and relive the cruelty of turn-of-the-century whaling. (Quick history lesson: in New England alone, hundreds of thousands of sperm whales were massacred to make candles so that we humans did not have to endure darkness. Three-quarters of the sperm whale population was gone by the twentieth century when Americans started plundering the earth instead of the sea for energy.) The report is actually about the book's author, Herman Melville, who I wanted to hate pretty much from the get-go. But it turns out Melville spent a lot of time on ships in his youth where his fellow crewmen made fun of him for his middle-class clothes and manners. I guess you could say he was kind of an outcast. Sophia and I even found this quote about his experience at sea: “I found myself a sort of Ishmael . . . without a single friend or companion.” Not exactly the villain I made him out to be in my mind.

We're about halfway through the report, mostly because Sophia still talks A LOT. But sometimes there are these lulls in the conversation where we bob in silence like two separate buoys and I don't know where she is or what she is thinking. I used to like those quiet moments when we were deep inside ourselves, but now they scare me a little. Because I wonder: can you really ever know a fellow creature, even of your own species, the way you know yourself?

Your friend,

J

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: April 27, 2013 at 6:41 PM
Subject: Advice

Dear Peter Brammer, PhD:

Thank you for your email. I received the thank you note and shared it with the Carlsburg High donors via social media. They particularly enjoyed the picture you included of “our” pod of whales breaching—385 Likes on Facebook. As you know, I am interested in devoting my life to saving these interesting and beautiful creatures. Based on your own career path, I am wondering if you could offer any advice to me.

Sincerely,

James Turner

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: April 28, 2013 at 10:12 AM
Subject: RE: Advice

Dear Mr. Turner:

Call me Peter.

I am glad that the students enjoyed the photo. I took it myself when the pod emerged from the waves. The initial report on the 2012 beaching of several juveniles is almost complete and I will send a photocopy to you in the mail once it is available.

As for career advice, honestly I don't know what I could tell you that you couldn't find on the Internet these days. That said, I am reminded of a story that I feel compelled to share. I grew up in Alaska near an Inuit community, and part of the native people's mythology included a tale about Big Raven, a deity in animal form. Humor me while I recount a bastardized version of that story. Here we go:

One day, Big Raven was flying along the coast when he encountered a whale stranded on the shore. The whale was flailing and struggling for life, which the Inuit see as a sign that the universe is in disorder. But what could one little bird do to save such a behemoth? In his quest to help reverse the whale's fate, Big Raven tugged at the whale's fluke, but the creature wouldn't budge. So the bird asked for the Great Spirit's help and he was told that if he ate certain mushrooms in the forest, he would gain enormous strength. So he scurried to the shady woods and gorged himself on fungi until he felt he would surely be too heavy to fly. Racing back to the beach, he pulled the whale once more toward the sea. This time, the whale slid across the sand, slipping into the cold waves. And so it goes, one tiny raven rescued a giant.