Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“That’s a terrific idea,” Dad tells me. “The girls would love that. And if the final product turns out well, you should try to sell it.”
“What do you mean? Like, self-publish a children’s book?”
“Or submit it to a publishing house.”
My brow furrows. “Really?”
“Sure. Why not? Aren’t you majoring in literature?” he teases.
“Yes, but … I mean, I never really thought about going into a creative field. I only picked English Lit because I couldn’t think of anything better to major in.”
Truth be told, I have no clue what career path to take after graduation. So many people just know. They have that one skill, that one field they’ve always been passionate about. I’m not one of those people. I was hoping by the time graduation rolled around, I’d have landed on something, anything, but I’m going into my senior year and remain completely stumped as to what job I’ll end up in.
“Could I even make a career out of that?” I ask, chewing on my lip. “It’s just a bunch of silly bedtime stories for my sisters. It’s not like I’ve been writing forever.”
“Do you need to have been writing forever to start doing it now?”
“I guess not.” I glare at him. “Ugh. You’ve given me a bunch of stuff to think about now.”
“God forbid my daughter thinks!” Snorting, he reaches for the door handle. “Ready to turtle down?”
“Please don’t ever say that.”
When we enter the store, Dad pushes the pink hat off his head so it’s dangling at his back by its purple string. He looks like a lost adventurer who stopped to ask for directions. We find ourselves surrounded by rows and rows of tanks, each housing various aquatic creatures.
I approach a fish tank full of fat orange goldfish and raise a brow. “I had no idea goldfish could get this big. If you tried to flush one of these guys, you’d clog the toilet.”
“Welcome to AquaPets,” a bored voice says from behind us. “Can I help you find something? You looking for a goldfish?”
A teenager in a store uniform sidles up to us. His name tag reads JOEL, and he’s got shoulder-length black hair, acne-riddled skin, and he reeks of pot. The skunky odor practically radiates from his pores.
“We’re considering buying a turtle for my six-year-old daughters,” Dad explains. “But we’re hoping for some more information before we commit.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s cool,” Joel says. The kid is clearly stoned. “I can help you with that. I’ve got three loggerheads at home. Those little dudes are rad.”
“Loggerheads?” I echo.
“Loggerhead musk turtle,” he says briskly, and, stoned or not, we discover the kid knows his stuff. For the next twenty minutes, he dumps an obscene amount of information on us, ushering us from tank to tank while spitting out reptilian facts.
“These guys? Smallest species of turtle you’re allowed to keep in captivity. So if you got limited space, this is your dude. And they’re so cute, man. Like, look.” Leaning closer to the glass, he proceeds to make cooing noises at the spotted turtle. “You doing okay in there, Marshall? I named him Marshall. After Eminem.”
I press my lips together. “Cool.”
“The problem is, Marshall can’t swim too good. See? That’s why his water isn’t very deep. And let’s be honest—he’s kind of a dick. The spotted ones get cranky sometimes. You want a social one, I’ll show you my man Jay-Z. He’s what we call a Reeve’s turtle. Come. You’ll love him.”
Dad and I exchange a look that loosely translates to why is this happening to us?
But we’re committed now, so we follow Joel the Turtle Whisperer to see his man Jay-Z.
“Best thing about this breed is they like being stroked,” he tells us, so animated I’m having a hard time reconciling him with the pothead who greeted us at the door. “Most turtles don’t enjoy being handled. It’s stressful for them, you know? But if you’re patient with him, Jay-Z might let you hold him sometimes.”
He stares longingly at the tank. “The downside is,” he says, and his expression collapses, “they’ve got a shorter life expectancy. Fifteen years, maybe twenty? If you’re looking for a little dude who’ll live longer, I’d go with the common musk. We’re talking a ripe old age of fifty years. Just don’t handle them roughly. They’re feisty, man. If they feel threatened, they skunk you out.”
“Skunk you out?” Dad echoes blankly. He looks as overwhelmed as I feel. Who knew turtle ownership was so intensive?
“Yeah, like, they release a foul odor. It stinks.” Joel guffaws. “We call ’em stinkpots.”
I don’t ask who we is, but I’m definitely curious.
“They’re not strong swimmers either,” he adds. “But they’ve got pretty basic care requirements compared to other breeds.”
“Wow,” I say. “This is a lot of information.”
So much, in fact, that eventually Dad and I beg off and tell Joel we need to think about it. Then we make our escape and step outside, breathing in the non-marijuana-infused air.