Chapter 2: Chapter 2: The Sea Monkey
As a child, I heard my "discovery" story more times than I could count. My Mom, Dr. Lynn Caspen, found me on a research outing. I was screaming among some kelp. She likes to point out that it was, thankfully, the last time I was ever so loud.
When she finally got a good look at me, she could tell I wasn't a normal baby. I was a burnt orange, smushy infant with white markings and black eyes that looked through a person's soul. At first, Mom thought she just found a very, very mangled Australian Giant Cuttlefish wrapped around a determined, battery-powered baby doll, but then she realized normal cuttlefish didn't have human teeth. (One of the foremost researchers on cephalopods, folks.)
And when her hand touched my little fingers? My skin reacted accordingly, shifting textures and colors to mirror hers.
Afterwards, she took me home, named me Astra, and adopted me. Just like that.
Mom also says that I probably got left behind because I'm defective. Y'see, she figures that my whole "shimmer-y skin anxiety" thing isn't normal. That my biological progenitors didn't think they could care for me, as I was. That at best I was flawed and vulnerable, at worst I would ruin the gene pool. Her wife, Dr. Joanna Caspen, my Mama, used to say, "good riddance, because that means I get to love Astra."
Even when I struggled to keep my form as a kid, I always tried to remember that. Even now I try, even though it hurts to remember.
In my human life, that is my main goal: not to be defective. I think about it every day. Even if I don't, I get reminders, when Mom worries about my skin or asks me to cover up or reprimands me about being careless by the windows or makes me promise to be mindful of getting too excited.
For a really long time, I was a very good girl. The best, even, according to Mama.
Until I wasn't.
Then, Mama was gone, Astra needed to be Kai, and we moved across the world to the United States to start a new life. One where I stayed inside and didn't see people. It keeps me safe. My midnight adventures are a reckless secret, but that's what they'll always be: secret.
Because, at the end of the day, I'm still a broken cuttlefish.
But that's how I ended up here, my pale hands reaching towards my white ceiling while thin rays of daylight peer through my window, waiting for the universe to tell me if there is any reason to get out of bed today.
School finished last week and without anthropology or marine biology assignments to eat up my time, I really don't know what to do with myself. Sure, by this time next week I'll probably have pulled together some sort of summer project to distract myself, but it's not next week yet, is it?
Cleaning and keeping out of everyone's way only soaks up so much of my time.
Sometimes I wish I'd stop trying and just accept that I was a broken, useless bur-
A knock at my door interrupts my ever-so angsty introspection. "Hey, Kai, I brought breakfast."
That masculine, hoarse voice was decidedly not my mother. His practical sentence structure and "just performed an entire rock concert" intonation was kind of comforting on a moody morning. Whenever Beck is tasked with waking me up in these awkward, early-summer days, it turns into a battle. He tries to play mind games to try to get me out of the door as soon as possible. Patience has never been Beck's forte.
Which, tragically, only made irritating him all the more amusing.
Does that make me the asshole best friend in a romcom? Absolutely. But I wear that title with pride, even if Beck never romanced anyone as successfully as a romcom. Trust me, I overheard his loud phone call dates. It was abysmal.
Beck Faysol has been my mother's research assistant for six years and this has become a comfortable norm on non-working days. I sort of even looked forward to it, getting the chance to roast his attempts at comedy or his weird personal professionalism rules.
I do wonder, how many of my mornings start with him instead of Mom? I can't remember anymore.
Sighing, I keep staring up at my ceiling and ask, "That implies you want me to get out of bed, huh?"
"Affirmative, kiddo."
I scrunch up my nose. So the morning spar starts with name-calling, I see. "I'm only five years younger than you."
"Exactly, I was eating paste while you were still sucking on a bottle. So I have some real experience on you," Beck says, like that gave him any sort of authority. If he didn't have so many redeemable qualities, like his amusing enthusiasm or taste in movies, I'd be less inclined to tolerate his antics.
Also if he didn't happen to be my only friend.
Rolling my eyes, I choose to ignore that inane non-wisdom that Beck is spewing. Instead, I pull a spare pillow to my chest and ask an obvious question, the kind I should stop asking. I never like the answer. "Mom's gone again?"
Before he even speaks, I know he'll have shifted into his oh-so-serious, research assistant voice. "Dr. Caspen said she had something important to do at the university."
Right. Dr. Caspen. She always seems to come first before "Mom".
I squeeze my pillow a little tighter. "It's a Saturday."
On the other side of the door, I hear a scoff. I can practically see him, a shadow of a beard coming in because he's too lazy to shave in the mornings, hands stuffed in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. By now I must really be pushing his limits.
But he is slightly more patient when he ends up in front of my door on Saturday mornings.
Beck says, flippant, "Don't ask me. This is just my day job."
"When most people say that, don't they mean they stop working at some point?"
"Already snarky, my favorite flavor of morning Kai. Now come out and eat this everything bagel or your cat is getting one hell of a snack."
Standing up, I'm not one to joke about Shell's diet like that. "That's not-" I swing open my door and there he is, smirking. Beck's got this "two coffees deep" confidence to him, regardless of the eight inches he had on me. It's like looking up at a monument, except this one is a smug second-generation immigrant with thick, styled hair, and an ever-present lab coat.
Fluffing the front of his hair (why did he bother styling it?), he says, "And so I win the door wars again."
I grumble. Half the time, I'm convinced Beck gifted me my adorable cat just for these kinds of situations. I know he got it for me because he wanted to get me out of my own "shell" when we first met, he an over-eager Master's student and me a socially-starved and prickly 16-year old. And it was definitely by design that he bought a sphinx cat to try to convince me to name her "Mrs. Bigglesworth". I still regret agreeing to watch every Austin Powers movie with him before my final decision, but he did get me to laugh for the first time.
He's like that, manipulative in a surprisingly wholesome way. Case and point, the "door wars", which almost always lead to him feeding me. Even when I'm not really in the mood.
Nonchalant as he hops his way back down the stairs, he adds, "Also, don't forget your wet sandals outside again? You're really tempting fate."
Whatever condescending expression is hiding on the other's side of Beck's face, it isn't necessary to get his point across. That casual needling is definitely on purpose.
I pay close attention to every molecule in my skin, try my best to keep them taut after Beck's comment. He isn't wrong. Leaving the shoes out is reckless. My luck was already wearing thin a year ago when Beck found watery footprints leading to my door. If Mom had found them, this house would've become a fortress.
But that logical perspective doesn't shut up the frustrated twitching in my fingertips. I follow him down the stairs and, almost whispering, say, "Maybe I want her to find them. Maybe I want to get it over with."
"I love my boss, Kai, but that's some fire you're playing with." Beck stops trotting around like a pony once we reach the kitchen and drops his box of bagels on the counter. "She'd either lock you up for good or you'd have to move out. That's technically an option."
Sitting at the stool furthest from the back door, I stare at my fingernails, picturing my hand shimmering in the water last night. "It's not, not really. You know that." Inside my own head, I start waxing poetics about all the frustrations of not being a normal 22-year old, things I've said to him on and off for years now and wouldn't actually matter if I say them again. But the glazed monstrosities Beck starts pulling out of the cardboard "bagel" box shut me up, fast. I raise an eyebrow, asking, "You didn't say anything about donuts. What is this?"
And just as I say it, my heart falls through the floor. Because I can see the designs, a black/blue shell with these doughy little legs. Right. How could I forget? Today is the best worst day of the year.
Beck says, his expression unreadable, "I know you can't go to the bonfire, but I figured we could celebrate our own way."
The sentiment is sweet but ultimately hollow. Dough doesn't make up for the fact I have lived here for fourteen years, am a few credits from a double major, and have never been to any marine biology events, like the turtles hatching. It's a sore spot for me, particularly because I helped plan the first Leatherback bonfire 6 years ago.
It was Beck's first year, and after he won my friendship, I started showing him videos online of people camping out right before a turtle nest hatched and to help protect the hatchlings from danger. Where other people ended up on YouTube holes about slime or the man who smiles at himself for hours, I watched little flippers crawl to the shore. They always made me giggle, but-
There was always something that entranced me about them.
Beck then told me about our own local Leatherback, and one thing led to another, and we planned our own Clinton, Washington event for it. We contacted locals, got permits, found caterers... everything. We didn't approach Mom until we had everything sorted and she basically couldn't say no.
Lucky for us, she was thrilled, and got the university to hand over a small budget for the project. Any and all small fundraising that happened would go to their turtle research programs. It was a win-win.
It wasn't until the night of, when I was already dressed and ready to go, that Mom told me that I wasn't going. She said sorry, but she never thought I'd fool myself into thinking I could go. It just wasn't safe, not with so many stimuli. Then when my face fell she started rambling, and apologizing, and...
I told her it was fine. But Beck knew it wasn't fine then, and isn't fine now, so he's been getting me personalized donuts ever since.
I'll never tell him, but I hate them so much.
A whole dozen is new, though. Normally he'll only bully Dawn the donut lady for one or two.
My hands peruse the doughy turtles, picking the one with an uneven left fin. Without meeting Beck's eyes, I ask more questions I don't want the answers to, because I guess I'm just on a masochistic roll today. "You're going again, aren't you?"
"It's kinda my job." Beck sighs and adds, "I'd take you if she'd let me."
"I know." Shoving a large bite of turtle into my mouth, I try to let the too-sweet flavor corrode my taste buds and my sour mood. I prefer tart desserts, but a lemon bar felt a bit too bittersweetly on-the-nose right now. With a limp monotone, I say, "Thanks for the donuts."
"Anytime, Sea Monkey." If I didn't have a mouthful of turtle, I would've mocked Beck for the lame finger guns he sent my way. I know Beck a little too well to let those fly. Whenever he uses finger guns, he's about to-
Beck starts, "Speaking of, could you-"
There it is.
Not in the mood for favors, I groan, swallowing the sweet dough. This is not going to be the Ramadan disaster all over again. I plead, "No more sea monkey experiments."
Remembering the horror of personally killing an entire cluster of elder brine shrimp because I thought I was helping by cleaning their dirty tank, but instead gave them low-sodium water, and then got to watch them slowly die over a couple days, still makes me wince on command.
Beck grimaces, too, but his inner beggar is stronger than his sympathy. "But-"
I tense up my shoulders and sit up straight in my chair because I was not letting him guilt me into this again. "Beck, I get that they are super adaptable and your thing, trust me you've told me the 'this is the 15th generation of my first sea monkeys' story wayyy too many times, and it's so much more painfully unforgettable when I overhear you tell it to people you're attracted to like it's a desirable trait in a romantic partner. But I said I won't take care of them again and, to be honest, I find them kinda icky."
Pouting, Beck says, "You're just a biology and anthropology student, what do you know?"
"A lot about microbiology and marine science? Just like you?" When Beck opens his mouth like he is about to make a conversation-pivoting, sales-pitch of a point, I frown. Before he can even try to charisma himself out of this hole he's digging, I say, "Please don't tell me these donuts are bribery to do your sea monkey logs today."
The wrinkle of Beck's eyebrows says more about his guilt than his mouth could ever.
Beck doesn't waste time with lies, thankfully. For both of us, really, because he is going to get this donut thrown at his face if he tries.
"The committee organizing the bonfire called this morning and said they need me all day for set-up, so-"
I cut him off, clenching my fists. "This is what you get for picking Saturday as your log day for your multi-year project!" I say, exasperated, pausing only to pinch the bridge of my nose. "Why did you do this? Not just to me, but yourself?"
Crossing his arms, Beck replies, "I was a bitter single introvert when I started this, I figured I wouldn't have anything more interesting to do on a Saturday night. I never would've expected getting so handsome or popular among marine biology nerds. I wasn't prepared for a sociable schedule, Kai, it can be a lot sometimes!"
"That was the most painful, depressing set of sentences I've heard in my entire life. And I've been imprisoned in an attic for fourteen years."
"You've been imprisoned on a plot of land for fourteen years, to be technically correct," Beck counters. I just scowl, and Beck pleads with his hands clasped, like praying to a vengeful god.
While I do prefer godhood over being the unpaid research assistant to the research assistant, I don't like that he's pushing all the right guilt buttons. I can feel my gut want to help him, but I seriously can't-
Begging, Beck says, "I know you're not a fan, Kai, but please? For me? Or if not for me, for the turtles?"
Alas, even being next to godhood doesn't stop me from being a pushover. Of course, he has to pull out the baby turtle card. I grumble and mean it, but I say, "Fine. But this is your dissertation research so it's a big deal and a lot of pressure. You owe me. Big time."
"So, more donuts? Name you as an associate in my research once you graduate?"
All the donuts in the world can not make up for how sick of sea monkeys I am. This was the third time in two months that I had to help Beck out on his experiments. But if I'm being honest, it isn't like I am doing anything better with my Saturday.
Not that I'll admit that to Beck.
All I do is raise two fingers at him and say, "1.) donuts are too sweet. 2.) I don't want to be the sea monkey person. That's your thing. Let's put a pin in that favor and I'll get back to you."
"Sounds good."
Beck is beaming like he just won an argument, but he does pat my shoulder. I'm even more annoyed that I still appreciate the affection.
While playing clean-up crew for his disorganized science habits is frustrating, I'm honestly more frustrated that he's abandoning me on a Saturday. Normally, I'd follow him around with my laptop and keep him company while he doted on those silly brine shrimp, and we'd watch movies or order pizza in between. He'd been around for a quarter of my life and I'd grown... accustomed to his presence.
Sometimes, even, for split seconds at a time, I feel like when Beck looks down at me, he actually sees me. Not in a "yes, indeed, that's Kai's face" kind of way. Like he can tell how stormy everything can be for me and he sees it.
Popping my thought bubble, Beck says, "I really am sorry you can't be there. I'll record it for you."
My heart swells. But that look I like, like always, is fleeting, and I can watch it flickering away as Beck's eyes train on his notebook, thinking about some sea monkey thing.
Well, it was nice while it lasted.
"I would like that," I say, but... do I mean it? I don't want him to stop seeing me, and I don't really want him to leave me alone all day. Even for turtles.
Feeling a maelstrom of emotions, I take a leap I normally wouldn't. With as much gusto as I can to flush all the words out, I ask, "Beck, if my Mom hadn't improperly used her power over your degree to keep you here- sorry about that by the way, that's still very messed up- would you even like me?"
"We're a hotbed of weird shit at this house, it's just the norm." Then he does another few pats on my shoulder. It's a little too rough, but it's nice to feel...
Beck interrupts my thoughts, saying, "And of course I would, Kai. Say you were some random intern at U of W, I totally would've gotten along with you. You like action movies, you're honest without being too much of an asshole, and you love marine biology. Maybe one day if you could-"
And when Beck's face screws up, his forehead all wrinkled, and I know what he was going to say.
My warm, fuzzy affections sink into the ground. Before Beck can even try to use pretty words to get himself out of this, I cut right through and say what he meant, "You mean one day if I could stop my skin from screwing up, maybe I'd be human enough?"
Beck doesn't say anything. When it comes to Beck, that's pretty damning.
After a prolonged moment of wrinkled brows and worsening frowns, Beck says, "It's not my place to say if your Mom is right or wrong. I get why she's scared. It is dangerous for anyone to know about you. But, I don't know if locking you away is right, either." He pauses before deflecting. He always deflects. "But this shouldn't be about the right decision or the wrong one. You're allowed to want more. Why don't you talk to your Mom?"
"The answer is always the same. "When you won't be in danger"." Just then, like a mood-homing pigeon, Shell hops up on my lap. I hold her a little tighter and she lets out a disgruntled, but not angry, meow. "But I'll always be in danger, won't I?"
Just then, like some omniscient magician, Beck's phone starts playing "Wake Up Call" by Maroon 5: his ringtone for Dr. Caspen.
Shaking his head, he says, "I bought a wicker box for your sandals. Put it in the laundry room. You can use that to sneak back in better." I wish I could say I'm excited about the gift. In theory, it's thoughtful and useful, a winning combination in the Caspen household. But all it does was help us keep the secret better.
Beck wasn't looking at me anymore, just having some hushed conversation with Mom two feet away before ending the call and gathering his things, all business-like.
And that's it, isn't it? One call from Dr. Caspen and this bizarre tension that never exists when we're alone is there.
If the end of our conversation felt like a wet noodle, it's because it is. Saturated, overcooked, and probably needs to be trashed. I don't want to make a big deal out of it. What would it accomplish, anyway? I understand why I am a secret. I understand I am a wonderful mystery and a laboratorial anomaly. That's just how things are, and it had to be enough.
I settle for, "Thanks, Beck."
"Don't thank me. Just don't give up on who you want to be." I had to shut down a very tired eye roll. Easy for him to say, he knows where the keys are.
As he starts to pack his day bag, the one he brings to any marine event, social or professional, Beck asks, "Hold the fort while I'm gone, okay?"
Sighing, I nod, release Shell from my arms, and twirl another turtle donut around my index finger. "Will do."
"And sing the entirety of Maroon 5's It Won't Be Soon Before Long album to the monkeys."
"I will not be doing that."
Beck shrugs. "Had to try. They can get their fix next weekend, then," he says, but after a bout of facial contusions, adds, "Remember, keep your phone ready. Pics will be inbound!"
"Okay! Goodbye."
Though I don't mean to sound so annoyed, Beck gets the point and goes on his way. He walks right through the front door and locks it behind him.
This is a sick joke, right? Every day I watch people I love do the things I want to do more than anything, only to get doors locked on me.
To avoid too much angst, I try to focus on short term desires.
Eyes falling on the turtle donut in my hand, I groan. Yeah, if only one of the things I wanted to do the most wasn't tonight. How can I get that to stop nagging me all day?
I put the donut away and leave the box on the counter. They will be perfect late-night energy boosters for Mom, and she'll definitely enjoy them more than me. With dragging feet, I plan to take my sorry ass back upstairs to my attic room, where I live life as a proverbial poltergeist in the window. Honestly, I won't be surprised if I've scared a few neighborhood kids once or twice.
But just as I go to trudge upstairs, I see a peculiar piece of metal by the laundry door. The back key.
Startled, I just stare at it in awe. Did Beck forget to take it? Normally, he and Mom keep all keys on lock after an infamous case of a fifteen-year-old Kai breaking out to catch an ice cream truck. I thought it couldn't possibly be too much trouble, but...
But what is important is that the key's right here. Beck must've forgotten after leaving it out last night for me, and he also must've assumed that, even if he did forget the key, I couldn't sneak out to the bonfire without getting caught.
After all, as far as Beck knows, I struggle to keep all other forms. Kai couldn't make it out of here even if she tried.
A smirk growing on my face. I feel my chest fat melt away, my legs get shorter, my lips grow a bit fuller.
Glancing into the hallway mirror, I smile wide. My gray eyes may even be sparkling. I could go out and no one would ever know. I could pull off my greatest heist, to see the turtles of my dreams, and, for one night, Astra could be real.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone