Octopus Dreams

I don’t think, at first, the note’s even meant for me. A sheet pokes under the tabletop partition between our desks, and I figure Oliver—I think that’s his name, the grade-twelve guy to my left—I figure Oliver must have a sheet shoved to the side, sticking beneath the partition by accident. But then I see it’s folded in half, like Oliver pleated the paper to reinforce it. The note slides toward me, wiggles. He wants me to take it.

I take it.

I peer up at Mr. Frank. He should easily see what Oliver’s just passed me—the partitions only block us from seeing one another, not him—but the teacher concentrates on his phone, thumbs hammering the screen, his face splotchy red. I unfold the note carefully, quietly, and find a single question scrawled in messy, jagged letters. Are u Ruth andersen?

Oliver’s a year my senior. I’ve seen him around the halls, heard his name. I recognized him as soon as we entered the detention room, but now that I can’t see him anymore, I don’t remember what he looks like. He has that sort of face—you forget it immediately, even if it’s familiar.

Anderson, yeah. You’re Oliver? I slide my response back toward him and flip the page of my marine zoology textbook. I try to concentrate, but my gaze flickers in bursts to the partition between us, and I have to read the same paragraph three times, nothing sinks in. When the note returns to me, I grab it right away.

Ya, what are u working on, Ruth?

Oliver’s handwriting is terrible. All smeared with extra pen scratches, and the way he does his lowercase Rs is too wide—they could be Vs. It makes “what are u” look like “what ‘ave u,” and I picture him with a British accent. I have no idea what Oliver sounds like. We’ve never spoken before.

Biology project, I write. Know anything about octopuses?

Oliver doesn’t. Our note passes back and forth the rest of detention. By the end of the period, I’m impatient for his next reply. I tap my pen against the textbook until an inkblot forms on the page, jet-black, gleaming.

* * *

I used to have those glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling. My dad spread them out in real constellation patterns, told me it was just like how the sky looked from the South Pacific. That’s where he met my mom, on a cruise. I would pretend the stars were real, millions and millions of years old, each one burned away centuries before the light could reach me. I miss those stars. My room’s so dark without them. I feel heavy, sunk low.

My phone’s all that glows, now. I read Oliver’s private Instagram message, for the third time. He says he’s going with a group of guys to the pool hall this Friday. A lot of kids from our school go there. We sneak in booze, but the staff don’t bug us about it, so long as it’s not too busy and we order lots of mix from the bar. You and ur friends should come, Oliver says. Gonna be lit.

Octopuses are masters of disguise. They can blend into anything—the sea floor, the sun-dappled surface of the water above. I pull the comforter over my head and let it fall against my skin, wake up every pore and nerve and tiny hair. I close my eyes and picture a photo I saw earlier in my textbook: two octopuses, limbs outstretched to one another, not quite touching. A crawler on the ocean floor, great black tentacles, slicks of oil in murky water. Its companion hovers just above, alive with sparkling light.

* * *

The next day, Oliver and I don’t acknowledge each other as we enter the detention room. I glance peripherally, sizing him up. He’s solidly built, but short—about five-foot-five, maybe six. A wide, flat nose squishes into his face; he looks like he’d have to flare his nostrils to breathe. His t-shirt bears the logo of some rap group I don’t know. We both surrender our phones to Mr. Frank’s basket, and they clink against each other like coins in a purse.

Two minutes in, Oliver’s note slides my way. So why u in detention Ruth?

Ditching class had been thrilling at the time—I’m usually such a keener—but now I wish I had a better story. Skipped first period last Thursday.

How long did u get?

I have to report all week. What about you?

Man ur lucky. I got 2 weeks.

What did you do?

Same shit as u. But it wasnt my first time this semester.

They’re so intense about skipping at this school.

Ya, it’s lame. Hey, ur friends with Aurelia Pax right?

My skin shrinks down around my bones, wrapping me tight. I picture him saying her name the way it looks in his handwriting: Auvelia, teeth vibrating against his inner lip to make the V. It’s the first time without looking at Oliver that I remember his face.

Yeah.

She got a boyfriend?

Yeah. You wanna know something cool about octopuses?

After dinner, I open Aurelia’s latest Instagram post. A photo of the two of us from last week, sitting beneath a chili-red elm tree, vibrant in the early autumn sun. My lips are pursed in a kissy-face that makes one eye squint while the other droops. My nose boasts a huge, blue zit—blue because I tried, and failed, to cover it with makeup. Aurelia giggles, her chin tilted up, the curve of her long, swanlike neck a ski jump for tiny daredevils.

I switch apps to my web browser, open to a cephalopod website, and reread the section of camouflage. I stand in front of the mirror and laugh out loud. I try to tickle myself to make it sound more real, but of course that never works.

* * *

When Oliver enters the detention room on Wednesday, I smile hello, too wide—my top lip cracks as it stretches, and I clamp both lips painfully between my teeth. Oliver smiles back, automatic, a courtesy.

When he doesn’t start the conversation, I scrawl my own note. I hesitate, scratch the sentence out and start another below the first, have second thoughts, pull out a brand-new sheet. Octopuses eat their own tentacles when they’re bored.

A loud snort from behind the partition. I glance at Mr. Frank, and I know from the sharp intake of breath beside me that Oliver does the same. I picture him mirroring my movements, the two of us staring in unison at the teacher, fingers tightly curled around the edges of our binders. But Mr. Frank’s as focused on his phone as always. The note slides back my way, and I grin when I see it.

Well i wouldn’t want u to eat ur arm.

I’m not an octopus!

U seem rly into them. I think ur kindred spirits.

I’m doing a project!

Dont lie. Ur an octopus nerd.

OK but seriously, name one sea creature that’s cooler.

U joking? Sharks are so much cooler.

Please. Sharks can’t communicate by changing colour.

Ya, but their badass killaz! Oliver adds a little drawing of a shark’s jaws clamped around an octopus’ tentacle. The octopus is crying, a big blob of a teardrop spilling from its overlarge eyes. The sketch is remarkably good. I see all the resolve squeezed from the octopus, all the shark’s triumph. I’m impressed. I gush, my pen smearing.

WOW! Oliver, you’re really good at drawing! That’s SUPER amazing!

When we’re dismissed, we stand at the same time, make brief eye contact. His gaze moves down over my body, over the belly muffin-topping around my waistband, and I stop breathing, pull my stomach in tight. Oliver shuffles out the door without saying a word.

He stalks my Instagram. He likes my most recent post, and a bunch of others, too, going back months—all the photos with Aurelia in them, every one. He texts to ask if she’s coming with me to the pool hall on Friday. I say, yeah. He says, she’s so hot. I send a GIF of a cartoon octopus with a hammerhead shark trapped in its tentacles, and Oliver pins a laugh to the image that hangs there like a badge: ha-ha.

* * *

On Thursday, I deposit my phone in Mr. Frank’s bin and turn around. I freeze.

The seat next to Oliver is taken.

Oliver wears the same rap T-shirt he wore on Tuesday, and patchy, uneven hair sparkles his chin; I’m not sure if he wants to grow a beard or if he just needs to shave. We share a glance and look in unison to the partition beside him. He knows the ninth-grader is there. He’s at the end of the row, so there’s no desk on the other side. Oliver shrugs—what are you gonna do—and I shake my head. No.

“That’s my seat,” I say.

The girl looks up at me. So does everyone else in the long row of desks. “Sit somewhere else,” she says.

“No. I’ve been sitting here all week.”

“Who cares?”

“You should, because you’re in my seat.”

Oliver leans back and crosses his arms, watches me. He grins. I flush a bit, but look away, stare instead at the girl beside him. Her soft, golden curls, her long eyelashes. I remember her from the first day of school. I was one of the older students that had volunteered to show the grade nines around the building. She was in my group and hung at the back with her friends. I caught them making fun of me, puffing out their cheeks and laughing. I pretended not to see.

Mr. Frank releases a long, tired sigh from behind me. “Miss Anderson,” he says, “please just take one of the open desks.”

I don’t move, glaring. The girl glares back.

“Get up,” I say. In the corner of my field of vision, Oliver raises his eyebrows.

The girl opens her mouth, then closes it. Sighs. She slams her textbook and gathers her things, screeches her chair loudly backwards. “Whatever,” she says, “it’s just a fucking desk.”

As I pass behind him to take my seat, Oliver stares. I want to study his face, try to gauge whether he’s impressed or just surprised, but I’m afraid to look at him straight on, afraid that he’ll see the roundness of my eyes, see the hot, nervous every evaporate from me like steam. I sit and place my hands firmly on the desk until the trembling subsides.

I can’t start the conversation myself, not after that display. I wait and wait throughout the detention for Oliver to slip me a note, but nothing comes. I try to focus on my homework, my leg jiggling. Finally, five minutes before the end of the half-hour period, a sheet pokes beneath the partition. I grab it fast, too fast, and I cringe as I unfold it, embarrassed by my eagerness. But when I see what’s inside, I stick a thumbnail between my teeth.

Oliver must have spent the whole period drawing. A full-page sketch of an octopus—a girl octopus—leaning back against a brick wall, a gang bandana wrapped around her face. She holds a knife dripping blood. A mermaid weeps in the background, and she’s beautiful, even with the deep gash through her tail. The octopus glowers at me with a demonic grin, with mean, ugly eyes. The caption: Don’t let no bitches get in my way.

My retinas burn. Mr. Frank announces the end of detention, and as we stand, Oliver turns to address me. But I won’t acknowledge him. I storm past and head straight for third-period biology. I have twenty minutes before the bell will summon the rest of the class from lunch. I sit in the back row, ignore the buzzing phone in my backpack, press the heels of my palms against my temples, pore furiously through my marine zoology book.

Octopuses store most of their neurons in their tentacles. Their brain is in their arms, their feet. Octopus arms can think. An octopus might search for shelter with its eyes while its tentacles solve other problems, like cracking open a tasty mussel—the head doesn’t even know it’s hungry until the mouth floods with flavour.

* * *

Oliver’s note comes right away on Friday afternoon. I drum my fingernails against the desk, bite my lip. I unfold the note.

U didnt like my picture?

Oliver’s uncertainty, the subtle hint of insecurity, pleases me. I scribble my response immediately—It was ok—but I make him wait awhile before I pass it back.

U didnt message me back yesterday, Oliver responds.

Didn’t know you messaged.

U didnt check insta?

I don’t check Instagram every day. What did you want?

Wow ok. Ur mad.

Just tell me what you wanted.

Sorry u didnt like it. I thought u wanted to be an octopus.

I told you, I’m just researching them for a project.

I looked them up last night. Ur right, their pretty dope.

I picture Oliver in bed with his phone, looking up octopuses on Wikipedia. His face lit up by his screen in the darkness, eyes peering, brows furrowed in concentration. I don’t want to be comforted by the thought, but I am. I feel warm and shivery at the same time. My lips twitch up at the corners. I told you so.

Those motherfuckers are smart! They have these crazy dreams. Oliver’s handwriting gets messier here. More hurried—excited. I imagine the British accent again, see him puffing a pipe, a tweed blazer open over his hip-hop shirts. “Bloody brilliant!” I bite the insides of my cheeks to stop myself giggling.

I read that too. But most of the time, their sleep is pretty inactive. They only dream for like a minute.

Ya but when they do, they go wild, twitching a bunch. And their skin changes colour and texture and stuff.

Yeah. Like the camouflage instinct takes over.

U think their hiding from something?

I think they have some crazy nightmares.

They dreamin bout them SHARKZ!

Or mermaids.

Oliver laughs, loud enough to finally pull Mr. Frank’s eyes up from his phone. Oliver clears his throat, waves a math textbook high above the partition. “This is some funny shit, Mr. Frank!”

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him speak. I didn’t expect the husk in his voice, the rumble that floats over the partition, trickles down across my skin. My ears warm.

Oliver’s note comes back with a winky face. Way to nearly get us caught.

Hey, you’re the one who thinks I’m so hilarious.

U still comin tonight, gangstapus?

Yeah, for sure.

Stoked to meet ur friends!

* * *

I take shotgun. Mary sings a pop song in the backseat, very badly. Aurelia drives. I stick my arm out the window and point my nails into the wind, bob my hand up and down through rolling waves. Aurelia parks in the back behind the strip mall, where the lot is mostly empty. I check my reflection in the car mirror. Carefully contoured cheeks, glossy crimson lips, eyes elongated by vampy black wings. Aurelia showed me how to apply the eyeliner like that, how you have to draw the wing part first, so that you know exactly what you’re building to. “When you start at the end,” she said, “it’s all just strategy from there.”

Small maple trees, scattered around the parking lot, drip dust-brown leaves like shadows in the evening light. I have to duck beneath a branch as we make for the side stairs heading down to the pool hall. Despite the gloomy basement lighting, I locate Oliver right away, in a group of four—they’ve claimed a table at the back, by the bathrooms. He demonstrates something to a cute blond guy I don’t recognize, and Oliver leans over the table to point at the corner pocket. The glow from the low-hung pendant lamp casts him in a spotlight. His hair looks shorter. Freshly trimmed. He shaved, too—his jaw is rage-red, irritated. We don’t join them right away, go instead to the bar to order Cokes. Mary and Aurelia lean close together, giggling about the cute blond guy.

Oliver backs up to let his friend take the shot. I catch his eye and lift my hand in a casual wave. Oliver does the same, and his eyes roam over my friends, fall to Aurelia, trace her curves from next to knee. He straightens his shirt, then mutters something to the blond guy. They both laugh.

When we reach his table, Oliver doesn’t greet us or even acknowledge that we’re here to see them. I stand off to the side with my friends, watch the game progress. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I cross my arms, uncross them, stick them on my hips, let them dangle. I begin to think that coming here was a mistake, but then Oliver heads my way.

“Hey, gangstapus.”

“Hey.” I wave away my friends’ looks of confusion. “Detention joke.”

“You girls want something for that?” Oliver nods to our Cokes.

“Sure,” I say. Mary sticks her cup out eagerly.

Oliver glances at Aurelia’s drink like he wishes he had enough hands for all three. He only hesitates a second, then takes my cup and Mary’s to the bench behind the table, where he opens a ratty backpack and waves over two of his friends to block him from view. He carries our drinks back over, and I cringe at the first sip. He made them really strong.

The cute blond guy hands Mary the cue. “Wanna play?”

Something in the seven of us opens up, exhales. Mary takes the cue happily, and Aurelia and I head to the bench with Oliver. Even the adult men stare as she walks by, but Aurelia pays no attention, as oblivious as she always is. Oliver plunks down in the middle, the three of us squished together, legs against legs. He opens his bag to show Aurelia the bottle. “Want some?”

“No, thank you.”

“Your friends took some.”

“I’m driving.”

Oliver closes his bag, looking disappointed.

“Who’s winning?” I ask.

“Oh, we’re a few games in already. Me and Thompson won the first two.” Oliver turns sideways toward Aurelia. “You like pool?”

“Sure.”

“Bet you can’t do this.” Oliver grabs a cue from the crooked rack beside the bench. He stands on one foot, bending his right leg up at the knee, and he sticks the heavy part of the cue against his thigh—he pulls his hands back slowly, trying to balance the cue vertically, but it immediately flops sideways, and he catches it. “Wait,” Oliver says. He tries again. The cue flops to the other side; Oliver grunts. “Wait—I really can do this!” The third attempt almost works, but the cue falls forward and Oliver dives to catch it, his knee slamming the ground so hard that I wince.

Aurelia rolls her eyes and gets up to talk to Mary, who has just sunk the cue ball trying to go for the eight. The guys all clap sarcastically, and Mary grins, takes an exaggerated bow.

Oliver frowns and sits back down. I look hard at him, at the same hip-hop shirt he’s already worn twice that week, at the bumpy razor-burn on his chin, at his dark eyes, too close together. “I told you she has a boyfriend.”

Oliver shrugs. “Who is he, anyway?”

“He’s older. Went away to Calgary for university this year.”

“Long distance?” Oliver snorts. “That never lasts.”

“They made it past Thanksgiving,” I say. “You know—Breakup Weekend. He told her three of his dorm friends went home to see their girlfriends, and all three came back single. But Aurelia and him are going strong.”

“Whatever. I give it till Christmas.” Oliver takes a long swig from his drink. I do the same. I have no idea what kind of booze he spiked it with. All I taste is burn. I shudder violently, and Oliver chuckles, gives my shoulder a friendly punch. “You’re hardcore, gangstapus.”

I laugh. He starts to rise, but I place a hand on his elbow and pull him back down. My head is light, buzzy. I can’t stop smiling. “I’m single, you know.”

Aurelia’s got the cue now, and she bends low over the table, her ass pointing right at us. Oliver’s not the only one who stares.

“Hey,” I say. “Hey, you don’t have a British accent.”

Oliver blinks and turns toward me. “You thought I was British?”

“Had a theory.”

“Why would I be British?”

“Your Rs look like Vs.”

“What?” Oliver laughs, locks his eyes onto mine. “What the hell does that mean?”

When he smiles, Oliver gets a dimple in his chin, not quite dead centre. A little nook. I feel heat in my face and neck, cold tingles low in my belly. I lean an elbow against the wall and turn my back to the game, giving Oliver my full attention. My knee brushes his. “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

“Ruth!” I twist my neck at the sound of my name, see Mary fishing through her purse. Aurelia, beside her, gestures toward the washroom. “You coming?”

“Nah, you guys go ahead.”

The girls make for the heavy wooden door marked with a W. Oliver watches Aurelia, I watch him. Then I grab Oliver by the chin, force his face to meet mine. He raises an eyebrow. I cup my hand around the back of his neck and draw him toward me, press my mouth against his. He freezes, doesn’t respond in any way—doesn’t part his lips or part from me. I back away and see his eyes were wide the whole time. He didn’t expect that. I kiss him again, harder this time, and grip him tightly behind the neck, my nails digging in. Oliver softens. He leans forward, settles into the kiss. His thumb finds the divot behind my ear, the other hand the small of my back, and we make out until the room grows heavy around us, dark, velvet. When we finally pull apart, his eyes glint in the hazy bar light, gold flashing in the brown.

I toss my head back and giggle like it’s some big joke. I roll my eyes at myself, bury my face in his shoulder. I can feel Oliver looking over my head at his friends, and his shoulder lifts a bit, like he’s shrugging—what the hell.

“Aurelia parked in back,” I suggest.

Oliver grins.

My friends are all excited chatter when I find them in the bathroom, but I won’t offer any details, just take Aurelia’s keys and push my way through the heavy door back to Oliver. I squeeze his fingers to direct him as we leave the bar—“No, no, it’s left here.” Aurelia’s dirty, grey sedan is the only car still parked in the back lot.

The backseat is a mess. Grease-smeared receipts, nail-polish stains on the leather, an open gym sack overflowing with damp, sweaty clothes. I groan. “Aurelia, you fucking pig.” I swipe everything to the floor, and accidentally shove my purse off the seat along with the rest. A box of condoms slips from the outside pocket to land at Oliver’s feet.

I can’t read his expression, masked in a shadow from the strip-mall looming high behind our heads, but his face is oriented toward the box, staring. He clears his throat, taps the condoms lightly away with a toe. For a moment, we sit unmoving, a silent question thick in the air between us. Oliver grasps his elbows in his hands, like he wants to reach all the way around and hug his spine.

“Look,” I say. “I don’t know about you, but I’m still a virgin.”

Oliver glances to the side. Shadow eclipses his face—he could be blushing, but it’s too dark to know.

“I mean,” I say, “I’ve fooled around and stuff. But I’ve never gone all the way.”

Oliver’s gaze flicks back to me. I see the flash of gold in his eyes again, glimmers in the dark. I run a hand through his hair, and kiss him, hard—I clamp his lower lip between my teeth. Oliver gasps, but he doesn’t stop me. Instead he pulls me closer, and suddenly he’s greedy for me, ravenous—his limbs are everywhere, multiplying, coiling around me. I bite down harder. I want to taste the hot crackle of his hunger. Want to burn with it, to spark and fly like a firework, ignite the sky before I fade away.

* * *

On the way home, Mary bounces from left to right in the back, shouting, kicking my seat. “What did you do? Was it good? Do you like him? You guys going out now?”

“Mary, you’re wasted.” Aurelia rolls her eyes in the rear-view mirror. She grins, looks sideways toward me. “He’s not bad, you know.”

“He’s kinda squished looking,” I say. “His eyes are too close together.”

“He’s got a nice smile.”

“He’s super hairy. And sweaty. Like a big, wet dog. I felt all greasy after. I got hair in my teeth.”

“He seems to really like you.” Aurelia reaches a red light and turns to face me. “He couldn’t keep his hands off you after you guys got back from the car.” Her face shines, reflecting the streetlights from the sidewalk outside; I think of the moon when I look at her, and not for the first time.

“Sure,” I say. “When we got back from the car.”

Mary hiccups loudly. “Aurelia, I think I’m gonna hurl.”

“Oh, Mary, goddammit.” The light turns green, and Aurelia jerks the wheel, swerving into the lot for the big aquarium. Mary barely makes it out of the car in time—she dives left out the driver-side door, and Aurelia jumps out to hold her hair back. I hear retching, splashing, gentle soothing. “It’s okay, Mary. Get it all out, now.”

I turn up the music, look to my right out the window. The aquarium has a huge billboard out front advertising their new octopus tank. The sign’s lit up, each sucker on the on the tentacles sparkling like fairy lights.

For years, scientists were stumped by octopus vision. Octopus eyes only have one light receptor, which means. theoretically, they should be colourblind in the truest sense, everything they see a wash of greyscale. Why, then, are they so adept at changing colours? Why adorn themselves with brilliant hues potential mates can’t even see?

But octopus pupils are large and dumbbell-shaped, which leads to chromatic aberration: blurry, rainbow-bright halos of colour that distort visual clarity while letting in prisms of kaleidoscopic light. Octopuses have probably been able to see colour all along, but only when the coloured object hits the eye from the proper angle—most often, when they’re looking down.

I lean back in my seat and squeeze my eyes shut so hard, I see flashes of shocking colour bursting through the black—flares. Exploding stars. Scarlet, violet, magenta, aquamarine. I try to follow the embers. Trace my fingers up my forearm, feel for suction. Search for something that can find the slippery-soft footholds in the darkness, that can pull me into sunbeams, scald me with the light.