art

Once again, I’m submerged, deep underwater, far from sunshine, waves, and gulls. Only this time, I’m far from coral reefs and beautiful fish and shipwrecks and treasure. I’m playing DeepSea Canyon, DeepDown Software’s long-awaited new game and it is—not perfect. Very cool, but not perfect.

When you play, you’re a deep-sea explorer, and the object is to make it to Earth’s core, which I haven’t done, and Dominique hasn’t either. You wander down through levels of weird and fantastic life, plants, and sometimes other hostile divers who are also trying to get to the core. As you descend, you must make adjustments to your equipment, using a pull-down menu of options that is just a little bit too complicated for me. But I guess my way through it.

You have to keep a steady hand and head as you dive because you want to avoid extremes of temperature and pressure and avoid the underwater currents that might pull you down or up too suddenly. The main goal is to reach the core, but you get points for avoiding, rather than destroying, poisonous sea life as you descend. After all, you’re on a peaceful mission to the center of the earth, where scientists believe we may find elements that will fight disease on the surface. Also, some poisonous creatures contain venoms and other things that may be useful to humans, so you get points for successfully trapping and sending them up to the surface. For every one hundred points, you’re rewarded with a film clip of real underwater sea life of a coral reef—cool-looking creatures like sea anemones, rays, sharks, marlins, and octopuses.

The clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the computer screen tells me it’s 8:28 AM.

“My bus is here,” I hear Maxie call, followed by my mother’s footsteps running down the stairs. She must have been in her bedroom getting ready to go to the office.

“Bye, little guy,” she says, and I can tell by Maxie’s muffled “bye” that she’s pulled him against her for a hug. Then comes the slam of the screen door, Mom calling, “Have fun!” and the grinding of the camp bus as it carries Maxie off to his day.

“Five minutes, Jake!” Mom calls to my other brother who’s in the kitchen eating breakfast. He doesn’t answer.

“Jake, do you hear?” Mom says, hesitating on the steps.

“I hear,” he says. “I’m just eating and trying to find something. . . .” His voice becomes impossible to hear. I pause my game to get up and peer around the corner into the kitchen. As I suspected, he’s munching a toaster pastry and digging through his junk drawer. Since starting the summer art class three weeks ago, Jake’s collection of stuff has grown like crazy. Mom had to give him a bigger drawer to hold all the junk he’s been finding.

“Are you sure you really need all these things you’re bringing into the house?” she asked last week before she offered him the new drawer. “I don’t want to fill my kitchen with a bunch of garbage.”

Jake looked hurt. “Does this look like garbage?” he asked, holding up a penny that had been mangled under some great weight, maybe a train wheel. “Does this? Or this? How about this?” He displayed a short length of spiral telephone cord, an envelope with four colorful Malaysian stamps on it, and a section of bicycle chain.

Jake got his expanded storage space. Every few days he rummages through it for something he wants to use in an art project at summer school. He seems to enjoy his class as much as Maxie loves his camp.

As for me, the summer has turned out okay so far. Every weekday morning Mom and Jake leave together. She drops him off at art school and then heads to her office. I’m by myself for about fifteen minutes. Then I walk over to Evan’s and we go to the morning swim practice together. It runs from 9:00 to 11:00. Martha comes to the pool when practice is over, and we either stay there until lunch or, if we’re wiped out, go back to Evan’s house. I usually eat with Evan and Martha, and then I’m off to Tanks for You for my part-time job.

My job is at the store, but not exactly with the store. I’m actually working for this organization—Potomac Area Aquarium Society—whose members are aquarium hobbyists and tropical fish fanatics from around our community. Mr. Newman is president of the group, and he needed someone to organize their computer stuff over the summer. The membership list is half-computerized and half-scribbled in a spiral notebook. The Web site hasn’t been updated for six months. I may be forty years younger than Mr. Newman, but I’ve got way more experience with computers.

Once I’m done organizing the membership list, I’ve got big plans for the Web site. Anything would be an improvement. I mean, here’s a site about fantastic-looking fish, and right now it’s got no photos at all, just a few lame-looking clipart pictures. And members should be able to post messages about all kinds of aquarium topics. This is basic stuff, but the PAAS’s Web site doesn’t have any of it yet.

When Dominique first suggested me for the job, Mr. Newman seemed a little doubtful that a twelve-and-a-half-year-old could handle it. But when I showed him how easy all the computer stuff was for me, he was cool with it. It’s a volunteer job, not a paid one, but I don’t really care. I get to go to Tanks for You (because that’s where Mr. Newman keeps all the papers for the society), work on the computer there, and hang out with Dominique and the fish. And Mr. Newman lets me buy my aquarium supplies for half off. I think it’s a sweet deal.

Most days, I work two or three hours, until around 3:30. Then I walk home, where I meet Mom and Jake, who have usually just gotten back from Jake’s art school. Then Maxie’s bus pulls up in front of the house, and he tumbles out, full of news about his day.

So things have worked out pretty well. Of course, one reason it all came together was that I made up with Evan after our big fight over our movie. We both said we were sorry and agreed that we kind of lost it that day because we kept working on the movie longer than we should have. We’ve worked with the camera since then and tried out his idea for stop-action scenes that take place in space—using a blue blanket as a space backdrop and moving figures around in front of it. No threads attached to anything, no hanging anything in the air. The final movie looked like a bunch of action figures moving around a blue blanket, but I didn’t say that. I don’t think Evan was very happy with it either. Now we’ve turned our attention to live-action movies—filming real people and real things.

Maxie says we should make a movie of him in a musical. He’ll make it all up, he says, the story, the songs, the dancing. Fortunately, Maxie’s at camp when Evan and I are together, and when he comes home from camp, he’s so tired he doesn’t have enough energy to bother me about it. That’s a good thing, because his idea doesn’t have a chance. Evan and I plan to make a documentary—to film a story in real life. We haven’t chosen our topic yet, so we film a lot of things just for practice.

“Be careful, Gabe,” Mom says to me this morning as she leans over to kiss me goodbye. I’m back at the computer.

“You’re afraid I’m going to be sucked down the DeepSea Canyon?” I ask. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Ha,” she says. “See you this afternoon.”

Mom’s been telling me to be careful every morning for the past three weeks, since summer began. I don’t have to ask what she wants me to be careful about anymore. Be careful not to let strangers in the house during the fifteen minutes I’m by myself, be careful to lock up when I leave, be careful not to drown at swim practice, be careful not to get run over by a car during my walk to the shopping center.

A few careful minutes later, I’m at the pool doing my first set of laps with the team. I like the way my body and all its parts and muscles move and feel in the water. In the water, my legs and feet, which feel heavy and clumsy on the soccer field, are transformed into propellers and a rudder, all working together, powerfully and efficiently. Not that I’m the best swimmer on the team—not even close. But I’m also not even close to being the worst, and I can feel my own strength and energy when I swim, which is such a great feeling. I don’t even mind the chill of the water at our early-morning practices or the sting of the chlorine in my eyes.

The breaststroke is my best stroke. This year I’m about the best breaststroker in my age group, eleven- and twelve-year-old boys. Compared with the other strokes—freestyle, butterfly, and backstroke—I guess it is the slowest way to get from one end of the pool to the other, but breaststroke seems to suit me. Maybe it’s the long underwater beginning and the fact that the stroke and kick take place underwater. It’s the closest stroke there is to underwater diving. I find it almost relaxing to swim breaststroke, even in a swim meet when all the kids are yelling and cheering. I just concentrate on my arm pulls and my glides and my frog kick, and I don’t even know the other kids are there. I haven’t lost a breast-stroke race in any of the swim meets our team has had this season.

“Hey, Gabe,” a voice calls. I’m stretched out on the deck recovering from swimming twenty laps non-stop, the last leg of our workout. My eyes are closed.

It doesn’t sound like Evan, and I’d be surprised if Evan was finished yet. He usually gets worn out after ten laps, and the rest is very slow going.

I open my eyes. It’s Zach, the Zach who was in my class and in my ecosystem group, Derek’s sidekick, only Derek doesn’t come to this pool so Zach is kind of on his own at swim-team events.

“Hi, Zach,” I say.

“Want to practice turns with me after you’ve taken your breather?” he asks.

“I’m not taking a breather, Zach,” I say. “I’m done with practice. I’m just waiting for Evan.”

“I’m done, too,” he says. “So—do you want to practice flip turns while you’re waiting?”

I have zero interest in getting back in the water. He’d probably think I’m a wimp if I tell him I feel chilly and tired, so I say, “Nah—you know, I do an open turn for breaststroke.”

In competition, we swim fifty meters—two lengths of the pool. When you swim freestyle or backstroke, you usually do a flip turn—like an underwater somersault—when you reach the end of the first twenty-five meters. For breaststroke and butterfly, where you have to touch the wall with two hands, some people flip on the turn, and some don’t. I don’t. Instead, I double-touch as quickly as I can, twist my body around, and push off. That’s an open turn.

Zach considers what I’ve said and nods. “Oh, right. Hey, your breaststroke is great this summer, Gabe. Really great.”

Am I being set up for some kind of put-down? I can already hear it coming out of Zach’s mouth: “Really great for a girl’s stroke, Gabe.” “Hey, your breast is really developing, Gabe. Soon you’ll need a bra, right?”

I wait, but no insult comes. “Well, thanks, Zach,” I say. “Your backstroke looks good, too.” I can tell Zach is proud of his stroke.

“Thanks,” he says. “I swam over the winter. It really helped. When I started the season this summer, my time was already a whole second better than my best time last summer. You should winter-swim next year, Gabe.”

“Well, maybe I will,” I say. After all, it’s not like I would have to juggle winter swimming with all my other sports activities.

As if he’s reading my mind, Zach adds, “Since you don’t do soccer or basketball or anything.”

Okay, I’m ready. Now comes the put-down.

But Zach just grins and says, “I drove my mom nuts last winter, running around to a million different practices. I drove myself nuts, too. Next winter, I’m going to cut some things out. You know, a guy can’t do it all.”

Just then, Evan flops down beside me. He’s breathing so hard, I’m a little worried he’s going to pass out or something. But I’m only a little worried. This is how Evan gets at the end of his twenty laps. He’ll be okay in a few minutes.

“So, are you guys hanging out at the pool now?” Zach asks.

I look at the clock. It’s 11:15. Practice was officially over at 11:00, except for kids who were still swimming their twenty.

“We’re going to have lunch at my house,” Evan says, still panting. “Then Gabe has to go to work, and I have a clarinet lesson.”

“You have a job?” Zach says to me.

I explain about the Potomac Area Aquarium Society as I shake the last few drops of water from my ear.

“Cool,” Zach says. “How much do you get paid?”

I tell him it’s a volunteer job.

“Rip-off,” Zach says.

“Not really,” I say. “It’s fun. No one gets paid for doing PAAS work.”

“Anyway,” Evan cuts in, “kids our age can’t have paying jobs, other than something like baby-sitting or cutting grass. It’s the law.”

Evan would know something like that, with his two lawyer parents.

“Well,” Zach says. “I hate cutting grass and wouldn’t baby-sit for a million dollars. So I guess I’d rather have your job. How’d you get it?”

Do I remind him that I have my own aquarium? Do I say that he could have ended up with the job if he’d stuck with his goldfish bowl when he was a little kid?

Forget it. I’m in a hurry, and Zach may not remember the fight I had with Derek when the two of them teased me about my aquarium. All I say is, “Oh, you know how these things go. The job just sort of happened.”

“Martha’s here,” Evan announces.

“Maybe I’ll stop by to see you at work one of these days,” says Zach.

“Okay,” I say. Evan and I hurry toward the parking lot.

“He’s an idiot,” Evan says on the drive home.

I don’t answer. Zach seemed smaller somehow, away from school, away from Derek. Of course, he has probably actually grown bigger since the end of school. He just didn’t seem to be as annoying and insulting as he used to be.

Back at Evan’s house, I change into dry clothes and wolf down two peanut butter sandwiches.

“What’re you doing until your clarinet lesson?” I ask Evan.

“I think I’ll fool around with the video camera,” he says. “And play computer games.”

Evan also has the new DeepSea game. We quickly compare notes on our progress toward the earth’s core.

“Try adjusting the diver’s mouthpiece controls after you’re down to two hundred and fifty feet,” I say. “Otherwise, the air supply gets funny.” I learned that the hard way the other day.

I walk the six blocks to the store, where Dominique is busy with a new customer. Dominique is good with newbies. He takes the time to explain what’s involved in setting up and caring for an aquarium. He helps people figure out what to buy. And almost every time, even though he mentions at the very beginning that the tank has to be up and running for a couple of days before fish can live in it, the newbies look like someone stole their candy when they go to pick out their new pets and Dominique reminds them that it’s too early. We always share a smile over that.

“I think I’d like an angelfish, two of those black-and-orange ones, and some of the little silvery ones.” The newbie is a woman who has selected a smallish tank, just twenty gallons.

“Well, you can have them if you want to kill them,” Dominique tells her point-blank.

Whoa! That’s not Dominique at all. I look for a big grin to signal that he’s joking, but no. I try to catch his eye, but he’s looking down at the pad where he’s adding up the woman’s purchases.

“Oh,” she says. She looks shocked. “Well, of course, I wouldn’t want to do that.”

Dominique just shakes his head, still bent over the receipt.

“I don’t understand,” the woman says.

This is so strange. I normally don’t talk very much to customers, but this is not a normal situation, so I say, “He just means the tank won’t be ready for the fish for a few days. You’re supposed to wait until the water is ready before you add the fish.”

Now Dominique looks up. “Yeah, I think that was the first thing I told you. Remember?”

The woman pays quickly. When I ask whether she would like help getting the stuff to her car, she says no.

The store seems awfully quiet after that. I sit in front of the computer and check for messages in the PAAS e-mail box. I want to ask Dominique what’s up, but I can tell there’s a wall around him—and I’m sort of afraid to try to get through.

The door opens again, and Thomas Doherty walks in. Once inside, he keeps walking. He walks up and down the three aisles in the middle of the store. He walks around the outside aisle past the display tanks set up against the walls. As he walks, he blinks quickly and clicks his tongue against his teeth. After he’s made one trip around the entire store, up and down all the aisles, he makes another. And another. And then another, never stopping to look at anything, not even the new purple angelfish.

Normally Dominique would say something like, “Hi, Thomas, how’s it going?” or “What’s your water temperature?” which he knows Thomas checks every day, twice a day. But today Dominique says nothing. He stands silently behind the cash register, busy with some paperwork. I’ve never seen him so busy with paperwork.

Finally, Thomas stops clicking long enough to speak. “My fish are very calm. Very, very calm.”

This causes Dominique to look up. I stop reading e-mail.

“Very, very, very calm,” Thomas repeats.