Consider the Octopus

NOW

1.

JEREMY JB FACE OF THE OCEANIA II BARNES

The Mylar balloons, tied tight to the metal leg of the folding registration table, twist and glitter in the sweltering sunshine, waiting for me to come bake next to them. Earlier, Marco and Randi had argued over them, him saying, Balloons are festive and make it easier to find us, plus fine for the environment so long as we cut them in half and recycle them properly afterward, and her saying, "Fine, if you don’t mind being a total hypocrite and part of the bigger problem. Besides, how hard is it to spot two registration tables in front of a ginormous research ship docked only a quarter mile off that says Oceania II in white across its whole green side?"

Marco had won, per usual, by making an executive decision, leaving Randi to glare at him. Now, I sit down next to the balloons on a wobbly folding chair and wait for the science-geek SEAmester kids to show up so I can start my super-important job of checking them in.

A mere two weeks ago, I would never have been given this "Face of the Oceania II" assignment, even in an emergency, so maybe Mom is right. Maybe the fresh air and thinking time are starting to rub off on me.

Not that me doing this job was exactly everyone’s first choice. Marco was supposed to do it, but there was some sort of emergency, all hands on deck, which meant Marco and Randi and Vance and even Sabira had to stay on board, which left only Henry and me to check everyone in, and since Henry can obviously schmooze better than I can about fancy science things, that put him in charge of the scientists, and me, checking in the SEAmester kids.

If you’re sure you can handle that…? Mom had asked, her words sounding more worried than like a big vote of confidence. Plus, she rumpled my hair, which isn’t really something you should do if you want someone to feel fully competent. Besides, hadn’t I just proved myself? Hadn’t I located ten of the eighteen hard-to-find scientists from all over the globe? You think it’s easy to tell a marine biologist from a climate biologist from a climatologist when they all have the same first name? Okay, well, at least two of them did.

But this guy here? He did it! And got ten—ten!—of the eighteen hopefuls on Captain Jim’s invite list, from Zhang Liu to Samara Redmond to Dr. Sidney Miller from the Marine Lab at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, to RSVP they were coming.

I shift in my spot, glance at Henry still setting up his registration table, and then at the small brick building across the empty dock where ferry tickets are sold, wondering if I have time to run in and take a leak, but I can see cars beginning to pull in through the arrival zone, plus a shuttle bus, and I don’t want to mess up by not being here to greet the first kids to arrive.

SIDNEY MILLER

Nana’s fifteen-year-old pumpkin-orange Subaru station wagon looks right at home in the parking lot of the Seattle Food Co-op Warehouse. In fact, five spots down from where we are sitting in our car, there’s another one almost identical, except that one has more bumper stickers. I know, right? Pretty hard to imagine.

But there it is.

See, Nana says, pointing to the orange twin car. Even the same dent on the passenger door. Now how do you explain that?

I bet there are a ton of algorithms that could explain it. Starting with the number of orange Subaru station wagons sold in any given year. Like the demographic of people who purchased Subarus, in relation to those living in the Seattle area, and then the number of those same people who kept their car for ten years or more. I don’t necessarily know the math to figure that all out, but I know there is some.

At the same time, how can I ignore coincidences like that ever again? I mean, it’s what brought me here in the first place. That’s exactly the reason I am about to attempt to sneak onto a ship and sail out into the Pacific Ocean for seven days. The reason? A ring toss game, a nail polish color, a goldfish, and what may possibly be nothing more than a simple case of mistaken identity.

But of course, then how do you explain my recurring dreams?

And the identical reddish-yellow Subarus in the same exact parking lot at the same exact time?

It’s synchronicity, Nana.

It is, she says.

We are early, and this gives us a chance to study the loading dock and marina across the street and to spec out the ship’s check-in procedure for the real SEAmester kids, the ones who are supposed to be here.

We need to stick to our plan to get on board, Nana says.

I want to ask Nana which plan, exactly, she is referring to, since we are pretty much flying by the seat of our pants at this point. Sure, we were able to convince Mom and Dad that my invite onto the Oceania II was legit.

You won an essay contest? Sidney, that’s fantastic!

Of course you can go.

Which was a good thing, since I had already replied to the message and said, Dr. Sidney Miller would be honored to attend.

And yeah, with a little Photoshop doctoring I was able to print out the welcome letter. It wasn’t perfect, but my parents were so excited about my academic achievement they didn’t look too closely. They didn’t see that I spelled coalition—as in Global Coalition—wrong.

But what happens after this is anybody’s guess.

We need to observe things for a while. That way we can be prepared for the unexpected, Nana whispers.

Why are we whispering, Nana?

She doesn’t answer. She holds out her hand, I pass her the binoculars from my backpack, and she presses them to her face.

What do you see? I ask.

She answers, Balloons.

Balloons?

Look for yourself.

It takes me a while to adjust the focus and figure out what I am looking at. The trees in front of us, the metal fence, a bird, a cardboard box, a lone banana, all look so big.

Holy cow, I can see the brown spots on the peel!

I take the binoculars away from my eyes, and I realize I’m just seeing the stuff in this parking lot. The marina is much farther away. I try again.

Finally, I see water. And boats. I see the pier, the metal planks. Boxes. These big, corrugated storage containers. It all looks very industrial. I move my line of sight slowly right, then left, until I see the check-in area.

Oh yeah, there! I see the balloons now. Green ones. And oh, look, two long folding tables and signs.

Signs, what kind of signs? Nana isn’t so much whispering anymore.

No, not that kind. Just signs, Nana. Poster-board signs.

What do they say?

One says, something clean water … Summit something. And the other one says … Wait, now I can’t see anymore. There’s someone in the way. Someone is standing in front of the table.

Who? Nana asks.

I turn the toggle on the top of the binoculars to see if that helps, if I can get a closer look.

It’s a kid. A teenager maybe, maybe younger. A boy, I say. He’s talking to someone … oh, okay … now he’s walking toward the SEAmester table. And he doesn’t look very happy. He’s holding something … yeah, I see, he’s got his cell phone.

Perfect, Nana says. She rests her head back. Trust me. Nothing more distracted and inattentive than an adolescent boy with a phone in his hands.

2.

JEREMY JB A GUY’S GOTTA PEE BARNES

I double-check that everything is in order: my QR code app, the clipboard of names, the cardboard box with the package of precut white squares and the pile of tangled see-through plastic badges with the green-and-white lanyards, and the Dramamine bracelets (trust me, you can’t forget those). As the SEAmester kids arrive, my job number two, after checking each one in, is to put their name on the square, slip it into the recycled plastic, clip that to the lanyard, and have them put it around their neck before they board.

I can do that.

What I can’t do is hold my pee much longer.

The sun bakes hot, and a drip of sweat races down the side of my face by my ear.

Gross.

Across from me, Henry’s still setting up. I’m ahead of schedule. No one from the few cars or the shuttle bus seems to be crossing our way yet. I probably have plenty of time to make a quick run.

Okay if I pee, Henry? I call to him, and nod toward the building. I kinda have to pee.

If a guy’s gotta pee, he’s gotta pee, Henry says. Be fast.

Aye, aye, Captain, I say in my best SpongeBob voice. Since it’s probably the hundredth time in ten days I’ve said that, I don’t need to turn back to see Henry rolling his eyes at me.

SIDNEY MILLER

When I’m nervous, I always feel like I have to use the bathroom even when I don’t. I know I don’t because I just used the bathroom at the diner where we had breakfast, and that was less than fifteen minutes ago. It doesn’t make sense I’d have to go again.

But you never know.

Besides, I have no idea how long I’ll have to be hiding before I get caught, at which point I will be either thrown in the brig, or made to walk the plank.

You watch too many movies, Nana says. But it’s always a good idea to use the bathroom before a long trip. She nods once with authority and opens the car door. Let’s go.

We cross the street and head straight through the marina parking lot, which now has quite a few cars, and one white shuttle bus, with bunches of teenagers and their parents spilling out, backpacks shouldered, feet shifting impatiently as their parents administer last-minute instructions, then hug them far too tight given this sweltering heat.

I guess those are the SEAmester kids. I swallow hard at this potentially very bad idea of mine. They look a lot older than I do. The boys, not so much, but the girls sure do. They are all way taller than I am.

There’s no way anyone is going to believe I am one of them, I say, kind of to myself, but Nana hears.

We won’t know until we try, she says.

No, you’re right, Nana. How about this? I say. "I get into the line with the SEAmester kids, at the very end, when things are the most hectic and everything is running late. Like you always say, at some point everything runs