A 52-Hertz Whale (18 page)

I'm pretty sure this idea wouldn't hold up under much scrutiny, so I'm not going to put it under much. With some stuff I think it's just best to think positively no matter what. So that's what I'm doing. Thinking positive. And I'm going to make this an awesome documentary, with full knowledge that it's not going to help get Corinne back. I'm going to do it because it's an end in itself, not just a way to accomplish some other goal. Just like I'm going to be your friend for no other reason than because I want your friendship, not as a self-improvement gimmick. Mutualism, dog. Love it.

Nerrad

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 16, 2013 at 9:00 AM
Subject: Tile?

Peter,

I was gonna try to fix that broken tile in your office. You in today?

—Stanley P. Duckett

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 16, 2013 at 9:40 AM
Subject: RE: Tile?

Dear Stanley,

Give that tile your best shot. The glue clearly isn't going to hold up and I am sick of tripping over it on humid days. I'm working from home.

Just had another false alarm yesterday with the investigation into my sister's disappearance. Apparently, human remains were found in a shallow grave in a remote coastal Mexican town whose name I can't remember, let alone pronounce. And for some reason, they thought it was Elsie. The detectives had me do a tongue swab and I was prepared to fly standby to Mexico to identify her body if need be. You'd think this news of Elsie's possible passing would make me sad, and it did. When I picture her in my mind, she's still nine years old and her blonde hair is pulled into two messy braids that she did all by herself. But I am also tired, Stanley. So if I'm being honest, I felt some relief at the officer's news as well, kind of like a caretaker might when a cancer patient dies.

Then the detectives called this morning, and it turns out that the bones do not belong to my sister. The DNA was not a match.

Best,

Peter

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 16, 2013 at 10:02 PM
Subject: Itinerary

All times approximate:

6 p.m.—Dinner at Sophia's grandmother's.

Did you give Sophia the release form to appear in the movie? I tell you, she's a great sport for doing it.

Have you been in touch with her grandmother lately? Have any idea how she might feel about being in the film? It seems that she's been a person who believed in you even when others didn't. From what you've said, I think she'll come off as a “wise but eccentric matriarch” type of character. And I can't wait to check out her pad. I'm hoping she's got lots of antique furniture and trinkets from the Old Country. There might be a parallel between her struggles as a young immigrant and your struggles as a whale advocate: both outside of the mainstream of your society, trying to stay true to your roots while participating in the weird customs of this new place, be it America or high school.

And I've been thinking about how awkward it could be, what with you being on sort of a first date, all dressed up, Sophia in a pretty dress and wearing makeup and too much perfume, and then of course . . . me. With a camera. So I figured that I'll go hang with Sophia's grandmother and help her in the kitchen while you guys are doing your awkward teenager thing, and I'll just leave the camera set up and rolling. It'll be weird at first, but you'll eventually get used to it, forget about it, and start being yourselves. Then after dinner, I'll do some over-the-shoulder shots of you guys talking but without the audio. Should work great.

8 p.m.—Dance.

As you know, I will be unable to attend, due to my tense relationship with Dobson and Principal What's-His-Name. But I'll be looking for a complete rundown of what happened after the fact. With Sophia, Sam, Charlie, all of 'em.

11 p.m.—Dance over.

BUT! As you don't know, I've got great news. An incredible stroke of luck. Remember how I told you my old buddy Sash is a poet? That's not the good news. The good news is that because he's a poet, he had to get another job because poets don't get paid jack, so he found work as a . . .

Wait for it . . .

Limo driver!

And he's driving me to the dance as soon as he picks up some tycoon from the airport and drops him at his hotel. I'll roll some film in back, and we'll get our ending, whatever that might be.

See you Friday,

Darr-Bear

P.S. Can I borrow a tie? I want to look respectable for Mrs. D'Angelo.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 17, 2013 at 1:18 AM
Subject: Tonight

Sara,

I missed you so much tonight! Sam said it was a last minute thing, that he showed up at your house and your mom said you weren't feeling well enough to go. Which sucks because that blue polish you got at our pedi appointment was going to match your dress so well. And your hair looked sooo awesome too. Just like Jennifer Lawrence's. I wish I could pull off that cut, but my cheeks are too “full” (which is
Glamour
magazine's way of saying “fat”). Anyway, it was kind of pathetic to watch Sam graze the snack table and make small talk with Mr. Tedoni during slow songs. So I'm not the only one who missed you.

Turnabout was pretty legendary. James actually had to take off his coat at one point because he was sweating, which was good. I was actually worried he'd not want to dance at all and it would be really awkward. But he had some basic crowd-pleaser moves and even danced to the Lumineers. You know the song that is not slow and not fast? Most of the cheerleaders sat it out, which tells you something. James was out on the dance floor though, rocking sunglasses thanks to the strobe lights triggering the Transitions lenses in his glasses. Anyway, I JUST got home (long story) and I'm exhausted and Mom is downstairs asleep in front of the TV which probably means I'll be grounded for life tomorrow. So if you don't hear from me, you know what happened.

Love,

Soph

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 17, 2013 at 1:30 AM
Subject: Dance

Hey D-Man,

It is after one o'clock a.m., and I'm trying to sleep, but I wanted to see if you were okay. I don't think you realized how numbed up your mouth was, so even though I'm pretty sure you told me the whole story, I couldn't understand a word you said. Plus, while you were talking, Sash had his phone on speaker as his boss was yelling at him about the limo.

In case you're worried, my parents didn't ground me for breaking curfew. I don't think that they ever thought such a thing would happen, so they didn't really have any punishment in mind when it did. Sophia might not be so lucky.

Anyway, given your dental emergency, we couldn't really talk about the dance. It's too bad that you were banned from school because you could have gotten rare (and I mean rare) footage of me cutting a Turnabout rug. Some of the soccer guys started chanting “Whale Boy.” They made a little circle around me. Sophia started doing this little disco move and it inspired me somehow. I dropped to the floor, losing my glasses in the process. When I started to do the worm, this move I saw on YouTube, the crowd went wild. Epic, but I think I pulled a muscle in my back.

I hope you enjoyed dinner at Mrs. D'Angelo's house. You seemed a little flustered by her standing over you and repeating “
Mangia!
” Mrs. D'Angelo's harmless, but sometimes she feels more like a linebacker than a 4'11" grandmother. What about that gnocchi, though? Mrs. D'Angelo's an amazing cook. Did you shoot any scenes in the basement? That is where the magic happens, man. It's something Mrs. D and I bond over—food.

I'm not sure how much you understood of your interview with Mrs. D'Angelo, especially once she got annoyed with finding words in English and switched to Italian. I'll give you my best translation (which is probably not much better than what you'd find online given that I am a B– student). Basically, Mrs. D'Angelo was born in a tiny town in Abruzzo, Italy. (Read: larger population of sheep than people.) Her father was a goldsmith and the village mayor so Mrs. Lucca's family enjoyed local celebrity status. Then World War II broke out and she was sent to America with a man from her village who had started a life in South Philly. She never really wanted to leave her village, but her new husband was her only connection to Italy. They didn't have much, she said, but they had each other.

Signing off,

Whale Boy

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 17, 2013 at 8:01 AM
Subject: RE: Tonight

Soph,

Dance=epic! Sad I missed.

When getting ready, couldn't remember last time I talked 2 Sam in person @ skool. Or anyone other than u. Then pain started. Felt bad b/c mom was supposed 2 drive us.

Luv ya,

Sara

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 17, 2013 at 8:49 AM
Subject: RE: Dance

Hey JameSession,

I'm a little dopey right now from painkillers, so forgive me if I ramble a bit. Here's what you didn't see that led to all this nonsense.

Sash and I had left the limo in front of the gym to step out and grab some nachos and a Slurpee over at the 7-Eleven down the block from your school. We're on our way back, slurping our Slurpees, noshing on our nachos, and Sash all of a sudden gets super-inspired because he's loving the nachos so much, and he's like, “These things are unbelievable. I need to write a poem about them.” And I'm like, “Sash, I'm pretty sure no one writes poems about nachos.” And he's like, “William Carlos Williams.” And I'm like, “I have no idea who that is.” And he's like, “Nobody ever wrote poems about red wheelbarrows either, but then he did and it was awesome! Nachos are going to be my red wheelbarrow.” And I've been friends with Sash since freshman year of high school and thus am used to this sort of thing, so I'm like, “Totally.” And he launches into this stream-of-consciousness free-form verse about 7-Eleven nachos, talking about the cheese, thicker than blood and smoother than ivory, and the plastic tray, made of fossil fuels forged in the Earth's crust for thousands of years for the express purpose of being refined into this sturdy clear container and holding this glorious combination of corn chips and processed cheese foods.

And it was strangely compelling there for a minute, until we're nearing the car and he says (again, I'm paraphrasing), “And that you, glorious nachos, should be available to us so readily and for a price so reasonable is a gift for which we should all be grateful. As some marvel at a sunset, I marvel at—WHAT THE HOLY HELL! OH GOD NO!”

The all-caps section is when he notices the long, looping line of missing paint from the side of his limo. It was clear that someone had keyed it badly. Like, really badly. Immediately I knew it was Coxson or one of his cronies. When we rolled up to drop you guys off earlier, I was watching (and filming) from inside the limo and I caught his reaction. Dude looked like Kermit the Frog, he was so green with envy! Poor Mr. Soccer Stud, watching you step out of a sleek limo with the lovely Sophia on your arm. Then he noticed me and threw a major sneer my way. (Which I can't totally blame him for—I did karate-chop his head three days ago.)

That sneer was all the evidence I needed when I saw that scratch on Sash's limo. So when kids came pouring out of the dance, I had to step up to him. Sixteen years old or not, that kid had to be dealt with.

We were already up in each other's faces, I think, by the time you came striding out with Sophia. (Even in my teen-icidal rage I did notice that you guys were holding hands; nice work.) And man, what a clever little jerk that Coxson is. I was like, “You're gonna
pay
for this, you little shit.” And he was like, “Go ahead, hit me.” And I was like, “No, I mean, you're going to pay for this, as in all your lawn-mowing money now belongs to Watson Limo and Transport Service. Give me your mom's email address.” It didn't occur to me how un-badass a response this was until it came out of my mouth, but it was too late then. Coxson stepped even closer, so we were literally toe-to-toe. I could feel the tips of our shoes pressing together. And he looked up at me and said, “Bro, you snitchin'?” Like he was a gang member or something and I had just turned him over to the police. I busted out laughing then, realizing that, oh yeah, I'm dealing with a freaking
kid
here. The little jerk has no idea what he's doing.

Right in the middle of my little bout of laughter, that's when he sucker punched me.

He can throw a punch, I'll grant him that, especially for a guy who specializes in a sport where you mostly use your feet. Soon as I fell over I could feel that tooth floating around in my mouth. Otherwise I would've—well, I don't know what I would have done. Slugging a sixteen-year-old, given that I'm still on probation for the whole incident with the roses, wouldn't have been the best move.

Messed up as that was, I'm just thankful I was able to turn the camera on once we got in the limo and narrate our trip to the emergency dentist. I think it's gonna be riveting footage.

I'm just about packed up and ready to head to the airport. It's been real, James. Whatever that means.

Keep it authentic,

DarrenPain

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 18, 2013 at 9:05 AM
Subject: RE: Dance

Darren,

It is weird but I had a feeling something bad was going to happen to you. I don't know if you noticed, but before the dance when we were having dinner at Mrs. D'Angelo's, she brought out that bowl of water and the bottle of olive oil. You know how Mrs. D'Angelo dropped olive oil into the water and then said that blessing with her hand on your head? Well, it was because she said you have the evil eye. From what Sophia tells me, the evil eye is like a curse. Bad crap starts happening to you. No need to worry though, Mrs. D'Angelo took care of you and reversed the curse. Life should start looking up. Hopefully, that will be sooner rather than later.