Consider the Octopus: Chapters 1–7

The Mylar balloons, tied tight to the metal leg of the folding registration table, twist and glitter in the sweltering sunshine, waiting for me to come bake next to them.

Marco was supposed to do it, but there was some sort of emergency, "all hands on deck,” which meant Marco and Randi and Vance and even Sabira had to stay on board, which left only Henry and me to check everyone in, and since Henry can obviously schmooze better than I can about fancy science things, that put him in charge of the scientists, and me, checking in the SEAmester kids.

"If you're sure you can handle that...?” Mom had asked, her words sounding more worried than like a big vote of confidence. Plus, she rumpled my hair, which isn't really something you should do if you want someone to feel fully competent.

I bet there are a ton of algorithms that could explain it. Starting with the number of orange Subaru station wagons sold in any given year. Like the demographic of people who purchased Subarus, in relation to those living in the Seattle area, and then the number of those same people who kept their car for ten years or more.

I don't necessarily know the math to figure that all out, but I know there is some.

But of course, then how do you explain my recurring dreams?
And the identical reddish-yellow Subarus in the same exact parking lot at the same exact time?
"It's synchronicity, Nana.”

And yeah, with a little Photoshop doctoring I was able to print out the welcome letter. It wasn't perfect, but my parents were so excited about my academic achievement they didn't look too closely. They didn't see that I spelled coalition—as in Global Coalition—wrong.

I see the pier, the metal planks. Boxes. These big, corrugated storage containers.

Besides, I have no idea how long I'll have to be hiding before I get caught, at which point I will be either thrown in the brig, or made to walk the plank.

Why is there anything other than clean water? It shouldn’t even be a phrase, right? It should be redundant.

The earth takes care of cleaning the water: evaporation, condensation, precipitation, around and around.

"Just because those random, crazy coincidences happened, and there’s no way to explain them, doesn't necessarily mean they mean something, right?”

She smiles at me in a melancholy sort of way, and I know she's thinking about her husband and the crazy, random chance coincidence that brought them together.

The letters and numbers are configured into the shape of a fish, and the fish—made of letters and numbers—is floating inside a round fishbowl.

But he looks too hot and tired to care. An equally weary green balloon lands slowly on the top of his head, rolls off, then sinks to the ground.

But then I remember: rigid inflatable boats!

“Oh, and there's a marine biologist, a”—he glances down at his clipboard again—“Dr. Sidney Miller, who confirmed. Said he was coming. Guy is important. World- renowned. Jim put a big red star next to his name. But so far, the dude seems to be a no-show, which is pretty disappointing. If he arrives, no matter what, check him in.”

I invited the wrong Sidney Miller. When I open them again, the dock is kind of spinning, but the girl is still there.
“So, Sidney Miller?” I croak.
She smiles sheepishly.

My dad knocks three times—scattering the last bits of my dream memory into oblivion—then just opens my door and walks in.

I watch them motor off, then pull myself up again and watch where the waves stirred by the motor smash up against the base of the hull in refreshing white swooshes, until I get nauseous again.

I wasn't really keen on coming here to the fair, but yesterday my mom said I needed to be around people my own age.

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Jamison says. “Who could forget such a pretty girl with such an unusual name.”
Rebecca rolls her eyes. No one sees. Well, I do.
Since I am not that pretty, and Sidney is not uncommon at all, this is what is known as a platitude.

Rebecca knows, absolutely, that we were in the same kindergarten class and the same third and fifth grade—Mrs. Daugnaut, Mr. Chopsky, and Ms. Keiley, respectively.

My mother, of course, is thrilled by the suggestion, so there is no time to explain the potentially nefarious nature of Rebecca’s offer.

My parents are divided into two anxiety factions.

The lights on the rides have been on all day, but now they're starting to twinkle, and drops of wet forming on the grass are sparkling. It is simple dew-point condensation and light refraction, but it makes everything look magical.

Mrs. Jamison is nodding emphatically.

"Hour and fifteen. That makes our rendezvous at exactly seven forty-six. Not one minute later. Got it?”

I can hear the tinny music from the Ferris wheel, a loud burst of laughter from somewhere, and squeals from the petting zoo.

The way the garbage all gets to these spots, Mom explained, is by these things called gyres, which are systems of wind and friction and currents that work together to blow all the garbage into one place.

In fact, even if I don't really want to be out here, I have to admit, the ship is pretty cool. Not fancy like a cruise ship—not that I've ever been on one of those—but it does have a wet lab and dry lab, a kitchen (the "galley”), "the mess,” which is a dining hall where you all eat, a gym, a big, noisy, industrial laundry room, and a room called the lounge, with coffee makers and a big-screen TV where I've seen some of the team playing Mario Kart late at night.

It certainly tastes better going down than it does when I'm done. But I suppress an encroaching stomachache in order to try another parental-off-limits fairground treat, a candied apple.

The outside is hard, falls apart in chunks, sticks to my back teeth, dribbles red into my hand, and doesn't even taste good. The apple inside is mushy and mealy.

Everything has a bluish tinge as the sun goes down, and the long shadows are disappearing into dusk.

I've never had a pet before because without the slightest bit of empirical evidence, my mom worries that I am allergic to pet dander.