Leonard (My Life as a Cat) by Carlie Sorosiak (best memoirs of all time .txt) 📗

office, but Q said, “Nah, let her stick with me.” So we followed him. Olive hooked her hands into the pockets of her overalls and gazed with big eyes at the tanks, watching the fish dart. I saw something of myself in her, the way she was taking in her environment, full of wonder.

“You know,” Q said, clapping his hands together, “Turtle Beach Aquarium is older than the town itself.” I think he got the distinct sense that Olive and I needed to be entertained—that otherwise we’d be wandering alone through the shark tunnels, through the Underwater Explorer Passageway, where jellyfish plumed in the dark.

Despite my focus on accessing a spare computer, I found myself—quite against my will—wrapped up in the mystery and amazement of it all. Q spoke with such gusto, as I’d hoped to on Earth. His life was the human existence I’d wanted for myself.

“When the first settlers came to Turtle Beach, they said, we don’t need no stinkin’ banks, no stinkin’ grocery stores—all we need is an aquarium that is just the right amount of cheesy. With plenty of whirly thingamabobs on the walls for the tourists. There also must be ice cream, of exactly two flavors, and this place must exist forever, even in the event of an apocalypse.”

Olive blinked, a smile curling on her lips. “Is any of that true?”

Removing his fish hat, Q clucked his tongue. “Hard to say. Sometimes we have three different kinds of ice cream. Don’t try the clam flavor. Bad clams, man.” He swept his brownish hair back with one hand. “Joking aside, we do a lot of good here. Most of these fellas have been rescued from one place or another: fishing nets, washed up on the coast, injured by boats. Some of them we can rehabilitate; others will just have to stay a while longer, but we sure are lucky to have them around.”

Trailing along the illuminated path of penguin footprints, we curved into a tunnel, glass arching over our heads. Light and dark swirled in patches. Rotating my ears, I looked up to see two enormous creatures, circling with swift strokes of their tails.

“That’s Steve,” Q said. “And that’s Martin. You afraid of sharks?”

Olive shook her head. “Not really.”

“Good. Seriously misunderstood creatures, sharks. If humans want to step inside their ocean, we should be prepared to accept the consequences. But hey, that’s just me. See those little guys, right there? The nurse sharks. They’re friendly.” He paused. “So tell me about your cat. We don’t get many cats in here.”

Olive said, “I’m not sure if he’s my cat yet.”

“I see, I see. Well, he looks like a good friend to have.”

My chest puffed a little with pride. I’d always hoped for the opportunity to be a friend—to have a friend. Even here, in the aquarium, I was mildly scared of the water: about the possibility of the tanks bursting, of somehow finding myself submerged. But another thought came, strangely, right after the fear: Olive will protect me.

“You know,” Q continued, “we could use an extra set of hands this summer, especially with the big Save the Sea Turtles event coming up. That is, if you’re interested. Your grandmother said you’d be here until August.”

Olive squirmed. “I think I’m supposed to do arts and crafts.”

“You can make a pipe-cleaner octopus. How ’bout that?” There was a pause. “Truth is, I do a little bit of everything around here, and it wouldn’t hurt to have someone else around, help me feed the fish, clean a few tanks.”

“Okay. But I’m . . . I’m not . . .” Olive blew out a breath. “Frank says I’m not very good at talking to people.”

Q frowned. “Who’s this Frank, then?”

“My mom’s boyfriend. He’s a life coach, which I guess means he tells people what to do with their lives. Anyway, I like talking about animals—a lot. I know loads about them: marine iguanas, white tigers, you name it. Sometimes it feels like I’ve memorized so many facts that I might explode if I don’t tell someone. Sometimes I blurt them out at people. And then . . . well, I guess not everyone wants to hear about iguanas. Or naked mole rats. Or mouse deer. I don’t want to say the wrong things.”

Q thought about this for a long moment. “I happen to believe you’re a great conversationalist. And here it doesn’t really matter how you are with people. How are you with fish? Okay, okay. I’ve got an idea.” We scooted over to the next tank, where a school of butterfly fish bobbed in the fluorescent light. “That’s Cletus and Octavia and Kim. They’re very conversational, so don’t let them talk your ear off. Just say, Cletus, I ain’t got the time . . . What’s that?” Q cupped his hand to his ear, pressed both to the tank. “Mmm-hmm, yep. Yes, I see. And then what?”

We waited as the fish spoke.

I had no idea that some humans could speak to fish.

“Well,” Q said, pulling back from the tank. “That settles it. Octavia said that you rock. I told her, ‘Kids don’t say rock anymore, Octavia,’ but she just wouldn’t hear it. So you in?”

I didn’t hear Olive’s answer. Because at that exact moment, as I was trying to get a better look at the fish, I bopped my nose on the glass. It wasn’t a gentle bop, either—more like a smash. And it hurt; my nose was lightly throbbing.

“Ouch,” Olive said, like she could feel it, too. “You okay, Leonard?”

No. No, I wasn’t. I could feel pain—not just discomfort or stress, but real, actual pain. Perhaps you can imagine the growing sense of panic that rushed through my chest. Why hadn’t I considered it before? Everything had gone disastrously wrong with my transformation, so why not this, too? My immortality should have stayed with me, despite my earthly shell. On this planet, I was supposed to feel everything, except physical pain. Pain meant decay. Pain meant fear. Pain meant