Chapter 4
George

I board the bus behind a gray-haired man with pointy elbows who stoops down and shakes his rear in front of me as he drops his change into the slot. He counts the coins out loud as they plunk against the bottom: “One. Two. Three. Four. Five,” then picks up his two large shopping bags and grumbles something before hobbling down the aisle.

As the old man collapses into the nearest open seat, the bus driver glances in my direction. She has curly red hair and brown eyes that look right through me. Remembering that I don’t have any money for the fare, I freeze. “Ummm,” I begin. Invisible or not, I still feel bad stealing a free ride. An idea hits me. Straightening a pretend tie, I state, “I’m part walrus,” extra loud just in case I’m not invisible to the bus security camera. There’s got to be a discount for animals going to the zoo, right? Otherwise, how could they afford to get there?

The bus driver closes the door behind me. I stumble down the aisle, struggling to stay standing as the bus pulls forward. I’m on my way.

I slide into an empty seat. A kid covered in freckles sits across the aisle. His slightly-less-freckled mother reads the paper on one side, and on the other, wedged against the window, a gopher-ish creature whispers into his ear. This creature is about my height, wearing an oversized yellow hat, and her face is covered in fur. I try not to stare, but after two or three stops, I realize I am doing nothing but staring, and I think she’s staring at me, too. She can see me!

She’s not like anyone I’ve ever seen before, and if I’m not like anyone anyone’s ever seen before, are she and I a we?

Nervously, I nod to her.

The gopher woman nods back, then glances to the empty seat beside me. One of her eyebrows goes up and the other goes down.

I study the empty seat, too. My fingers run along the bumpy black plastic. I guess we’re not exactly the same. She has a friend.

At the next stop, I scurry across the aisle, taking the seat directly behind her.

“Pssst,” I pssst at her.

Her head tips back. “Where’s your friend?” she whispers over the seat.

“You mean Jack?” I ask, before realizing I’m about to make millions more. “My friendsssssssssss,” I correct, “are at the zoo.” I feel so cool saying this that I hope she’s picturing me in rock-star sunglasses like I am.

The bus rolls to a stop, and the kid, his mom, and the gopher lady rise to get off. The gopher lady pauses to peer down at me beneath the brim of her hat. My left leg disappears before her eyes, then returns exactly as before.

A furry hand flies up to cover her gasp. With wide eyes, she says solemnly, “Find a friend. Fast. Trust me,” before following her group off the bus.

“What the hexagon does she know?” I wonder out loud, hoping somebody else can explain what just happened. As expected, nobody does.

As the bus driver calls out the next fifteen stops, I wonder if the disappearing will stop right when I get to the zoo, or if it will keep happening until I’ve made a friend. I just hope I can find a new friend as easily as I found Jack. Finally, the driver calls out, “Zoo stop!” and I push the panic aside. Here goes nothing.

Bouncing down the aisle and off the bus, I see the grand entrance. Flags with pictures of animals surround the ticket booth. Zebras. Lions. Monkeys. It’s great. No walrus, but I’m guessing that we walruses, though remarkably handsome, are incredibly modest. It runs in the family.

I race to the nearest ticket window, hoping that I’ll finally be seen now that I’m back at the zoo. “Good afternoon, sir,” I say to the man behind the window. “Ticket for one half-walrus, please.”

“Next.” He gestures to a family behind me, clear permission for me to enter.

I struggle to hold back tears of relief. It’s working! “Thank you, sir,” I say, before pushing through the turnstile. “Thank you. This means everything.” And free admission? You’ve gotta love these animal discounts!

One hundred penguins and several polar bears later, I’ve arrived at the prime friend-making location. The glass fence looks over a beautiful teal pool and the loveliest rocks I’ve ever seen. Seated on those rocks is a trio of walruses, basking in the sun. Besides their luxurious mustaches and their tusks, I don’t see much resemblance, but then again, Jack’s uncle Dave and step-cousins look pretty different from Jack, and they’re still family.

I tap on the glass of the walrus exhibit a few times. One of the walruses swats a fly with her flipper. Or maybe she’s waving. My first new friend!

I look at the barrier again. It goes up to my chin. Maybe I could crawl over, but the drop to the water below looks kind of far.

A small plaque stands to one side of the exhibit. Walrus Facts, the heading boasts. Well, it’s a start.

“The walrus is a member of the Odobenidae family,” I read. “Oh my goodness!” My hands leap to my mouth as I gasp. “Ooooh my goodness!” I look left and right and left again to see if anybody else is reading this. If anybody else understands. I can’t even believe it. This is amazing! Odobenidae. That must be my last name!

My eyes water as I realize I’ve never even known my full name before. “George Odobenidae,” I say, tipping a pretend hat as I practice introducing myself to others. “Classy.”

I make a mental note to get myself a nice bowler hat for the future and continue reading. “Walruses are most known for their long tusks and ample size.” I shake my belly. It’s a little floppy, but I don’t know if I’d say ample. Peering over the glass, I study the three walruses reclining in the exhibit. “Now that’s ample,” I say admiringly.

Next on the plaque is a small picture of a bunch of walruses gathered together on an iceberg. “Walruses spend approximately two-thirds of the time in water.” Wow! I try to do the math to figure out how much time that means a half-walrus should be spending in water, but I don’t have a calculator, so instead I keep reading. “Our zoo’s walruses are named Chester, Wendla, and Wanda.” What beautiful names. Underneath, there's a labeled photo of each. Wendla is a rusty color, and Wanda has chocolate-chip speckles across her side. Chester is the amplest of all!

“Chester Odobenidae.” When I say it again, a bell rings. Literally. Perhaps it’s the nearby ice cream cart, but I’m sure there’s more to it than that. I think Chester is my family.

Determined to get closer, I race around the exhibit to find another entrance. Near the back, there’s a brown door marked Employees Only. I’m sure this is the way, but I don’t work here. Yet. Maybe Uncle Chester can get me a job as an animal artiste or a popcorn seller.

I tap on the Employees Only door for at least five minutes to see if anyone will answer. “Please open up, Uncle Chester!” I cry out. For my final knock, I throw my entire self against the door.

Or I try to, but my hands and arms fade away before making contact. Next my legs disappear, and my eyes, and my fac—