The Whale, The Goldfish and Señor Martin: A Short Story Prequel to The Butterfly Novels Read online

  THE WHALE, THE GOLDFISH AND SEÑOR MARTIN

  A Short Story Prequel to The Butterfly Novels

  FIRST KINDLE EDITION

  © Denise Deegan September 2015

  First published as part of the anthology, Taking The Plunge: New Writing from Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to another person. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you'd like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

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  Also by Denise Deegan:

  And By The Way: A Butterfly Novel (#1)

  And For Your Information: A Butterfly Novel (#2)

  And Actually: A Butterfly Novel (#3)

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  THE WHALE, THE GOLDFISH AND SEÑOR MARTIN

  I'm sitting on a sun-warmed boulder at the end of Killiney Beach on my last day of freedom. The waves crash foamy and loud. Behind them skinny gulls dive-bomb the water. The sun bounces off the surface like flash photography. I turn my face to the warm breeze and pretend I'm in California and summer's only beginning.

  I change into my swimming togs. Walking over shingle in bare feet is so Ireland. My feet scream at the shock of the sea. Ignoring the cold, I wade out and dive under, tasting the salt on my lips. I go right down, away from the noise of breaking waves.

  We learned, at school, that water carries sound. I thought that was just on top, not actually underneath. First time I called out under the sea and heard my voice, I laughed, swallowed water then surfaced, coughing. I'd sounded like a mermaid.

  I sing, now, to the loneliest whale in the world. He's out there, somewhere, deep in the ocean, calling out for company, his voice too high in frequency to be heard by other whales. He's been searching for a mate for twenty years, six longer than I've been alive. That's persistence. That's faith. That's freaking unbelievable. He's my hero. He can't hear my voice. But that's OK. This is just my tribute to him.

  Most people feel sorry for him, swimming the seas, alone. This is what I think: His perfect mate is out there, emitting sounds at his exact frequency, a whale-freak like him. One day, they'll hear each other and come swimming so fast together in great excitement that, when they see each other, they'll be so surprised they'll go perfectly still and just gaze at each other, for hours, in total silence, while dolphins and octopuses and box jellyfish glide by unnoticed. From that moment on, they'll never make another sound. They'll stay together for the rest of their silent, contented lives.

  That's what I think.

  Humans are different from whales. When things go wrong and they find themselves alone in the world, they go quiet. They hide the fact that they've no friends because it makes them losers. They pretend that everything's OK. And carry on being lonely.

  I swim back to shore. I dry myself with a sandy towel. This is my last day calling to him. Tomorrow I start a new school. Of humans. Not whales. Worst luck.

  Eight-fifteen, I stand at the DART station in Glenageary, my uniform scratchy and stiff, my shoes scuff-free nerdy. On the other side of the tracks, kids in different uniforms wait in ones, twos and bigger groups for the train to take them in the opposite direction. They look across at me and the other kids on this side, checking us out, sizing us up. I could use my iPhone to hide, but I don't. I look them in the eye to let them know I'm not intimidated.

  Whales are way too zen for bullshit.

  The DART pulls up in front of me. There's the usual push to get on. I'd happily wait for the next one but the doors open right in front of me and the people behind me nudge me inside. I hold on to a pole. The doors slide shut and the train jolts me towards what my parents call my 'new start'. Their optimism steals the oxygen from the air. It kills me.

  I open the top two buttons of my shirt. I pull up my sleeves and shake out my hair. A boy in the same uniform sneers at me. I look away, out the window, beyond the marina at Dun Laoghaire. I imagine what's under the sea. Fish, obviously. Crabs. Seaweed. Jellyfish, maybe. Low frequency sound waves that humans can't hear? I imagine the shadow that he casts as he swims and calls, swims and calls. Scientists have picked up his sound waves with their audio technology and are trying to find him. He has 'touched people's hearts'. So they think they've a right. Why don't they just leave him alone? What are they going to do, anyway, find him a mate? That's just playing with nature. Let him find his own mate. Have a little confidence in him. He'll do it.

  I glance back at the boy. He has his iPhone out and is tilting it from side to side. Maybe he wasn't sneering, maybe it was just a smile. Once, I could read people.

  The DART pulls in at Booterstown. People in my uniform start to get off. I'm so tempted to stay on the train, check out town for the day or something but I think of my ocean friend who never gives up. Just before the doors close, I force myself onto the platform.

  There's no rush now. I let everyone else walk ahead. I put my earphones in and listen to the sounds of the sea. I match my breathing to the waves. I can do this. I hitch my bag up on my shoulder and start to walk. It isn't even September FFS.

  A long line of strangers snakes up the hill ahead of me. People listening to their music. Boys shoving each other onto the road. Girls who know each other, meeting after the summer, screeching and hugging. Having friends is like having walls around you. Keeping you safe.

  Look everyone in the eye and smile: Mum's advice.

  Don't take any shit: Dad's.

  What I hear is: you can't do this alone.

  I try to remember the person I once was. Normal. Happy. Popular, even. There's nothing wrong with me. They only made me feel that way. It's their problem, not mine. God, I'm quoting Dad.

  Walking in the school gates, people are coming from everywhere now. Pouring down the hill. Coming up behind me. Crossing the road. Jumping from cars. All crowding in. Some of the boys are huge. Heads above me. Literally, heads. Some are skinny. Others are gorillas. I take a deep breath, stand taller. In my last school, we were the oldest, the tallest. Here, I'm starting over, tiny. I distract myself with the hockey pitches, so perfect I almost feel like running onto them. But then, they'd want to be perfect; Strandbrook College is one of the most elite schools in Ireland. I think of my parents getting the money together. I feel guilty. And kind of useless.

  In through the front door of the school. Deep breath. Look confident. Or at least like you know where you're going. And stop talking to yourself.

  Yesterday, because we're First Year's, we had a one-hour induction to the place. I noted landmarks, the exact location of my locker. Last night, I studied the map of the school. Again, this morning. Now I make for my locker like I've been coming here all my life. A boy bumps into me, his bag whacking my shoulder. I'm glad when he keeps going.

  My locker, by some miracle, is where I thought it would be. My key works. I load in my stuff. Then I stop. I can't remember where my first class is. I don't believe it. I have to check the map. I stand into the locker so I don't look like a total loser.

&nb
sp; At last, I work it out. I put my iPhone away, with it, the sea. I turn the key in the locker. And I'm walking. I pass two girls. They're looking at a third, who's disappearing off up the corridor.

  'That's JJ Newman's daughter.'

  'JJ Newman, the rock star?'

  'Yup,' she says like she's proud to know.

  'You sure? She doesn't look like him.'

  'It's her. Alex Newman.'

  'Looks kind of stuck up.'

  'And not that pretty, tbh.'

  I sigh. There are bitches everywhere. Alex Newman is super good looking. As she walks up the corridor, people look at her, then at each other like they know who she is. At least I'm anonymous.

  I make it to the classroom just behind the teacher. There's a space at the back so I grab it. The girl next to me glances up. I look her in the eye (as advised), smile (also as advised), and say, 'Hey.'

  Her 'hey' is flat and she turns back to the girl beside her and the conversation they were having. OK, so she doesn't need a friend. Clearly.

  Oh sweet divine Jesus. The religion teacher is making us stand up and introduce ourselves – starting at the back. Doesn't she know anything about teenagers?

  Actually, maybe it's me who doesn't know because the first guy's already shooting to his feet.

  'Yeah, I'm Peter Sweetnam and I'm ripped,' he says, looking at biceps he's flexing underneath his school jumper. 'I bench eighty-five.'

  'No you don't, you gym rat,' the guy beside him says.

  They laugh.

  Peter Sweetnam sits down like he deserves a high five.

  The next guy's already up. 'Yeah, I'm Simon Kelleher. My worst habit is sitting beside dorks. Oh and Religion's my favourite subject.'

  The girl beside me pretends that she doesn't know it's her turn. 'Oh, me?' she asks, her hand touching her heart. 'Oh. OK.' She stands up. 'I'm Amy Gilmore. I'm, like, an atheist? I don't think Religion should be compulsory at school.'

  People turn to look at her, which I can't help feeling was the point.

  'Oooh,' Peter Sweetnam says.

  'Thank you, Amy, for your honesty,' the teacher says coldly as though she's decided that Amy Gilmore is Enemy Number One. Her eyes move to me. They don't look happy.

  My heart is racing. Already, I'm blushing. South County Dublin is tiny. Everyone knows everyone. Someone here will recognise my name; someone here will know. The news will spread. And history will repeat itself.

  I take a deep breath. 'Hi. I'm Rachel.' I leave out my surname and the school I was in. Which leaves me short. If I don't say something quick she'll come at me with a question. 'I'm a Libra,' is the first totally impersonal piece of information that comes into my head. It's out before I can stop it.

  People laugh.

  I blush redder.

  The teacher glares at me. Oh my God. She thinks I was being sarcastic.

  'Nice one,' Amy Gilmore says, like she does too.

  That's when I realise. They're not laughing at me; they're laughing with me; even though I wasn't actually laughing. God.

  The teacher moves on.

  I have, accidentally, survived.

  Next row up, Alex Newman stands. She turns around and looks at me, then she faces forward again. 'I'm Alex and I'm a Gemini.'

  After that, it's what everyone does - first name and star sign. Like a revolution for the right to privacy. After class, though, we're back to not knowing each other and trying to look cool.

  I wander from class to class alone, trying to look as if I like it that way. Last class before lunch is Spanish. I get a bit lost and the only seat free when I get there is beside Alex Newman, the person that everyone knows – without actually knowing. I sit down. The girl on the other side of Alex leans forward, smiles and says 'hey' to me. She's like a young Regina George. Warning bells go off all over the place.

  'Hey,' I say back.

  'I'm Sarah.'

  'Rachel.'

  'Don't tell me - Libra! That was so cool.' She looks like sunshine and bubbles and laughter. Which, when you're me, is scary.

  'This is Alex,' she says touching her arm like she's not a minor celebrity. Maybe Sarah doesn't know. I didn't.

  Alex looks watchful and clever. I wonder what they think of each other. I wonder what they think of me.

  Alex and I say hey. And leave it at that.

  'So where did you go to primary school?' Sarah asks me.

  Here we go. 'Saint James's,' I say, maybe too quietly?

  'Oh.'

  I hope the 'oh' is because she doesn't know anyone there; it's not a feeder school for Strandbrook. (My parents must have had to get down on their knees to get me in. I bet bullying was mentioned.)

  'Where did you go?' I ask.

  'Saint Brendan's.' She looks at her nails. 'Hated it,' she mutters.

  Maybe she's OK.

  The teacher arrives at the top of the class, flinging his floppy leather briefcase onto the desk. Even I notice that he's hot. Practically every girl in the class is looking at each other, sharing their appreciation.

  It's like he doesn't see it, introducing himself – moodily – as Señor Martin.

  Sarah rips a page from her copy and starts to scribble. She passes the note to Alex who reads it and smiles. Then, it's like everything stops, the world on pause, as Alex passes it to me. In my head, there's a burst of applause and cheering. I've been included.

  I open the note and read: Señor Martin is seriously caliente. I've just enough Spanish to know that 'caliente' means 'hot'. I'm still smiling when a voice roars from the top of the room:

  'Yo! You, down there!'

  I drop the note into my lap and look up.

  He's glaring right at me. 'Yes, you, Pocahontas.'

  Pocahontas? Jesus.

  'Are you seriously passing notes in your first five minutes of your first Spanish class on your first day at school?'

  Sarah interrupts so calmly. 'In fairness, it's not the first five minutes. You were ten minutes late, Sir.'

  I stare at her, trying not to laugh.

  Some of the boys go right ahead.

  Señor Martin's eyes look like they're going to pop out. 'Right! Give me that note.' He snaps out his arm and starts to towards me, arm fully extended, palm upturned.

  Oh my God, he'll think I wrote it, my mind is racing, when Sarah snatches it from my hand and stuffs it into her mouth. She starts to chew it madly like a spy caught with enemy secrets. I bite my lips together to keep the laughter in. Sarah swallows the note with a visible gulp then smiles at me and Alex like we're saved. My laugh escapes, louder than if I'd let it out in the first place. Alex snorts and we're looking at each other and crying with laughter.

  'Right, that's it! Detention, for the three of you.'

  I've spent the whole class trying to hide a smile. I've tried to concentrate and failed. Now, the bell goes and the three of us stand up, take one look at each other and we're laughing. We walk out together.

  In the corridor, Alex turns to us. 'Anyone remember where the canteen is?'

  Sarah stops smiling. 'Oh. I can't eat in the canteen. I've a packed lunch.'

  Alex looks surprised, as if the packed-lunch option had never occurred.

  They turn to me, their faces a question.

  Mum's given me money and lunch so I could fall in with whoever I was talking to when break came – if I was talking to anyone. I look from Alex to Sarah. I can't be the person who leaves someone out.

  At the last minute, an idea. I look at Sarah and shrug.

  'You could bring your lunch in and just buy a Coke or something?'

  She bites her lip. 'I've just enough money for the DART home.'

  'I'll buy you a Coke,' Alex and I say together.

  'You sure?' she asks, looking from me to Alex.

  'Sure,' we also say together.

  We look at each other and smile. Then we're walking, the three of us, side-by-side towards the canteen. I do not allow myself hope.

  I buy Cokes and crisps but eat my packed lunch
so that Sarah doesn't feel left out. But, actually, there's no fear. She's too busy pointing out 'seriously caliente' guys. To me, guys are like new shoes. You only care about them when your life's OK. Her taste is a bit suspect, though. The ones she likes are all jocks. But then what do I know? I'm the worst judge of people in the world. I bet there are some lovely jocks.

  'What kind of guys do you like?' she asks me, taking a gulp of Coke.

  I shrug. 'Ones that make me laugh, I guess?' Not that I actually know.

  'And, like, obviously, caliente,' she adds.

  'Obviously.' It's going to be a thing with us, I start to think, then I correct myself, if there's going to be an us. Part of me wants friends so badly. Part of me wants to be a low-frequency whale that can't get hurt; friends make the best bullies – they're the ones who know how to really get to you.

  'What about him?' Sarah looks admiringly at a rugby head that's just walked past, carrying his tray like it's a piece of paper.

  'Kind of loves himself, though, doesn't he?' Alex says.

  'He should,' Sarah says appreciatively.

  We laugh.

  No, I do want this to work. I wish I was like Sarah, though, no fear. Just assume the friendship. Like small kids do.

  'You guys on Facebook?' she asks, taking her phone from her pocket.

  My heart actually stops. This is it. This is where they find out. I let Alex answer.

  The thing is, she doesn't. Just looks at me. They both do.

  'Rachel?' Sarah asks.

  I try to sound casual. 'I'm not on Facebook.'

  'You're not on Facebook? Everyone's on Facebook!' Sarah says.

  I shrug. 'I'm just not into it.' Anymore.

  'Hey, what's your man doing on his own?' Alex asks. 'Where's his mate with the biceps?'

  Sarah follows her eyes. 'Simon something,' she says.

  I'm looking at Alex. Did she just bring him up to distract Sarah? I can't imagine she'd care about Simon Kelleher.

  'Let's go over!' Sarah says.