Half Brother Page 6

  “Hey!” he said with a smile so big and friendly I smiled back right away.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I’m Peter McIvor. Sorry I’m late. I sort of … got lost. Had to ask for directions.”

  He looked back vaguely at his car, like he was amazed he’d made it here. I was amazed too. His car was the most beat-up thing I’d ever seen. I felt kind of sorry for him. I knew Dad wouldn’t like him.

  “Listen,” I whispered, and he leaned in closer. “When he asks you why you want to work for the project, tell him you think Chomsky is dead wrong. Chimps do have the cognitive ability to acquire language. Tell him you want to be part of the world’s first study to communicate with another species.”

  I’d eavesdropped on enough of these interviews to know the questions Dad asked, and the kinds of answers he liked. “Uh-huh,” said Peter. “Cool.”

  “Come on in,” I said, and showed him into the living room, where Dad was waiting with all these notebooks around him, looking terrifying and stern. I headed upstairs. But just at the top, I stopped and waited so I could hear what happened.

  At first, Dad did the talking: his usual spiel about the project and its aims. I heard some papers rustling, and knew he was reading through Peter’s resumé and transcripts.

  “So,” said Dad, “you’re going into your third year … majoring in psychology. You’ve got some linguistics courses under your belt, that’s good.” There was a pause. “Your second-year marks are a bit sloppy.”

  It was the same kind of thing Dad said to me about my report cards.

  “Yeah,” said Peter. “I didn’t have a great year last year, but I’m much more organized this year, more focused, you know?” “Do you know any ASL?” Dad asked. “What’s ASL?”

  I winced. This was not going so well. “American Sign Language. That’s what we’ll be using to teach Zan.”

  “No, but I’m good with languages. I grew up in Montreal and my French is still pretty good. I could pick ALS up like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “ASL,” corrected my father. “And you’d have to pick it up fast. So why do you want to work with Zan?”

  I smiled in relief. I’d given Peter the perfect answer for this one.

  “Well, okay, I’m going to be honest about this,” Peter said. “I really liked Planet of the Apes, not the movie, but the book, you know, the original French novel? I mean, I didn’t read it in French—but it was written in French, originally. The movie was all right—did you see the movie?”

  “I didn’t, no,” I heard Dad say tersely.

  My mouth was hanging open. I couldn’t believe it. What was Peter doing?

  “Anyway,” he went on, “I just … it was really thought-provoking, and it made me think about ape intelligence and human intelligence and, yeah, I’m curious about how smart they are. Because in the book they evolve way beyond us. We like to think we’re the smartest thing going, but maybe we aren’t, you know?”

  “Well, in this world we are,” said Dad.

  “And I love animals,” Peter hurried on. “I had tons of pets growing up.”

  “This isn’t about pets,” said Dad. “This is about finding out how language begins, and whether humans are the only creatures capable of it.”

  “Oh,” said Peter. “But you’d want someone who was good with animals, wouldn’t you? If you wanted to teach the chimp.”

  I came downstairs and went to the kitchen to get a drink. As I passed the living room I caught Peter’s eye. He looked defeated, slouched in his chair. In the kitchen I opened the fridge and took out the bottle of Coke, listening.

  “I don’t know if you’re ready for this, Peter,” I heard Dad say. “Seems to me you need to be concentrating on pulling up your marks.”

  “Well, I’ll definitely be doing that,” Peter replied. “But I’d also love to be part of this project. I mean, Chomsky is just way out of line on this, you know? Humans aren’t the only animals on the planet that can have language. I know Zan could learn.”

  I paused, mid-pour, for Dad’s reaction.

  “Interesting,” Dad said. “So you’re more a proponent of B.F. Skinner?”

  “Absolutely,” said Peter. “I think his ideas about behavioural conditioning are far more persuasive.” “Right on,” I murmured to myself.

  I turned as the sliding door to the backyard opened and Mom came in, carrying Zan. During an interview, she would always take Zan outside so Dad could conduct the session in peace, and then she’d bring him in at the end.

  “How’s it going?” Mom whispered to me.

  “I like him,” I whispered back. “Dad might be coming round.”

  Mom nodded and went through to the living room. I hung back in the doorway, watching.

  “Hey, there’s the little man,” said Peter when he caught sight of Zan.

  Mom put Zan down on the carpet. A lot of the time, Zan would just scamper back to her, but not this time. He looked at Dad, then Peter—and made a happy pant-hoot and scampered straight for him. He grabbed hold of Peter’s leg and stared up at him beseechingly.

  “I think he wants a hug,” said Mom.

  Without hesitation, Peter reached down and lifted Zan onto his lap. It was the first time I’d seen Zan so eager to meet someone outside our family.

  “Hello, Zan,” said Peter, smiling.

  Zan pulled on Peter’s beard.

  “He likes you,” Mom told Peter.

  “And I like him,” said Peter, chuckling as Zan tried to pull off his Peace button. “Wow,” Peter said. “His eyes.” “What about them?” Dad asked.

  “It’s just—you look into them and there’s a real person there looking right back at you.”

  I liked Peter even more. Zan was now climbing up his chest to his shoulders, and trying to swing on his ponytail.

  “Okay, Peter, we’ll let you know by the end of the week,” said Dad. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Why bother keeping him in suspense?” said Mom. “He’s hired.”

  Dad looked at her in surprise, and I did too. They’d never told any of the other candidates right away. I could see Dad wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t going to make a scene in front of Peter. Dad hated scenes; he thought they were “inappropriate.”

  “Honest?” Peter said, his face alight, looking from Mom to Dad.

  I think he was as confused as I was.

  Mom walked towards him with her hand extended. “I’m Sarah Tomlin. I’ll be the chief researcher on the project. We’ll be in touch with your schedule next week.”

  “Hey, thanks a ton, thanks so much!” said Peter. “Okay, this is great.”

  Zan climbed off Peter and into Mom’s arms.

  Dad smiled tightly. “See you next week, then, Peter.”

  Two weeks later, Dad dropped me off at Windermere University School on his way to work. I’d been at the school once before, last week, to attend an orientation meeting for new students and their families. We’d met some of the teachers, and taken a tour. But this was the first day of school, for real, and the parking lot was crammed and there were uniformed kids everywhere. My breakfast was doing a slow swirl in my stomach.

  Windermere was a bit like a British boarding school—the kind you read about in books, anyway. It had its own campus, with three classroom blocks around a large quadrangle, and a huge playing field (rugby was a big deal, apparently) and a dining hall and residences for the boarders. About half the kids were boarders, and the other half were day students like me. When Mom had first seen the school she’d called some of the buildings fake Tudor. It made me smile now, as I got out of the car.

  “Hey,” said Dad from the driver’s seat. “You’re going to love it here.”

  “Yep,” I said, and slammed the door, shouldering my knapsack.

  I knew where I was going at least. I headed across the quad towards the main classroom block, keeping my eyes open for the Godwins, or Hugh or Evan, but I didn’t see them.

  The school smelled like my old schoo
l. Floor wax and chalk dust and shoes. I thought I looked like a goof in my uniform, even though Mom and Dad had said I looked fine. Handsome, Mom said. I hated how the shirt and tie felt all tight around my neck.

  I found my homeroom, and Mr. Davies was already there.

  “Welcome, Mr. Tomlin,” he said, shaking my hand. Like a lot of teachers at the school, he had an English accent.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said. You were supposed to call everyone sir and ma’am here.

  “This is Henry Gardner,” Mr. Davies said, introducing me to another grade eight boy. He was short and sandy-haired, with glasses. “He’s going to be your guide today, just to make sure you know where to find everything. We don’t want you wandering off into the bog.”

  “Okay, great, hi,” I said, shaking Henry’s hand. I took a seat beside him and some of his friends. Back behind a desk, running my fingers over the gouged pen marks, feeling the same vague panic I always felt before a test.

  “So, do you know David Godwin?” I asked Henry.

  “He’s grade nine,” he replied, like there wasn’t much else to say. “Why, do you know him?”

  “Sort of. Our dads work together at the university. He seems like a nice guy.”

  Henry looked at me doubtfully and shrugged. “I stay away from those guys. Their idea of fun is shoving people in lockers and throwing their clothes into the swimming pool.”

  “There’s a swimming pool here?” I said.

  “Yeah, but I wouldn’t advise swimming in it,” Henry said, and laughed a bit.

  I laughed politely. I’d already decided Henry and I would not be spending much time together. As more and more kids filed into homeroom, I could tell that Henry and his pals were definitely low-ranking. I knew, because in my last school, I was a class nerd, and I wasn’t planning on being one again.

  I had it all figured out for this year.

  New city.

  New school.

  New Ben.

  I could be whatever I wanted here. And what I wanted was to be a dominant male. No one messed around with the dominant male. He submitted to no one. Everyone submitted to him.

  This was my plan, and I kept repeating it in my head like a mantra, as the room filled.

  Just before the bell rang, Jennifer Godwin walked in, talking excitedly with two other girls. The blonde one was almost as good-looking as Jennifer; the other one was kind of plain, and she was doing most of the talking. Before Jennifer sat down near the front, she saw me, and I said hi, and she gave a little smile and a nod and then she was back into conversation with her friends. I’d been hoping she’d come sit near me, but that was expecting too much, I guess.

  She looked younger in her uniform than she had in her bathing suit. I thought about lotioning her back, and my face felt hot.

  Mr. Davies took attendance and handed out our timetables. After that there were some announcements and the bell went again and we were off, Henry at my side, talking to me really fast and explaining everything. He was like that pesky little dog in the Looney Tunes cartoon—the one the bigger dog is always swatting and telling to shut up. I’d spend the day with him, let him show me around—and then ditch him. I didn’t want people to think we were friends. I figured that would pretty much finish me off at Windermere.

  I guess one of the reasons Henry had been picked as my guide was that we were in all the same classes. Math. English. History.

  All the guys seemed to be calling one another by their last names. “Hendricks!” “Thompson!” “Burns!” But I didn’t catch the girls doing this to each other. I guessed I would be Tomlin.

  All morning I kept looking around for David Godwin, but couldn’t see him anywhere. I passed his hairy brother, Cal, in the quad, and he just grunted at me without stopping.

  This was the first school I’d been to where you could get a hot lunch. The dining hall had a high-raftered ceiling (fake Tudor), and long wooden tables with benches on either side. The noise of people eating and talking swooped from table to table.

  I looked around and hoped Henry would lead me to the table where Jennifer Godwin was sitting. There were definitely girls’ tables and boys’ tables, and not a ton of mixing. Henry took me to the farthest corner of the dining hall where a bunch of small, bespectacled kids sat near the end of a table. They looked like hobbits.

  There was obviously a system here. The oldest kids sat at the end nearest the kitchen, and everyone else sat farther away. I soon realized why. The grade twelves came back from the kitchen carrying big metal trays of food. They helped themselves first, then passed the trays on down the table until they were empty.

  “You kill it, you fill it,” chanted someone to the person who’d taken the last of the lasagna. Then that person took the tray back to the kitchen for a refill.

  Way down at the hobbit end of the table, I could see it would take a while to get some food.

  To my surprise, David Godwin and Hugh arrived at our table and, near the middle, kids made room for them. Clearly, they were higher-ranking males than the usual grade nines.

  “Hey, David! Hugh!” I said.

  David looked at me coolly. “Tomlin,” he said slowly, drawing out each syllable.

  “That the chimp kid?” the guy across from him asked.

  “He is indeed the chimp kid,” said David, helping himself to some lasagna.

  “Was he raised by chimps or something?”

  “He looks like he was raised by chimps,” Hugh said.

  “That’s me,” I said. “Chimp boy.”

  I nodded and tried to laugh along with everyone else, looking at David and trying to figure out if he was laughing with me or at me.

  At me.

  Everyone at the table started jibbering and eeking, the way they thought chimpanzees sounded. I took a deep breath. A dominant male did not submit.

  “They don’t sound like that,” I said. “You guys sound like monkeys. Little teeny-weeny monkey boys.”

  “What’s the difference?” someone asked gruffly.

  “Chimps are bigger and much more powerful,” I said.

  “So how do they sound, Tomlin?” David asked.

  “More like this.” I started doing deep pant-hoots, faster and faster, until they were almost barks, rocking up and down in my seat. Everyone was looking at me like I was crazy, so I went a little further. I jumped off the bench onto the floor and, hunched over, moved on all fours towards David. I shoved my way onto the bench beside him and started grooming his hair.

  “Tomlin, you freakin’ weirdo!” he said, trying to push me away.

  I smacked his hands away and pretended to find something really exciting in his hair. I let loose with a shriek of excitement as I popped it into my mouth. I gave a few more contented pant-hoots, and then stopped.

  “Tomlin, you are seriously twisted,” said David, giving me a shove, but he was sort of smiling.

  “That’s how chimps really sound,” I said, and started back to my seat. All across the dining hall, people were looking my way, including a male teacher, who was walking over with a frown.

  “Sit down,” he told me. “This is not a zoo.” “Sorry, sir,” I said. “But I am chimp boy.” I heard the other guys at the table laugh.

  The teacher didn’t think this was funny. “Detention on the first day is no way to start the school year,” he said. “No, sir,” I said.

  “He just can’t control himself, sir,” David told the teacher. “He was raised among jungle apes.”

  “You can join him if you like, Godwin,” the teacher said. “Now settle down.”

  I took my seat. I wondered if Jennifer had heard all this commotion. Henry Gardner and the other hobbits were looking at me differently, and so were the other kids farther up the table. I wasn’t sure if they were impressed or freaked out.

  It didn’t matter. I’d made an impression.

  I was pretty glad when the school bus dropped me off at the end of the day.

  After my chimp boy routine at lunch, I’d st
arted worrying I’d done the wrong thing, and people would just see me as a complete head case.

  It was stupid to think that David would want to hang out with me at school. Grade nines didn’t hang out with grade eights. As for Jennifer, she was obviously super popular. She was too busy to talk to me, even though we were in the same English and History classes.

  Inside our house it was quiet. It was one of the days both Mom and Dad were on campus. Peter McIvor and another student named Cheryl Tobin were on the afternoon shift with Zan. Through the sliding doors in the kitchen I could see the three of them outside, playing in the sandbox.

  I wanted to be with them, but Dad had told me that I wasn’t to distract Zan when he was with the students. Just as I was about to turn away, though, Zan must’ve seen me. He scampered across the lawn, with Peter not far behind, towards the sliding doors. He knocked on the glass with his little fists.

  I waved at him. It was an overcast day, and kind of cool for early September. Zan wore a T-shirt and shorts, and kept gripping himself like he was chilly.

  “I think he’s cold,” I told Peter through the glass.

  “What?” he said.

  “Cold. He’s cold. He’s shivering.”

  It seemed mean to ignore Zan, now that he’d seen me, so I opened the door, and he rushed in and climbed into my arms. Then, holding on with his legs around my left hip, he leaned back and slapped his arms across his chest again.

  “Holy cow,” said Peter quietly. “He’s not cold. I think he’s signing!”

  “Hug!” I exclaimed. And then to Zan: “Hug?” And I did the sign back to him. I put my arms around him and hugged him. “Hug. Hug. Hug!” I said.

  He hugged me even tighter. That hug felt good.

  I looked at Peter and we both shook our heads.

  It had been only two weeks since the project officially started.

  “His first word,” I said.

  “You taught him his first word,” said Peter, clapping me on the shoulder. “Way to go, man.”