Half Brother (12 page)

She’d come—just as I’d hoped—but unfortunately she’d also brought the rest of her cult. Still, my plan was mostly a
success. I had Jennifer in front of me, so close I could see the little mole under her left ear. I wanted to taste it.

Project Jennifer had made a lot of progress in the three weeks since the Godwins had been to our house for dinner. Jennifer was much friendlier now, and we talked a lot more at school. It still wasn’t easy, especially with Jane around. I kept hoping Jane would come down with mono, or some sickness that would keep her bedridden at home, just for a little while, like three or four months. But no such luck. Jane was like an alien force field, trying to keep me away from Jennifer. At school, whenever I started walking towards their group, Jane would spot me coming and wave and call, “Hey,
Ben!”
in this super-mocking way.

At first, that alone was powerful enough to repel me. But after pondering it for a few days, and jotting ideas in my logbook, I just clenched my teeth into a big smile, waved back, and said in an even louder voice, “Hey,
Jane!”
And somehow that seemed to confuse and silence her for a few moments—long enough for me to get into the inner circle and start talking to Jennifer.

By now, my logbook was filling up, so I usually had something pretty interesting to talk about. Even so, I had a lot of competition. She was very popular, and there were a bunch of other guys in our grade who talked to her. It seemed so effortless for them. Most of them had been at the school forever, like her. I’d just been dropped in, like a paratrooper behind enemy lines.

But I had something over these other guys: I was friends with Jennifer’s brother, a grade nine, a high-ranking male.

Twice he’d invited me over to his house, just to hang out, play Risk, kick a soccer ball around in the park. Sometimes Hugh would be there too. Sometimes Jennifer. One time she’d even played Risk with us (we made a secret pact and wiped David off the face of the planet).

And here we were now, all together, thanks to the plan I’d formulated in my Project Jennifer logbook, line by line, like a scientific experiment. We were having a group date.

Actually, Jennifer and I were having a date, and everyone else was just cover—but no one knew this except me.

The movie was a lot of fun. David, Hugh, and I cheered the sword fights, and hooted at the corny dialogue. Afterwards we walked out, blinking, into the bright sunlight of early April.

“That was so cheesy,” said Hugh.

“I liked it,” said Shannon shyly.

“No way!” sneered Jane.

It was unusual for Shannon to say anything, ever, and when I saw her face fall, I felt sorry for her.

“I liked it too,” I said. “It was a blast. What’s not to like? Exotic locations, monsters, sword fights.”

“I thought it was magical,” said Shannon, giving me a grateful smile.

“That evil chick was pretty foxy,” said David, finishing the last of his popcorn and tossing the carton into a trash can. “Six arms. That could come in handy.”

“I couldn’t get over their hair,” said Jennifer. “Sinbad looked like one of the Bee Gees.”

We still had an hour before our parents were supposed to pick us up.

“You want to go look at the record shops on Johnson?” I said, following Step Six of my plan.

“Sounds good,” said Jennifer, giving me an approving nod. Jennifer liked shopping. I had more than fifty references to shopping in the logbook.

As we walked down the street we stopped at a bunch of places, and I casually watched Jennifer: the clothes she touched, the jewellery she pointed out to Shannon and Jane, the records she pulled off the shelf. I filed it all away.

“Oh my God,” I heard her say. “Check this out.” She was holding up an ABBA album I hadn’t seen before.

“This is their live recording from their big Stockholm concert,” she said. “I didn’t even think you could get this here.” She flipped it over. “It’s not even in English!”

“That would be Swedish,” said Hugh, glancing over her shoulder.

“I know it’s Swedish, Hugh, thanks,” she said sarcastically. “Buy it,” said Jane.

She shook her head. “I haven’t got enough. Anyway, it’s way too much.”

“That’s a bummer,” I said, giving an inner shout of triumph. And then we had to get going so our parents could pick us up.

“We need to start filming him,” Dad said at the Sunday meeting.

There I was, sitting on the living room floor near Peter,
my own little notepad open, pen at the ready. It was my third meeting and I was still feeling pretty pleased with myself. Just me and the university students, in one of the world’s most groundbreaking experiments in linguistics and primatology.

“Up till now we’ve just been recording his signs in our daily logs,” Dad continued. “But our grant proposal’s coming up, and I want it as strong as possible.”

Everyone knew about the grant. The big one. It came from the Canadian government, and it was supposed to be a ton of money. Dad wanted it. The university wanted it too—not just because it would save them money, but because it was prestigious.

“So,” Dad said, “I want unassailable data. I want everyone to be able to
see
Zan signing. And that means video, so it can be interpreted by impartial third parties.”

“I think that’s a really excellent idea, Dr. Tomlin,” said Susan Wilkes, one of the student researchers. She agreed with everything Dad said. She was pretty, in a bland, thin-lipped kind of way, but the worshipful gaze she always fixed on Dad creeped me out. I think it creeped Mom out a bit too, because sometimes I’d catch her giving Susan a look.

“Who’s going to do the filming?” asked Ryan Cross, one of the other students.

Ryan was Dad’s star graduate student. Dad was always talking about how promising he was and how brilliant his last term paper was, and how he had all the right stuff to become a real scientist. I wished he’d praise Peter a bit more too, since he was by far the best at teaching Zan.

“We’re going to install several cameras in his suite,” Mom said. “And they’ll film continuously during the day.”

It was weird to imagine surveillance cameras in Zan’s room. It made it seem a bit like a laboratory—or a prison.

Ryan was nodding and making notes. I could see why Dad liked him. He was very calm and confident.

Peter cleared his throat. “A lot of the signing happens spontaneously,” he said, “just when we’re playing with him. You know, just fooling around, especially out in the backyard.”

Dad nodded. “I appreciate that. It just means we’ll have to keep Zan in the playroom more. The cameras will be virtually hidden, so he won’t notice them and get distracted. And we’ll set the cameras at three different angles, so they should capture most of his signing, as long as he’s at his desk.”

Desk? I looked at Peter and our eyes met. I knew what he was thinking. If Dad spent just a fraction more time with Zan, he’d know what a bad idea this was. Mom should have known better, though. I wondered if she’d talked about it with Dad, or maybe he’d just overruled her. I glanced around at the other students. A lot of them were looking at their shoes and scratching their noses awkwardly, but no one said anything.

Susan nodded enthusiastically. “At a desk it’ll be much easier for us to monitor and record his signing.”

Peter said, “I think it might cut down on how much Zan actually signs.”

Dad looked up from his notepad. “Why’s that, Peter?”

Dad had this terrifying stare. I wasn’t sure if he
knew
he was doing it, but he’d look over the top of his glasses and just
lift his eyebrows a bit and wait. I was pretty impressed with Peter, standing up to Dad. I didn’t think I could’ve done it.

“He doesn’t really like sitting at the desk,” Peter answered. “It’s probably, like, his least favourite place. In fact, he hates the desk.” He looked around at the other students. “Come on, guys, let’s be honest. How long can you get him to sit in a chair?”

Dad smiled pleasantly. “I’m sure we can think of ways to modify his behaviour at the table. He’s making significant progress, and I wouldn’t want to see that change.”

Dad was in full Doctor mode, using all his scientific words.
Significant
progress? I would’ve said
fantastic
or
amazing,
but to Dad it was just something to note down and chart on a graph.

“The desk might actually
enhance
his progress,” Ryan commented.

“We’ve brought him to two-word phrases,” Dad said, “and his rate of sign acquisition is increasing sharply. He’s smart. And he’s older now too, so I think he should be able to work at the table for an hour in the morning, and an hour in the afternoon, after a good long break.”

Zan wasn’t even a year old and Dad wanted him to sit at a table for a whole hour? But I shouldn’t have been surprised. Zan wasn’t allowed to just be Zan. He needed to produce data.

I looked over at Susan, who was still nodding and smiling. Peter said nothing more, but he was busy making notes. He seemed to be writing an awful lot, and he looked angry.

“Zan’s at twelve signs now,” Dad was saying. “If he continues at his current trajectory, he should be at twenty, twenty-five
signs by his birthday. Twenty-five words for a one-year-old. That’s pretty good for a
human
child. You’re doing great work, everyone. Well done. Any other questions?” No one had any.

On Wednesday morning, I got to homeroom early and left the record on her desk, wrapped up with a little note inside that just said:
For your listening pleasure. Happy Birthday. Ben.

And then I sat down and waited, with my History binder open so it looked like I was studying. From the corner of my eye I watched as she came in and saw the present. Her eyes went all wide. She unwrapped the record, gave a gasp, said, “No way!” and then read my note. She turned and gave me the best smile.

“You are so nice!” she said.

I’d gone back to the store and bought the live ABBA album she’d admired. Now that I was getting paid for Project Zan, I had some money to throw around. I couldn’t think of a better way to blow it.

“Hey, no problem,” I said. “The guy said it was probably the only copy in Canada.”

“You’re kidding!” she said, clutching the record.

“That’s what he said. A friend of his bought it in Sweden.”

“This is so cool. Thanks, Ben!”

And right there in class she looked at me and made the sign for
kiss,
just like I’d taught her.

“H
ow do you feel about your math marks, Ben?” Dad asked.

It was Saturday. Mr. Greensmith had sent home a letter yesterday, because I’d nearly failed two tests in a row. Dad had been out late at some work thing, and hadn’t seen the letter until this morning. We were getting Zan’s room ready for a teaching session, moving the table and chairs into position for the cameras, loading up the fun box.

How did I feel about my math marks?

It wasn’t Dad’s style to come right out and say he was disappointed or angry. It was some kind of psychologist thing, I guessed. He wanted to know how I
felt
about the marks—as a self-improving exercise. He wanted me to look deep into myself and make the startling discovery that my marks were crap, that I’d messed up, and that I needed to try harder next time.

I took a breath and said, “Well, to be honest, they exceeded my expectations.”

He looked up at me sharply. “They did, did they?”

“I was pretty sure I was going to flunk both of them. But I scraped through.”

“And you feel okay about a C minus?”

I shrugged. “I’m no good at math.”

“No. You don’t
care
about math. Honestly, Ben, a chimp could get better marks than this.”

“Why don’t you teach Zan, then?”

“If you need help, you just have to ask me,” he said.

That made me angry. Dad did sometimes help, but he wasn’t around much, even in the evenings. He had meetings and a night class, and he was all tied up with his own work. Anyway, I didn’t like the way he helped me. He’d sit there and tell me I was messy and get me to erase things and start again more neatly. And he almost always shouted.

“It’s not like your second-term report card was any great shakes either,” Dad said.

“I guess no one cares about the A I got in gym,” I mumbled.

“You’re a smart kid, Ben. You should be getting much better marks.”

I wasn’t convinced I was that smart; and I didn’t know how much better I could do. Or even how hard I wanted to try.

“Maybe we’re asking too much of you with Project Zan,” Dad said.

I looked at him, wondering if this was a threat. “No, I like doing it,” I said.

“I know you like doing it. But your schoolwork should take priority.”

“Okay, yeah,” I said miserably. “I’ll try harder.” “And what about all these detentions? Six this term. What’s that about?”

I just shrugged. There was no way I could tell him about my strategy of being a dominant male. It was working, but sometimes there was a price to pay.

“We’re going to keep a very close eye on your grades,” Dad said.

He kept saying “we,” but I wondered if Mom was really in on this too.

“And if we don’t see an improvement, we’re going to scale back your time with Zan.”

Suddenly I was furious. He was using Zan like a reward! Zan wasn’t something that you could take away or give. He was part of the family. Just because my marks were crappy, he couldn’t separate me from Zan.

I said,
“You’re
the one who wanted me to go to Windermere.”

“You didn’t seem to mind the idea,” he said.

He was right about that, but I wasn’t going to admit it. “It was more important to you. So you could look good with your boss.”

One of the things I’d learned from Dad was how to watch and listen and figure out how to get under someone’s skin. It worked.

For the first time, Dad looked angry. But he managed to keep his voice calm.

“Ben, I am not paying these fees so you can goof off. If I don’t see some major progress I’m taking you out. You can say goodbye to David and Jennifer Godwin, and go straight to Brentwood public school and
hang out
with your construction site pals.”