I’m deep underwater—again—so deep there’s no sunshine, no waves, no swooping gulls. There’s just me, navigating through a forest of giant kelp in my round little bathy-sphere. Spiny, scary-looking fish swim nearby, along with a stingray, an octopus, and a dense school of mackerels or amberjacks. Rockfish are scattered on the ocean floor. A line of some sort—an air-supply hose? a cable to tug on in case of emergency?—connects my ship to a little boat bobbing up on the surface of the sea. In the boat are a man, a woman, and two boys. Way down in the deep, in water that’s clear to the bottom, I’m smiling in the safe enclosure of my round little submarine.

At least, I’m pretty sure that’s me in the bathysphere. I can’t imagine who else Jake would draw exploring the depths of the ocean. Surely that’s me, as I’ve described myself diving in my undersea computer games a dozen times—or maybe hundreds of times, because he never seemed to catch what I was saying when I explained the games to him.

I’m at the end-of-summer student exhibition at Jake’s art school, and what I’ve been examining is Jake’s prizewinning picture that he’s entitled—ha-ha—Tanks-Giving Dinner. The joke is, the whole scene—ocean, boat, bathy-sphere—is set in a large aquarium that is set on a table in a dining room, where four people are sitting looking at the tank. You only see the back of their heads, at first, and then you see their faces reflected in the aquarium.

“Why ‘Tanks-Giving Dinner’?” Maxie asks. He’s standing at my elbow, which is itself a minor miracle, given what happened to him at the swim team party two weeks ago. Maxie had been playing in the polo game, staying close to the pool wall. When the opposing team just missed getting a goal by throwing the ball over near the chrome ladder that leads from the pool wall to the deck, Maxie saw his big chance. He figured he’d duck underwater and hit the ball from below. Only after he ducked underwater, Maxie’s leg got caught in the ladder.

He couldn’t free himself to get up to the surface. Maxie held his breath as long as he could, and then his breath gave out, and there he was, trapped underwater by the chrome ladder.

No one noticed. The polo players barely knew Maxie was playing. And I was off in my underwater world. The lifeguards also missed Maxie’s disappearance in the crowded pool, and Mom and Dad were talking to their friends on the grass.

Jake was the only one who noticed Maxie’s little body trapped underwater when he stepped over to the edge of the pool to dip his paintbrush in the water. And he didn’t hesitate. Jake dove in, swam over to the wall where Maxie was trapped, untangled him from the ladder, brought him to the surface, and well, the rest is history. Next thing I saw, Maxie was on the deck, Jake was leaning over him, and a lifeguard rushed over to get the water out of Maxie’s lungs. The lifeguard had him sputtering up pool water in no time.

Jake. In his own way, definitely some sort of hero.

“Why ‘Tanks-Giving Dinner’?” Maxie asks again.

“Well,” I begin. I can’t take my eyes off the picture. It looks watery, but not drippy. I lean in to read the small print under the title on the card that’s taped to the wall next to the picture. “Jake Livingston. Gouache on paper.”

I pronounce it “GOO-awk on paper.”

“Gwash,” Jake says, joining us. “Weird spelling. It means a special kind of watercolor with some sort of gum added to it. I like it for water scenes. Plain water colors are too—watery, I guess, for me.”

“Gwash,” I repeat.

“Gwash,” Maxie says. “Gwash. Like, Gwash, what a great picture!”

Jake and I groan, and we explain the Tanks-Giving joke to him. Maxie cracks up. “Tanks—Thanks! I get it! Tanks for thelling me! I mean, thanks for telling me!” He finds himself hilarious and goes off, laughing.

“So, Jake, that’s me, isn’t it?” I ask. Not that it looks like me. But no one in the picture really looks like anyone I know in real life.

Jake looks at the picture. “Well . . . sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes you’re the one underwater. Sometimes you’re in the boat. Sometimes you’re around the table. But it’s not always you underwater. It can be anyone—me, Maxie. Mom or Dad.”

“Oh,” I say. And here I thought I had this picture all figured out. “What’s the line there? An air hose? A rope?”

“Yeah. Both. Either. Whatever makes you feel safe.” Jake has a dreamy look in his eyes. “Whatever keeps you connected to the surface.”

Uh-huh. Okay. Whatever you say, Jake. You’re the artist.

Jake leaves me standing there staring at his picture while he visits some of his classmates’ exhibits. I look at the smiling boy in the bathysphere. I can imagine why he’s smiling—because he’s off on this own, away from his family, friends, enemies, exploring the unknown. And because he’s got that cord, that hose, that whatever attaching him not to the bottom of the ocean, but to the surface. If the explorations become too dangerous or he gets tired of being alone, he just needs to tug on the cord.

Dad, Maxie, and I are going home. Mom will stay with Jake until the show closes, in an hour or so. I’m planning a new strategy for DeepSea Canyon. Maxie has something else on his mind.

We’re driving home in Dad’s car. “Please, Gabe, can we work on a movie? I’ll help you. I’ll move guys, hit the lights, hold the camera, whatever you say.”

I consider his offer. There’s a new video camera at home. It’s what Dad won from his office’s Bermuda program instead of a trip to Bermuda. He finished the contest just one sale short of the big prize.

“Bermuda will have to wait, Gabe,” he told me at breakfast the morning after he found out he didn’t win.

“Oh, man!” I wailed.

Then we crunched our cinnamon toast in our usual silence, and Dad went to work.

I was disappointed, but I made myself think of Dominique waiting another whole year before he gets another chance at a scholarship. Bermuda and snorkeling could wait, too. Meanwhile, I—that is, we—have a new, state-of-the-art video camera.

“I’ll be your helper,” Maxie is still wheedling in the car. “And you’ll be the next Steven Spielberg.”

Yeah, right. Where’d he get that, anyway? Dad pulls into the driveway. The three of us get out of the car.

“Okay, Gabe?”

“Well,” I say as we go up the concrete steps to the front door, “how about if I’ll just be the next Gabe Livingston?”

“Yay!” Maxie says.

I could have said I’ll be the next Donald Duck, and Maxie wouldn’t have noticed. All he knows is we’ll be making a movie, and he’ll help. That’s good enough for him.

I won’t lie and say it’s good enough for me, too. I still have high ambitions. But if Steven Spielberg looks over his shoulder, he won’t see the next Steven Spielberg coming toward him. Or the next Jacques Cousteau. He’ll see the next somebody. He’ll see me.