A 52-Hertz Whale Read online

  I urge you to please do all you can to help your player be the best they can be this season. Now you’re probably saying, “Whoa, Coach O, I don’t know a bubble screen from a double read-option play.” Don’t worry. Me and Coach Erickson have that covered. Where you come in is helping your player be mentally and physically prepared to succeed in practices and games. Here are some suggestions.

  Diet: For the next 10 weeks, burgers should be eaten from a plate, no bread. Mac ’n’ cheese will be deleted from your player’s vocabulary. Mac ’n’ chicken breast with two servings of leafy green vegetables and carrots? Sure. Mac ’n’ cheese, no. Soda? Might as well call McDowell High now and let them know they can start printing up their repeat championship T-shirts.

  Sleep: Your players need sleep. There’s tons of research on this, which I would oblige to send you if you want. So if it’s possible, please consider turning off all Wi-Fi after 10:30 p.m. on weeknights and consider purchasing an entertainment cabinet that can be equipped with a lock (to be locked after 10:30 p.m. on weeknights) to remove the temptation of video games. I can send links to items on eBay that fit this description, or if that is not a monetarily possible option, you could simply confiscate the video game systems after 10:30 p.m. on weeknights and store them in your bedroom until the next day.

  Discipline: Lastly, it’s important to your player’s success that he or she feel supported in this journey we call a season. When your player messes up, in a game or in life, you must make it clear that, as regrettable as that mistake is, the next play or the next day supplies your player with another chance at success. I am not proposing that disobedience such as curfew breaking, backtalk, or the eating of processed carbohydrates should go unremarked. I am instead imploring you to help your player understand that the punishment for their infractions serves what I call an upfield-downfield purpose. The punishment is in response (upfield) to the infraction, but it also serves to help your player succeed when his or her next opportunity presents itself (downfield). Otherwise it would be pointless.

  Please contact me if you have any further questions. As it is my first year as coach here at Henson, I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you and seeing you in the stands each week now that conference play has begun.

  Thank you very much,

  Jack Olmstead

  Head Football Coach, Henson Academy

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 12, 2012 at 5:48 PM

  RE: Cease and Desist?

  Hola J-World,

  Patience, young caterpillar. I ain’t trying to blow you off. I just didn’t know what to say about the whale. Still don’t. But I’m glad you’re fighting the powers that be by withholding that donation. I hope it gets their attention.

  Look, I probably should never have said anything in the first place, but since you apparently actually seem to listen to what I say—a rarity for me these days given my employment and ex-girlfriend situations—let me clarify my suggestion regarding your friend Sam.

  You guys used to be buddies, and you felt a connection with him because you guys were really into creatures; you knew absurd amounts of information about whales and he was obsessed with spiders. Your friendship surely included other elements, but the creature facts were something you guys fed off of, something that made you feel understood by the other. That’s why people have friends: to feel understood by people they feel they can understand. That’s why the teacher Mrs. Whatshername from that Social Skills group had you guys spend so much time paying attention to people’s facial expressions, tone of voice, choice of words, posture and other body language, et cetera. It will help you understand them better and allow you to feel like you’re part of the tribe. Or better yet, the pod. Which can be a nice thing, especially if you’re on some big journey trying to swim a gazillion miles down to South America or whatever. That make sense?

  So let’s try to understand this Charlie Coxson character. Real good soccer player, apparently. And for some reason, be it a shared interest in soccer or something else, Sam feels a connection with him. That’s something you can’t control. You can’t go around trying to break them up. Trust me. I know. Firsthand.

  But I actually wasn’t advising you to move on from your friendship with Sam, just to understand that it’s an option. There are others. One would be to see if you can forge a connection with Charlie too, because by understanding Charlie, you might understand why Sam likes him, and thus understand Sam better, which, to review, makes you a better friend. (Bein’ a friend ain’t easy, eh?!)

  Or you might not like Charlie. Then you have to decide whether it’s worth putting up with Charlie in order to be around Sam. Either way, you also might consider trying to be a little more like Charlie. IMPORTANT: I’m not saying dress like him or burn your whale books and start watching YouTube clips of Messi and Ronaldo all day, but it might be worth emulating what attracts Sam to him, as long as you emulate good things and not bad ones. E.g., if Sam thinks it’s cool that Charlie is a real pro at kitten-punching, don’t go and do that. But giving soccer a chance or laughing when Charlie tells a good joke might not be a bad move. Is any of this making sense?

  In summary: being open to Sam=good. Punching kittens=bad.

  As for my own experience with moving on from a relationship, I don’t want to get into it because, unfortunately, all this stuff gets even more complicated as you get older and participate in dramatically different kinds of sleepovers.

  Best,

  Darren

  P.S. I’m sorry to hear about your whale buddy’s predicament, but I must reiterate that, while I may know a little about teenage drama from my own wretched experience of it, I don’t know nothin ’bout no teenage whales. Sorry I can’t help there. Good luck.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 13, 2012 at 1:30 PM

  RE: Stanley Duckett from GNEWC

  Peter,

  Well, I opened the box. It’s mostly bubble wrap. No sonar. Just a seashell with a note that says “Oliva reticularis. Netted Olive. Caribbean Islands.” Plays a sea song when you hold it up to your ear. Two more boxes came today. What should I do with them?

  —Stanley P. Duckett

  P.S. Actually kind of like this email thing. You can’t hear my stutter or see that I’m 5'4" and probably need to lose around 60 lbs.

  P.P.S. The real-time tracking feature for the donors is broken, I think, and IT Ron is in the Galápagos Islands on vacation.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 13, 2012 at 2:53 PM

  RE: Stanley Duckett from GNEWC

  Hi Stanley,

  Thanks to everyone in the office for the cheerful bouquet. The lilies have my house smelling like my ex-wife. Sorry, I haven’t returned many of the calls you forwarded to my cell. Too busy cleaning out my parents’ apartment and fighting the urge to keep everything (Dad’s bowling shoes that smell like his Gold Bond foot powder and Mom’s botany books with pages dog-eared). Today, I found some old pictures of me and my kid sister, Elsie, taken in Oregon on vacation when we were just kids. In one, there’s a clam on Elsie’s palm and she’s grinning like the shell is made from 14-karat gold. I can’t remember the last time I saw Elsie smile like that. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I saw Elsie—period. Maybe two years ago after her third stint in rehab. I think we met at Friendly’s or something and she ordered her favorite sundae—butterscotch (which she called “hopscotch” when we were kids). The person eating that sundae was the Old Elsie. My Elsie. Otherwise, I didn’t know what to make of the woman in front of me, reeking of cigarette smoke and hairspray, talking about twelve steps, her latest tattoo, and plans to finish her college degree, and pulling at her shirt sleeves so I couldn’t see the scars on her wrists. I don’t know why I am telling you all this except that I don’t know how to get in touch with he
r because her last known number is disconnected. And Elsie doesn’t even know about Dad.

  If you could, please open the two boxes. I am really hoping that it is that piece of sonar equipment. The situation isn’t looking good for our whale friend, and it keeps me up at night (along with the incessant chiming of the grandfather clock in my parents’ apartment that insists on ringing every single hour despite my best attempts to disable it).

  Best,

  Peter

  P.S. Was there any return address on that seashell box? And are we sure it was meant for me? I wasn’t expecting anything and, frankly, I’m kind of puzzled.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 13, 2012 at 9:57 PM

  RE: Cease and Desist?

  Dear Darren:

  Thanks for the advice about Sam.

  Yesterday, I got this phone message. It sounded like Sam, but voices in the background made it hard to hear. He said something like: “Hey buddy, what’s up? Just wanted to see . . . hang out tomorrow after school. Meet me . . . seventh period at my locker. I’ve got . . . show you. Later, man.”

  I listened to the message a couple times to make sure I heard right. Because the last time Sam called me was the end of eighth grade when he wanted help feeding his tarantula, Sparky, who ended up passing away over the summer. On the fifth listen, I realized Sam wanted to hang out with me again. And I started daydreaming, thinking how we might head to Sam’s house after school and search his backyard for spiders, just like old times, peeling back layers of tree bark until one of us discovered a wolf spider. Then I imagined us up in Sam’s room looking up the scientific names of the specimens we caught. I even started to convince myself that Sam would want to quit the soccer team.

  Spoiler alert: None of that happened.

  Today, I went to Sam’s locker after seventh period like the message said. But Sam wasn’t alone. He was with the entire soccer team. Long story short, the whole thing was a hoax. Coxson made Sam destroy my whale diorama, an extra credit project for Biology class. There was pornographic graffiti on some of my lobtailing shots and the habitat itself was pretty smashed up. My one and only picture of Salt was gone. Someone slapped Sam on the back and welcomed him to the team. That someone was Craig Smith, who up until last year was a habitual nose-picker. Now, he’s a starting forward. Anyway, I guess this whole diorama disaster was a kind of initiation process. Team building. More like brainwashing if you ask me.

  Sincerely,

  James Turner

  P.S. Salt’s location remains 170 miles east of Cape Cod. Not good. Not good at all.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 13, 2012 at 10:03 PM

  Subject: James Turner

  Dear Sara:

  Oh my god. It was the saddest thing today.

  Don’t tell anyone (even Becky) but you know my neighbor James Turner, right? From Bio and Italian???? My nonna tutors him in Italian and she says he’s the only person she knows who can make biscotti as good as hers.

  Anyway, after seventh period today, I’m at my locker and James is unpacking his backpack and Sam Pick comes over with some of the soccer guys like Coxson and Craig Smith. The name on Sam’s soccer jersey reads “Li’l Prick” instead of “Li’l Pick”. Someone added the makeshift r with black tape.

  Coxson shoves Sam forward and goes, “Tell him what’s up, Prick.”

  And Sam says, “I got something for you, James.”

  James is studying the floor and his mouth is moving like he’s counting the tiles. Coxson claps his hands near James’s face, trying to get his attention.

  Once James looks up, Sam presents him with his totally destroyed diorama from Bio. Hearts are drawn around photos of whales with red lipstick. And this is gross, but some of the whales have privates drawn in. Coxson is laughing like the annoying hyena he is. (BTW, does that kid even have a first name? What is it?)

  And then, James belts out this sad song that sounds as if it was composed by the last whale on earth. I felt so bad for him, Sara. The guys were all hysterical. But James didn’t stop. He kept singing and singing. He sang until his voice overpowered the team’s laughter. He sang until his voice was all anyone standing in the science wing could hear.

  Love,

  Sophia

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 13, 2012 at 10:09 PM

  Subject: RE: James Turner

  Soph—

  Srry short. JA flare again. No skool 4 me 2morrow. Fingers kill. Only gud news—dr lokz like J Timberlake.

  @Coxson: Who does that?

  TTYL,

  Sara

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 14, 2012 at 8:02 AM

  Subject: RE: James Turner

  Hey Sara,

  So sorry to hear you’re not feeling well again. At least you get to be examined by Hot Doc. We’re in the library and I’m supposed to be researching women’s suffrage for history, but I have to vent.

  Last night, my Mom went on her first date (blind!) since Dad died. The guy (Albert Stevens) is a total loser. I watched him walk up to the house from my bedroom window. He claims to be a dentist but his teeth are the color of Coke when the ice melts. Seriously? And he’s never been married. I mean, there’s got to be something wrong with you if you’re forty-something and still single, right?

  He took Mom to that place in downtown Philly, Bob’s Seafood, that serves oyster crackers instead of bread sticks and smells like day-old fish. Apparently, Mom says he never married because his mother got diagnosed with Parkinson’s when he was twenty-eight and she’s needed a lot of care over the years. Oh, and the teeth? Some medicine he took as a child stripped off the enamel. Pathetic. Albert Stevens is just one big sob story. Like some Hallmark original movie. And Mom’s fallen for the whole pitiful act hook, line, and sinker—the same way she does when she sees those SPCA commercials with the sad-eyed, homeless dogs and Sarah McLachlan in the background.

  The only person more disgusted with Mom than me is Nonna. She thinks James Turner is “strano” but that his smile reminds her of my Nonno. That also means he’s “bello.” Hai capito? Gotta run . . . Mrs. Wilson is eyeing me.

  Love,

  Sophia

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 14, 2012 at 10:01 AM

  Subject: Packages?

  Any sonar in those boxes? Probably too late for Salt, but they could use it on the boat in case this problem with the juveniles persists.

  Best,

  Peter

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 14, 2012 at 11:38 AM

  Subject: RE: Packages?

  Dear Peter:

  Sorry, I had to clean out the staff fridge because it smelled like ass. Took the whole morning then had to go cover for the front desk for Jan, she must have Ebola or something. Jesus. So let’s see. Forwarded a call to you. Some kid named James Turner worried about the whale Salt beaching and he wants you to email. About the boxes. Inside were more shells, no note or nothing this time. And no return address. I asked around about the shells. Lauren Sheridan liked the olive, guess she collects them. Went on and on about how shells are really part of the animal for protection, how their diet determines the color, blah, blah, blah. But no one here was expecting a delivery of that kind.

  —Stanley P. Duckett

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 14, 2012 at 10:37 PM

  Subject: Re: James Turner

  Soph-

  Ur Mom + Albert = meh. James=bello? I c that if u c past strano.

  Cya,

  Sara

  From: [email protected]

  To: the.dar
[email protected]

  Date: September 20, 2012 at 4:17 PM

  Subject: Sad News

  Dear Darren,

  For the past week, I’d been waiting to get a new longitude and latitude on Salt from the Greater New England Whale Conservatory. When I wasn’t at school, I was chained to my email, hoping that the GNEWC scientist (we’ll call him Professor Equivocator) would email me as he promised. I finally left a follow-up call for him. The voicemail message said he was out of the office. Probably on vacation.

  While Professor Equivocator was sipping from a cocktail with a little umbrella in it and smearing another coat of sunscreen on his nose, the worst happened. Two days ago, Salt was found beached near Hyannis Port at approximately 3:47 p.m. EST. And how did I learn of Salt’s passing, you might wonder?

  By watching the six o’clock news with my parents. The television reporter didn’t reveal the whale’s name, but from the close-ups of his fluke, I immediately recognized the asymmetrical pattern of white spots unique to my friend’s tail. The news clips showed a bunch of scientists buzzing around Salt like hungry flies, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Professor Equivocator was among them sporting a tan and vying to take home the bloated carcass for his latest study on echolocation. In one shot, Salt’s small eye was still open. A couple of people took pictures with their iPhones. It was awful how Salt was being treated like some kind of freak show. (New vocabulary, more on that later.)

  Of course, there was no mention of a cause of death on the news report. Because another juvenile humpback had beached in a similar spot several days before, there’s always the assumption that the two were traveling in a pod and that one was sick and the other accompanied the first into the shallows where they’d be safe from predators. Personally, I think that’s just a story people tell themselves to feel better—like Salt wasn’t alone when he died.