Chasing at the Surface. Sharon Mentyka

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СКАЧАТЬ with more people out in boats than on an ordinary weekend. “Has it been like this all day?”

      Dad’s boss, Tal, overhears my question and walks over to join us.

      “This is the slowest it’s been!” he laughs.

      I like Tal. He’s a big man with a bushy beard and wrinkled skin from too many days spent outdoors. I usually only see him when I visit Dad at Mud Bay, but he always seems so relaxed, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Not like Dad … or me.

      Plus he’s always full of weird facts and trivia, mostly history and science stuff.

      “In fact,” he turns to me, “I’d say the crowds have been rather fervid, or if you prefer, perfervid. Interestingly, the two words mean the same thing,” Tal says. “Just like flammable and inflammable.”

      Tal and I have this game where he quizzes me by using tricky words that hardly anybody knows and I have to figure out what they mean. Once he found out I was interested in science, the words got harder. I don’t always get them right, but I usually look them up later. It’s actually kind of fun.

      “Marisa? What’s your guess?”

      “Umm, enthusiastic?” Tal waits. He wants more specifics. “Feverish?”

      “Good girl! Comes from the Latin fervere, ‘to boil.’” He pats me on the shoulder. “It’s unbelievable, actually,” he adds, shaking his head. “Be interesting to see how long they stay—”

      “Wait,” I interrupt, “the people or the whales? Have they been out there this whole time?”

      “Seems so,” Dad says. “We haven’t seen them.” He runs his hands through his brown curls, giving his head a scratch. “But apparently they’re feeding big-time.”

      “Is that why they’re here, you think?”

      “I don’t think anybody really knows,” Tal answers. “Could be they followed in a wave of the chum. Chico Creek’s one of the last good runs around. Well, I’d better start closing down shop or we’ll never get out of here. Bright and early tomorrow, Dan!” he calls back as he heads inside.

      I stare out over the inlet. Already, the sky is darkening. Once the sun dips down behind the mountains, the light here goes fast. Dad turns off the water and tosses down the hose. He follows my gaze, then sits down on the grass beside me.

      “Any mail?”

      I hand over the bundle of magazines and bills, but shake my head no. I know what Dad really means, and for a split second, I feel a rush of guilt but quickly push it away.

      Dad takes the mail, but stares at me.

      “Marisa, I know what you did.”

      I freeze, thinking he somehow knows about the recycled letter, but he couldn’t.

      “Lena stopped by. She told me you guys saw the whales yesterday when you were out fishing.” Dad’s lips are pressed together in a pout. His eyes get that hurt puppy-dog expression. “Why didn’t you say anything to me this morning?”

      I turn away quickly, and stare at the wooden slats of the dock. Why won’t you tell me the real reason Mom left?

      I shrug. “It didn’t seem like a big deal.”

      “You see the orcas up close in the inlet and you don’t think that’s a big enough deal to tell me?” Dad sighs a big sigh. I pick at the long grass, ripping out small bits and rolling them into little balls with my fingers. “If you won’t talk to me about a whale sighting … something that you care so much about—”

      “I just didn’t, okay?” I cut him off, aiming the grass pellets out toward the dock in perfect trajectories. When they hit, they relax and lose their tightly wound shape.

      “No, Marisa, it’s not okay.” He stands and starts to pace back and forth in front of me. “Look, you know I’m not one to pressure, but a good attitude goes a long way.”

      This is so far from what I was expecting to hear that I sit there, speechless.

      “I know you’re struggling—but we have to work together,” Dad says. “I don’t know all the answers about why Mom left, and I’m not happy about it either. But I trust her. And you should too. Things aren’t as hopeless as you’re making them out to be.” He pauses, waiting. “C’mon,” he whispers. “Where’s my best girl? I miss her.”

      I jump to my feet, the sudden movement shifting something inside me. The wooden dock in front of me is littered now with green flecks.

      “I don’t know where she is, Dad. Maybe she’s gone!” My words come spitting out, sarcastic and cruel, hitting him as I turn and walk away. “Maybe she left with Mom.”

      CHAPTER 4

      Orca Day 3

      Okay everybody, listen up.”

      Third period, just before lunch, our science teacher Mr. O’Connor works to keep the class settled for another twenty minutes.

      “Orcinus orca.” He writes on the blackboard as the room quiets. “The scientific name for killer whales. Phylum of Chordata, Class Mammalia.” More writing. “Order Cetacea. Suborder Odontoceti, and the Family … is Delphinidae.”

      He pauses to let his writing catch up to his voice. Except for me, everyone is busy writing the classification order in their notebooks.

      “Killer whales are the largest members of Delphinidae, a group that also includes porpoises and dolphins. And they remain the TOP predators in the ocean.” He underlines “TOP” three times. “They have only one enemy … humans.”

      A low murmur runs through the room.

      “Remember people, just like dolphins and porpoises, whales live in the ocean, but they are not fish! They’re mammals, and like all mammals they have lungs not gills. And what do we do with our lungs?” Mr. O’Connor raises his hands like a conductor. “C’mon, all together now—”

      “Breathe!” a few scattered voices call out.

      “Breathe what?”

      “BREATHE AIR!” everyone shouts together.

      “Okay, good. Now, the last reported sighting of orcas in Dyes Inlet was about forty years ago, in the late 1950s. I was just a wee tyke then, toddling along,” he adds in a silly voice.

      The class laughs. Everybody likes Mr. O’Connor. He’s funny and loud and somehow manages to jam two years’ worth of work into 7/8 Science. If you keep up, there’s a good chance you can test out of freshman bio in high school.

      “So IF the average life expectancy of killer whales in the wild is thirty to fifty years, AND only a few out there are thirty-five or older.…” He gestures to the windows that face out toward the inlet, “… what can we infer about our nineteen visitors?”

      The СКАЧАТЬ