The Thing About Jellyfish: Part 4

So well-designed research studies will have clearly defined variables—independent, dependent, and controlled—that help scientists identify what’s changing and what's causing the change.

So well-designed research studies will have clearly defined variables—independent, dependent, and controlled—that help scientists identify what’s changing and what's causing the change.

I know, for example, that time and space are the same thing, and that it is possible that all moments in time exist simultaneously, which means I am just born and a kid and an old lady and just plain dead and have never even existed, all at the same moment, right now.

But I already anticipated what her next question would be.

Their hair is so flat, like they know exactly what product to use, and that makes me conscious of my own wild tangles of hair.

That’s because instead of coming straight to the table, you linger.

I scowl. I look down at my sandwich. A lunch monitor walks past and says to me, “Careful, or your face will freeze in that position.”

They talk about face shape and skin tone, and they point out a bunch of kids who are wearing the wrong colors for their complexions.

“Did you know that sweat is sterile when it comes out of your body?”

Molly presses her lips together, and her nostrils flare ever so slightly.

I say, “Most of the time, when people drink their pee, it’s because they have to. Like because they’re trapped under rubble or something. But some people do it because they think it's good for them.”

Just before you stride away, you lean down to me, so close I can feel your heat.

Instead of getting mad or nervous, they hear other things: the rustling of programs, fabric sliding against seats, polite coughing.

Her voice was low and excited, as if she and I were partners in some great conspiracy.

I could tell she thought we were experiencing the kind of thing she would probably call a breakthrough.

“Did you know that most of what we communicate to other people is nonverbal?”

I shrugged, which she apparently took to mean yes.

“I think we made major headway today,” she said to them.

And if you injure a jellyfish, you might find hundreds of little clones floating about, tiny replicas generated one after another from the damaged tissue, as if spit out from a 3-D printer.

And if you injure a jellyfish, you might find hundreds of little clones floating about, tiny replicas generated one after another from the damaged tissue, as if spit out from a 3-D printer.

With each new fact I learned—box jellies have primitive eyes, even though they don’t have a brain—I wanted to sit with him even more.

I listen to the noises in the cafeteria—the clamor of kids, the slam of lockers, the crumpling of brown paper bags, the shouts from lunch monitors: “No running,” “Pick up your trash, please,” “Cafeteria trays are not to be used as weapons, please.”

Mom grumbled about how nobody ever buys a house when the weather gets cold.

A bunch of the science reports were interesting—Molly did her report about scoliosis; she held up X-ray images of her sister’s back, showed us how her sister’s spine bent in slow curves like a lazy river.

Justin did a report on mutated cats.

She pointed to a photograph of a desiccated insect with a stick emerging from its corpse—it was gross, but kind of fascinating, too.

“Then one day,” she said, “that stalk explodes and sends spores down onto the new colony. So new ants get taken over.”

Soon we’ll cook hot dogs and smother them in ketchup, then roast marshmallows over the fire until the marshmallows burst into flames and turn black.

Then Justin picks up a stone, lifts it over his head, and hurls it right into the center of the fire.

I hear the rustling of classmates. The urgent, high-pitched flutter of cricket wings, the up-and-down melody of songbirds, the first who-whooo of an owl.

Then Mr. Andrews explains that sounds at low frequencies travel farther than sounds at high frequencies, and that is why you can always hear the beat of a drum from a faraway parade sooner than you can hear the rest of the band.

I listen to the orchestra above my head until I hear a commotion down by the pond.

I am supposed to know other things. Like how to clip a barrette to the front of my hair so it looks cute-but-not-babyish. Or how to walk in packs and how to squeal at campfire sparks and how to stand near boys with my hip jutting out.

I am supposed to know the perfect thing to say when later, you walk past me with Jenna and she sneers, "An orchestra,” as if orchestra referred to a clump of maggots crawling over one another at the bottom of a trash can.

I am in my sleeping bag, and the giggles come close, really close, and then I feel someone hovering just above me.