Katherine Applegate - The One and Only Ivan

On the other side, Kinyani and the others wait for me.

I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be a silverback.

I’m Ivan, just Ivan, only Ivan.

I decide it’s not a good day to socialize.

I’ll try again tomorrow.

wondering

All night I lie awake, wondering about Ruby.

Has she already walked through a door like the one I’m facing?

Was she as scared as I am? Scared the way she must have been that day she fell in the hole?

I think of Ruby’s endless curiosity, and of the questions she loved to ask. Have you ever danced with a tiger, Ivan? Will your fur turn blue? Why doesn’t that little boy have a tail?

If Ruby were here with me, she’d be asking: What’s on the other side of the door, Ivan?

Ruby would want to know, and she would have been through that door by now.

ready

“Want to try again, Ivan?” Maya asks. I think of Ruby, and I tell myself it’s time.

The door opens.

outside at last

Sky.

Grass.

Tree.

Ant.

Stick.

Bird.

Dirt.

Cloud.

Wind.

Flower.

Rock.

Rain.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

oops

I sniff, approach, strut a bit, but the others don’t welcome me. They have sharp teeth and loud voices.

Did I do something wrong?

Kinyani chases me. She throws a stick at me. She corners me.

I know that she’s testing me to see if I’m a true silverback, one who can protect her family.

I cower and hide my eyes.

Maya lets me back into my cage.

what it was like

I lie awake and try to remember what it was like, being a gorilla.

How did we move? How did we touch? How did we know who was boss?

I try to think past the babies and the motorbikes and the popcorn and the short pants.

I try to imagine Ivan as he might have been.

pretending

The juvenile male approaches. He’s eyeing my food hungrily.

I imagine a different Ivan, my father’s son.

I grumble and swat and swagger. I beat my chest till the whole world hears.

Kinyani watches, and so do the others.

I move toward the young upstart, and he retreats.

Almost as if he believes I’m the silverback I’m pretending to be.

nest

I’m making a nest on the ground. It isn’t a true jungle nest. The leaves are inferior and the sticks are brittle. They snap when I weave them into place.

The others watch, grunting their disapproval: too small, too flimsy, an ugly thing to see .

But when I climb into that leafy cradle, it’s like floating on treetop mist.

more tv

Maya wants me to go back to my glass cage. I can tell, because she is tempting me toward the door with a trail of tiny marshmallows.

I try to ignore her. I don’t want to leave the outside. It’s a cloudless day, and I’ve found just the right spot for a nap. But I relent when she adds yogurt raisins to the trail. She knows my weaknesses all too well.

In the glass cage, the TV is on. It’s another nature show, jerky and unfocused.

I expect to see gorillas, but none appear.

I hear a shrill sound, like a toy trumpet.

My heart quickens.

I rush close to the screen, and there she is.

Ruby.

She is rolling in a lovely pool of mud with two other young elephants.

Another elephant approaches. She towers over Ruby. She strokes Ruby, nudges her. She makes soft noises.

They stand side by side, just the way Stella and Ruby used to do. Their trunks entwine. I see something new in Ruby’s eyes, and I know what it is.

It’s joy.

I watch the whole thing, and then Maya plays it again for me, and again. At last she turns off the TV and carries it out of the cage.

I put my hand to the glass. Maya looks over.

Thank you, I try to say with my eyes. Thank you.

it

Kinyani ambles toward me. She taps me on the shoulder and knuckle runs away.

I watch her, arms crossed over my chest. I’m careful not to make a sound.

I’m not sure what we’re doing.

She ambles back, shoves at me, dashes past. And then I realize what’s happening.

We’re playing.

We’re playing tag .

And I’m it.

romance

Make eye contact.

Show your form.

Strut.

Grunt.

Throw a stick.

Grunt some more.

Make some moves.

Romance is hard work.

It looks so easy on TV.

I’m not sure I will ever get the hang of it.

more about romance

I wish Bob were here. I could use some advice.

I try to recall all the romance movies we watched together.

I remember the talking, the hugging, the face licking.

I’m not very good at this.

But it’s fun trying.

grooming

Is there anything sweeter than the touch of another as she pulls a dead bug from your fur?

talk

Gorillas aren’t chatty, like humans, prone to gossip and bad jokes.

But now and again we swap a story under the sun.

One day it’s my turn.

I tell my troop about Mack and Ruby and Bob and Stella and Julia and George, about my mother and father and sister.

When I am done, they look away, silent.

Kinyani moves closer. Her shoulder brushes mine, and we let the sun soak into our fur. Together.

the top of the hill

I’ve explored every nook and cranny of this place, except for a hill at the far end where workers have been repairing a wall.

They’re finally gone. They’ve left behind fresh white brick and a mound of black dirt.

While the others laze in the morning sun, I want to explore the hilltop. They’ve been there before, and I have not. Everything is still fresh to my eyes.

I take my time going uphill, savoring the feel of grass on my knuckles. The breeze carries the shouts of children and the drowsy hum of bumblebees. Near the top of the hill is a low-limbed tree, the kind my sister would have loved.

The wall is endless, clean and white, stretching far down to the habitats beyond my own. It’s high and wide, carefully built to keep us in and others out.

This is, after all, still a cage.

It rained last night, and the pile of dirt is soft to the touch. I scoop up a handful and breathe in the loamy smell.

It’s a rich brown color, heavy and cool in my palm.

And the wall waits, like an endless blank billboard.

the wall

It’s a big wall.

But it’s a big pile of dirt, and I’m a big artist.

I slap handfuls of mud on the warm cement. I make a handprint.

I tap my nose with a muddy finger. I make a noseprint.

I slide my palms up and down. The mud is thick and hard to use. But I keep moving and scooping and spreading.

I don’t know what I’m making, and I don’t care. I make swoops and swirls and thick lines. Figures and shapes. Light and shadow.

I’m an artist at work.

When I’m done, I step back to admire my work. But it’s a large canvas, and I’d like to get a better view.

I go to the thick-limbed tree and grab the lowest branch. I try to swing my legs.

Umph . I land hard. I’m too big to climb, I suppose.

I try again anyway, and this time I pull myself onto the first limb, gasping for breath.

One more limb, two, and I can’t go any farther. Perched halfway up the tree, I see my troop, still dozing contentedly.

I take in the wall, splattered and splashed with mud. Not much color, but lots of movement. I like it. It feels dreamy and wild, like something Julia might have made.