Big Feelings
The Saturday That Wasn’t
For eight whole sleeps, Ivo’s red backpack waited by the front door. Every morning he checked it. Clean rain jacket. Two cereal bars. The sea-creature card he’d drawn himself. Saturday was aquarium day. And Mina was coming too!
Ivo had the order all worked out. Glass tunnel first. Rays second. Lunch before the penguins, because Mina ate fries one at a time and penguins don’t wait. At the jellyfish they’d both do the wobbly walk. He’d been saving a brand-new wobble all week.
On Saturday, Ivo had his shoes on before Dad had even found his glasses. He ate half a piece of toast standing up. Rain went tap-tap-tap on the kitchen window. Who cares? The aquarium had a roof. Ivo checked the backpack zip. One more time.
Brrr-brrr. Dad’s phone buzzed on the counter. “Mm-hm,” said Dad. Then, “Today?” Then he stopped looking for his glasses. Ivo held the backpack strap with both hands and watched Dad listen.
“Power outage,” said Dad. “The aquarium’s closed. The tickets work another day. Just not today.” Ivo looked at the backpack. Everything in it was ready. Nothing in it had heard. “Mina can still come over,” said Dad. “Or we could—” “Don’t,” said Ivo.
Dad put the phone down. Ivo still had his shoes on. And between them sat the red backpack, all packed, for a place that was closed.
What does Ivo do?
Every choice costs something. Let’s see what.
“I want to go and see it closed.”
Dad looked at him for a moment. Then he found his glasses. They took the wet bus right across town, red backpack on Ivo’s knees. The lady next to them held three leeks like a bunch of flowers. Dad didn’t suggest anything else.
The glass doors were locked. Inside, the ticket desk was dark, and the blue tunnel had no blue in it at all. Ivo pressed the tickets flat against the glass. Then he tried the handle. Once. Click. It didn’t move. “There,” said Ivo.
They ate the sandwiches under the ferry shelter, with the aquarium shut across the street. A cormorant plopped into the gray water, came up with nothing, and shook drips all over its own back. Then it tried again. Ivo watched. Dad ate the last cereal bar.
“Tell Mina not to come. I want nothing.”
Dad called Mina’s mom. Ivo sat on the third stair in his coat and shoes, backpack beside him. Dad asked about pancakes, just once. Ivo said no. Dad vacuumed the hall, vrrrm, and lifted Ivo’s feet out of the way without asking him to move.
At two thirteen, Ivo took his shoes off, because his toes hurt. The rain had stopped. Outside, a dog barked at nothing. The backpack stayed zipped beside him. Tick. The hall clock turned to two fourteen, very loudly, the way clocks do when nobody’s talking.
Dad left toast on the third step and went away. At four oh five, Ivo called, “Is there more?” “Two crusts,” Dad called back. “Cold?” “Probably.” Ivo took both crusts to the window and ate them looking at the wet street. A bite from one. A bite from the other. Back and forth.
“Mina can come. But no aquarium things.”
Mina arrived under a big yellow umbrella. “We could turn the tub into—” “No aquarium things,” said Ivo. It came out sharp. Mina folded her umbrella. “Fine. I brought marbles.” One rolled out of her pocket and went click under the radiator.
They built a marble run all along the hall: two shoe boxes, a cutting board and Dad’s longest ruler. Clack-clack-clack. It was LOUD. Mina moved the finish three times. Ivo moved it back twice. The red backpack stayed by the door, still packed.
At four, Mina said, “Are we still doing the jellyfish walk when it opens?” Ivo’s hand stopped over the marbles. “Yes,” he said. Then the blue marble bonked into Mina’s sneaker. “Move your foot! You’re blocking the tunnel.” Mina moved it. The marble kept going.