Penguins in Aruba

Jamie has never professed to be a writer. He’s not very creative, and honestly, his sister tells enough tall tales for the both of them. He lets his sister handle things that require a creative touch and focuses on reality. So perhaps it was understandable why it took him so long to work out that something was… off.

It all started on the first day of November when his guidance counselor called him into her office and told him he needed some more “creative classes” to “round out his transcript.” In his opinion, the 3 coding classes he’s taken should count as creative classes, but when he told this to her, she just shook her head and sighed.

“It’ll look better on your college applications if you take some kind of creative arts class. Trust me, I know all about what colleges want. I used to work for one, you know.”

He did know that, actually. The whole school does, practically. She mentioned it in every conversation she has with a student.

“I’ve taken the liberty of signing you up for a creative writing course with Mrs. Santiago during the 4th period.”

“What!” He gasped. “What about my Honors Coding 4 class?”

“You can take it next semester. You are a sophomore after all. You’ve got plenty of time.”

The first day of the next semester came too quickly. Slinking into the classroom, he waited for someone to point at him and laugh at him for being in the wrong classroom, but nothing happened. Sitting down next to a girl who was quietly doodling in a book, he hoped that he would make it through the semester intact.

The girl looked up at him and said, “Hi.”

“Hi?” He replied. She went back to doodling.

Then Mrs. Santiago entered the room. She was wearing flared red slacks and a white shirt with swooping sleeves, and her grin spread wide across her face.. “Hello, class! I can’t wait to create some amazing stories with you guys this year!”

Oh no, this teacher is going to be a lot. Jamie thought, doing his best not to bang his head against his desk.

The class passed quickly, the teacher going over the syllabus and telling the class that they would have their first short story due in 2 weeks, and encouraging them to start brainstorming what they wanted to write about.

Jamie was despondent that night. He sat at the dinner table and let his sister drone on about a trip that her “best friend” went on to Aruba last week. Judging by how his sister was talking about how her friend went swimming with the penguins, it seemed like she had mixed up Aruba and Argentina.

“That’s nice dear.” His mother said, looking at her phone. "Daniel, did you see my text today about the grant application?”

“No, sorry, my phone lost service when I was in the lab again.”

“That’s fine. I just needed the data from the last cohort so I could check the results that we have so far.”

“I already calculated the results.”

“Yes, but I just wanted to make sure.”

Ugh. On second thought, maybe the country mix up was intentional. He finished up the last of the pasta on his plate, and left for his room upstairs. Sitting at his desk, he rested his head on the surface and tried to think of something, anything that he could write about.

“Penguins in Aruba” He mutters.

2 weeks later, he hands in an outlandish story about discovering penguins who thrive in the warm waters of Aruba. He’s never really written about something that wasn’t true before, so to lean into his strengths, he made it sound as pseudo-scientific as possible, using words like population and adaptation. He even had fun researching what the climate is like in Aruba and imagining what a penguin who lived in Aruba would even look like. Although he isn’t very creative, he feels like this kind of writing appeals to him. He’s making decisions about what to write, but in a way, it feels like he isn’t. The idea isn’t even his really, it's his sister’s. Which is why, he concludes to himself, the story is so good.

He had a rare excitement when the day came to get the papers back. He waited patiently as Mrs. Santiago placed his essay facedown on his desk. Finally! He picked up his paper and his grin dropped.

A big, fat, red, F.

Underneath that is written “see me after class” in a sprawling script.

What? Jamie is so shocked that he doesn’t even know what to think, and, for a second, his brain seems to stop completely. Did he… do something wrong? He thought he wrote a really good story. He was actually pretty proud of it.

The rest of the class blurred after that. Mrs. Santiago continued talking, but Jamie had no idea what she talked about. The end of period bell is what snapped him out of it. The rest of his classmates filed off to lunch, but Jamie mechanically packed up his stuff and walked over to the teacher’s desk. Mrs. Santiago looks up at him with a pinched expression. “Jamie, it’s good you are here, we need to talk about your paper.”

“I don’t understand.” Jamie said. “What was wrong with my story?”

“Did you read the instructions on the assignment outline?”

“Yes?”

“And so you know that you needed to write a fictional short story?”

“Yes? I did?”

“I’m sorry, Jamie, but this is clearly an informational essay.”

Jaime laughed in disbelief, “What? No it’s not? I made it all up.”

Mrs. Santiago shook her head. “Did you perhaps hand in the wrong paper? Was this supposed to be for another class? Maybe a biology class?”

“No, it’s about penguins in Aruba, right? No, I made up that there are penguins in Aruba, everybody knows that penguins can’t live in warmer temperatures.”

“Most, penguins yes, but not the Galapagos penguin or the Aruban Penguin.”

“I’m sorry? What? Is this a prank?”

“Look, Jamie, I know that creative writing is not your cup of tea. But when the assignment says to write a fictional story, you can’t just do a research paper on a species of animal that you like.”

“What? No, it’s not a research paper. I made it up. I invented the species!”

“You invented– What are you saying? I did my own research into this, you know. The Aruban penguin was discovered, or at least formally described, in 1887 by a Dutch zoologist. Didn’t you include that in your paper?”

“Yes, I– but, I made that up too!”

“The Aruban penguin is a real penguin, Jaime!”

“No, it’s– wait, what?”

“Here!”

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, and she turned the computer to face him. Sure enough, the page was filled with results about the endangered species of penguin, which was the only penguin known to survive the hot, middle eastern climate.

“I did like your paper, honestly, until I looked up the species. I didn’t know that there was a penguin native to Aruba. Although the topic is interesting, it isn’t fulfilling the assignment’s requirements.”

She looked at him then, and Jamie didn’t know what she read off his face, but her expression softened. “Look, I’m not here to be a mean teacher. I became an English teacher because I love to write stories and I want to share that love with you guys. I know it can be hard to write fiction if you aren’t really used to it, but you need to at least try.”

“I– I did try…” Embarrassingly, his voice cracked. He was so confused. She thought he wrote about an actual, real species of penguin? But there are no penguins native to Aruba? Surely he would have come across that in his research… But the computer showed…

“Tell you what, since this is the first paper, I will mark it as a C instead of an F. If you write something that really impresses me this semester, I will increase it to the same grade as whatever that paper is. I’m not here to be mean. I’m here to encourage you in your creative writing journey.”

It was a good deal.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do better next time.”

“That’s what I like to hear."

That evening, he sat at his computer and tried to figure out what had happened. Pulling up his search engine, he typed “Aruban Penguins” into the search bar. Everything that he had written about was listed on website after website, and the details matched exactly. Could it be a coincidence?

Their next short story was due one month later, and for a solid 2 weeks, all Jamie could do was brainstorm story ideas. Eventually he settled on a story about a rain goddess and a shipwreck victim. It was so strange there was no way it could be true. This time, he made sure to make it sound more like an actually fictional story, with magic and abandoned islands, and everything.

This time, for sure. He was definitely getting an A. Or at least a B. He’d even settle for a C so long as it didn’t come with strange conversations after class about species that pop into existence overnight. He turns in his second paper with a jitteriness that is either excitement or anxiety.

When he gets it back, it says “See me after class.” No grade. Oh no.

“It’s a great story,” says Mrs. Santiago, “it’s just that it’s been done before.”

“No way!” Jaime begins to protest.

“Yes, my husband is a historian and he specializes in Aztecan Mythology. He’s mentioned Chalchiuhtlicue before. You didn’t name her, but her description is identical, and you even named the same man from the legend with the English variant of his name.”

“I called him Peter?”

“And his name in the original legend is Tenoch. They both mean rock. I’ve been around the block a few times, kid, you can’t fool me. Now, if you keep this up I will have to report you for plagiarism. I like you, Jaime, but this kind of behavior needs to stop.”

“Is there any way I can convince you that this is a coincidence?”

“Not likely.”

Once is a coincidence. Twice is a conspiracy.

But who would even be conspiring against him? He hasn’t told anyone about his stories. No one has helped him with ideas and could have led him to write about these things to psych him out. The only thing left is impossible, though.. Did he somehow make these things happen? By writing about them? It didn’t make any sense. Then again, neither did the things that have been happening lately.

He decides to test it. He brings a sheet of paper and a pencil downstairs to the living room and plops himself down with a good view of the window. One of the most unalterable facts of life on earth is that the sky is blue. ‘Today’, he writes, ‘the sky will turn green and purple’. He looks up at the sky out the window. Nothing. Did it just not take? He tries again, pressing his pencil hard into the paper.

Today the sky will turn green and purple.

And again.

TODAY THE SKY WILL TURN GREEN AND PURPLE!

“What are you doing?” His dad suddenly asked.

Jaime yelped and fell off the couch. His paper fluttered to the floor. His dad walked over and picked it up.

“Oh, that–” Jaime began, trying in vain to think of an excuse, any excuse.

“I see you heard about the aurora borealis tonight.”

“The what?”

“The northern lights? One of our patients was raving about it. He’s a big astronomy fan.”

“The northern–”

“You must be pretty excited to see them tonight. Why didn’t you tell me you were into astronomy?”

“I’m–” not, he was about to say, but then thought better of it. “Just getting into it. Another kid was talking about it and it seemed cool.” Standing from the couch, he grabbed the paper from his father and headed upstairs before his dad could continue the conversation.

Jamie couldn’t believe his luck. His whole life he felt like he was an extra to his sister’s show. He couldn’t name one unique thing about himself. Sometimes it felt like he was an amalgamation of other people’s parts. And now– something insane and wonderful and unique happened to him of all people, but instead of improving his life in any way at all– he felt like he’d been handicapped. Stuck taking a class that he literally cannot pass. Stuck with a power that somehow turns every concept that Jamie tries to dream up into something that someone else has done.

Jamie shoved his face into a pillow and screamed until he was breathless.

“Hey, brother of mine!” His sister poked her head in the room. “You close to death yet? Because if so, I want your computer and headphones.”

“Get lost.”

“What’s going on? You seem more morose than usual.”

He picks up his head and looks at her.

“You’re not going to believe this,” He starts.

“Clearly there is a way around this. It’s just that you are trying to use it to write fiction, when you should be using this superpower to write nonfiction,”

“Uh, what?”

“Try writing: My dad won the lottery.”

“That’s brilliant!”

Jamie and his sister head to bed that night with matching grins of camaraderie.

The next day, they were greeted with yelling and stomping.

“I can’t believe you! This money should be going to the project and you just want to squander it?”

“It’s not squandering if it’s going to things that we’ll use!”

“We don’t need a new house, Daniel! And we certainly don’t need a Tesla!”

“We’ve always been able to continue the project without pouring our personal money into it. I don’t see why this is different. Grant money exists for a reason!”

“Well it’s not like we’ve had the funds to put into the project before you won the freaking lottery!”

The voices suddenly quiet and they have to strain to hear them.

“... right about one thing. I won the lottery. Not you. You don’t get to order me around anymore. I bought the ticket so I say where the money goes.”

“Are you stupid? We’re married, so it doesn’t matter if you were the one who made the initial purchase, I still have a say in what we do with it!”

“Then, I want a divorce!”

Jamie and his sister, listening from the staircase, exchange twin looks of horror. They rush to his bedroom and close the door behind them.

“How could it have gone so wrong?” His sister asked, head in her hands.

“We can fix this.” His sister picked up her head and looked almost through him.

Jamie opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Write a new sentence. Write: Mom and Dad decided to stay together for the rest of their lives.”

Jamie agreed and wrote it with trepidation. The arguing continued. He held it up and showed it to his sister.

Downstairs the arguing suddenly stopped. The silence was oppressive. Something like a chill ran down Jamie’s spine. He and his sister rushed downstairs. They found their parents staring at the tv screen, argument forgotten. On it was a news broadcast, with flashing red words.

Nuclear missile launch initiated by Russia.

Impact expected in 15 minutes.

This is not a drill.

“Mom? Dad?” His sister called. Suddenly, she sounded very young. He forgot sometimes that she was only 13.

For a second, everything was still.

“Go! Go! Go! Now!” yelled his mom.

Suddenly it was a mad dash. Shoes, treasured belongings, coats. There wasn’t much time.

An alarm rang in his head, dull and thudding. Wait, that was his heart. He slid his shoes on his feet without adjusting his sock as it slid under his heel. He couldn’t bring his computer. He owned so many things that suddenly felt meaningless. He couldn’t bring any of it. He swept the piece of paper and the pen from his desk before turning away.

Was this all his fault?

He rushed downstairs, almost colliding with his sister as she rushed out of her room. She was carrying her doll that she’d gotten as a baby.

“Not a word.” She threatened.

Honestly, there was no time to tease her anyway. They were all going to–

His parents were loading the car and jumping into the front seat. His father started the car and leaned across the console, kissing Jamie’s mom on the lips.

“Love you”

Then, he threw the car into reverse and zoomed out of the driveway, almost crashing into their neighbor’s car, which swerved around them with a squeal of tires.

As his father sped through the streets, ignoring every traffic law and trying to keep the car largely intact, Jamie had an idea. He pulled out the crumpled piece of paper and held it against the window, uncapping his pen..

“What are you doing, Jamie?” His sister asked.

“I’m fixing this.”

On the paper, he wrote, “It all started on the first day of November when his guidance counselor called him into her office and told him he needed some more ‘creative classes’ to ‘round out his transcript.’ In his opinion, the 3 coding classes he’s taken should count as creative classes, but when he told this to her, she just shook her head and sighed. ‘I guess I can’t persuade you. At least I tried. Have fun with that coding class.’”

Another car brushed against them, sending their car careening to the right with a shriek. His pen dragged across the rest of the paper. Time was up.

He passed the paper to his sister. She took it and began to read.