Excerpt of The Elephant Of Surprise by Brent Hartinger

CHAPTER ONE

I was deep in the thick of the jungle, wild animals glaring at me from all around. I stood frozen, certain that if I made even the slightest move, these vicious beasts would lunge for me, biting with glistening fangs and rending my flesh with razor claws.

No, really, I was!

I know, I know. You're thinking: "He always does this. He starts the story pretending he's in the middle of some exciting event—a war, a fire, a zombie apocalypse—but then it just turns out to be something metaphorical. I'm not falling for it this time."

But this time, I really was in the middle of a jungle. I really was surrounded by vicious, wild animals.

Okay, so it was just the "African safari" section of the zoo. The "jungle" was the bamboo and banana plants growing along the concrete pathways, and the "wild animals" were in the enclosures all around me—the "immersion" kind, designed to recreate the animals' natural habitat, but with cleverly disguised moats and hidden wire fences keeping the lions and hyenas and wildebeests away from all the helpless people.

But hey, at least it's not a metaphor for anything!

My name is Russel Middlebrook, I'm seventeen years old and a junior in high school, and I'd come to the zoo on a Saturday afternoon with my two best friends, Min and Gunnar—although Gunnar had wandered off somewhere else at that exact moment.

"Did you know that lions are the only species of cat where the males and females look different?" Min said, staring out at the animals.

I hadn't known that. There was a lot I didn't know, something I was reminded of whenever I spent any time around Min, a self–described "Chow Mein brain." This is my polite way of saying that—at least in a certain light and from a certain angle—Min can be something of a know–it–all.

"They act differently too," she said. "The females don't just raise the young, they also do most of the hunting. The males look and act all regal, and they're big on fighting each other, but they're mostly sort of worthless." At this, she sort of eyed me pointedly.

"Wait," I said. "What was that look for?"

"What look?"

"You just sort of eyed me, as though the way male lions act is somehow a reflection on me, on males in general."

"I did not."

"You totally did! That's totally sexist. You of all people. I can't believe how sexist that is!" For the record, Min is an outspoken feminist (I am too).

She ignored me, just turned for the wildebeests. (Or wildebeest? Does anyone know the plural of "wildebeest"?) Out in their immersion pen, five of the animals stood listlessly in the dirt—their hooves had long since worn the grass down to almost nothing. So much for recreating their natural habitat.

"As for the wildebeest"—naturally, Min knew the plural of wildebeest—"people talk about herd animals like they're mindless, that the 'herd mentality' is just everyone blindly following everyone else. But herds can actually be intelligent. Scientists now refer to it as something called 'swarm intelligence.'"

Min was being even more know–it–all–y than usual today. This had the effect of making me feel even more insecure.

"What's the only marsupial where both sexes have a pouch?" I said.

She looked at me. "What?"

"Marsupials. You know: animals with pouches—like kangaroos and koala bears."

"I know what a marsupial is," Min said.

"The water opossum. That's the only one where both the males and females have pouches. Well, I guess male Tasmanian tigers also had pouches, but they're supposed to be extinct."

She kept staring at me. "What exactly does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, you were just talking about how male and female lions were different. And about how wildebeests—I mean wildebeest—use swarm intelligence."

"Yes, but that's because we were looking at lions and wildebeest. We're not looking at water opossums. I mean, this is the African savannah. Aren't water opossums from Mexico?"

Were they? I didn't know. I'd only known that bit about male water opossums having pouches from a special on TV a few nights before, but I didn't remember the narrator saying where they lived. So not only did Min know more than I did about every other animal, she even knew more than I did about the one animal that I'd thought I'd known something about.

She smirked. "Feeling a little insecure today, are we?"

I've already admitted that if Min could be something of a know–it–all, I could be a little insecure—at least in a certain light and from a certain angle.

"What about you?" I said.

"What about me?" she said.

"Something's up. What's going on?" I couldn't come right out and accuse Min of being more know–it–all–y than usual, but it was kind of implied.

She turned and headed into this fake cave–tunnel that led to the next cluster of animal displays. I followed. Inside the cavern, there was this stretch of glass panels that showed African termites in their nest, sort of like a giant ant farm. I think the idea was that we were supposed to be walking through one of those giant termite mounds you see on the African savannah. It wasn't bad, actually.

Min lingered at the termite display. Behind the glass, termites plodded. They're slower than ants: they don't scurry.

"It's Leah," she said.

Min is bisexual, and Leah was her girlfriend who went to a different school. It was February, and the two of them had been going out forever, at least since November.

"What about her?" I said, concerned.

"She's hiding something from me. Keeping secrets."

This bears some explanation. Back in November, when Min and Leah had first started going out, they'd had this big conflict because Leah didn't want to come out as a lesbian, at least not in high school. Leah knew she was a lesbian—she wasn't conflicted or "questioning"—but she also wanted a "normal" high school experience. She just didn't want to have to stand up for herself or be the center of attention. For a time, this had been a real sore point for Min because (a) she's definitely a stand–up–for–yourself kind of person, and (b) she'd gone through this disastrous relationship earlier last year with this girl who refused to come out, and Min had vowed never to do anything like that again. But eventually Min had come around to the idea that different people, even people who like each other, can sometimes come to different conclusions about things.

"How do you know?" I said to Min, about the secrets Leah was supposedly keeping.

"Little things. Like she's weird about letting me borrow her phone. And she changes the subject whenever I talk about the future."

"You could be imagining things," I said.

"I know. It's mostly just a feeling."

I spotted something on the floor of the fake cave: a dead termite. Was it possible one of them had escaped from the colony? And if one of them had escaped, did that mean one of the lions or hyenas or tigers could get out of their cages too? Hey, maybe I really was in danger of being torn apart by a wild animal.

"How's the relationship itself?" I asked.

"That's just it. I thought we were doing great. But suddenly it feels like she's withdrawn. I mean, she's not here today, is she?"

"But maybe she's just reacting to your being suspicious."

"I know." She sighed. "Do you think she could be cheating? Like, with a boyfriend or something? I mean, isn't that part of the 'normal' high school experience?"

I thought about this. I was tempted to say, "No way! Never!" But I'd had an experience of my own back in November when I'd learned something about my ex, a guy named Kevin Land, that had totally shocked me. Now I knew you couldn't ever assume anything about anyone.

So finally, I just said, "I don't know. I don't think so, but I'm not sure I know anything anymore."

Min gave me a long look, like she wanted to say something, but didn't quite know what. Finally, she turned and walked the rest of the way through the termite mound out into the daylight of the next cluster of displays: zebras, elephants, and monkeys. You expect monkeys to be swinging around and whooping it up, don't you? These weren't. Maybe it was too cold that time of year. What were they doing putting animals from the African savannah outside in February anyway? Besides, those monkeys were in cages. How excited could they ever be?

"How are things with Otto?" Min said as we stopped to watch the monkeys.

Otto was my boyfriend—a really great guy. We'd been going out even longer than forever, since summer the year before when we'd met at camp. Unfortunately, he lived eight hundred miles away.

But how were things with him? I had to think about that. It was right then I noticed the air smelled like three different kinds of animal shit.

"Things are good, I guess," I said. "Wait, no, they're great. No, hold on, maybe they're just good."

The last time I'd seen Otto, back in November, Min had been trying to figure out if she and Leah could be together, and I'd been trying to figure out if Otto and I could make a long–distance relationship work. In the end, we'd decided we could. And we had. That wasn't what was wrong. But something was. Did my feelings toward Otto have something to do with the fact that I'd been feeling especially insecure that day?

Min and I sighed at exactly the same time.

We looked at each other and laughed. It was one of those unexpected moments where you feel totally connected to the person next to you—sharing the exact same feeling in the exact same moment in time. Better still, you know it.

"Can I be totally honest?" I said.

"No," Min said. "Whatever gave you the idea you could be totally honest with me?"

I smiled. "I think I just feel like I'm in a bit of a rut. You know? I mean, I go to school and stare at screens and blackboards. I go home and stare at televisions and computer screens."

"And right now, Otto is nothing but a blip on one of those computer screens."

"Yes. No. Maybe. It's more than that. But yeah, with our relationship being an online one, I guess everything does seem a little predictable. There's no excitement. No adventure. How could there be? We're in completely different states!"

Now we'd finally gotten to the bottom of it: Min and I, the know–it–all and the insecure neurotic, were both feeling weirdness about our partners.

Over in one of the enclosures, a zebra shuffled its feet.

Relationships are tough, I thought. Who'd have thought that after all that drama with my ex, I'd miss it with Otto on any level? I guess it just goes to show that when it comes to relationships, you can never predict what's waiting for you up ahead. There are always dangers lurking, just out of sight. The whole experience was like being lost in a...

Oh, damn. I guess that whole jungle/wild animal thing is turning out to be a pretty good metaphor after all. Sorry about that! (Which isn't to say the "wild" animals were playing their parts. Would it have killed them to be a little less listless? For one of the lions to let out a terrifying roar behind us?)

At least I wasn't lost in the metaphorical jungle alone. I had Min, and she had me, and together we had our other best friend Gunnar. We'd forge our way through the metaphorical termite mounds together.

It was at that exact moment that Gunnar, in fact, finally reappeared. Hippopotamus ears sprouted from his tousled head—a headband of some sort, probably from the gift shop—but he had his face in his phone.

"Gunnar!" I said. I was always happy to see him—even after all these years as best friends, even after only being separated for fifteen minutes.

He looked up. "What's gnu?" he said.

"What?" I said.

"Gnu is another name for wildebeest," Min said.

I should explain (Gunnar always takes a little explaining). If Min is a know–it–all and I'm insecure, Gunnar is...different. Quirky. Take the hippopotamus ears. Was he being hipster–ironic? Geek–chic? Or just kind of clueless?

That's the thing with Gunnar: you never really know. That's also what's so great about him. It's not that he doesn't care what other people think of him—sometimes he does care, desperately. He just can't ever do anything about it. He is too different to even realize how different he is, if that makes any sense. It's something of a curse, but it's a good curse: it makes him one of the most interesting people I've ever met, and probably one of the most interesting people I ever will meet.

"Oh!" he said suddenly. "A pissing zebra!" With his phone, he immediately took a photo of the zebra and posted it to his online profile.

Okay, once again, I need to explain something Gunnar–related: a couple of weeks earlier, he had announced to both Min and me one day at lunch: "I've decided to chronicle my entire life, every waking second of every day, online for the whole world to see."

"How is that different from any other teenager?" Min had said.

"Mostly, it's a question of degree," Gunnar had said. "Plus, I'm doing the whole thing ironically." He'd been typing into his phone even as we'd talked.

"You just recorded that conversation of you telling us what you're doing, and you're now posting it online, aren't you?" I'd said.

"Yup," Gunnar had said. And I'd known right then that, as much as I like Gunnar and am always happy to see him, this was going to be his most annoying obsession yet.

Back at the zoo, I didn't bother filling Gunnar in on the conversation Min and I had just had. He wasn't really the kind of guy you had conversations about your love life with (although sometimes he surprised me with how much he picked up on the things going on around him).

"Where to now?" I said.

Min and I looked around the zoo. Gunnar, meanwhile, took a picture of an ant trying to lift a huge piece of a cinnamon churro.

"I think I'm ready to go," Min said.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm just not feeling the zoo either."

"I don't think I like zoos in general," Min said. "It seems cruel to put wild animals in cages, then use them for our entertainment. But even as entertainment, they're just not that interesting. They're boring. There's no element of surprise."

Gunnar looked up. "Elephant of Surprise?"

"Element of surprise," Min said.

I laughed, and Gunnar did too. Okay, so he didn't always surprise me with how much he picked up on the things going on around him.

"What?" Min said.

"I really thought that's what you said!" Gunnar said happily, even as he was posting something about it online. "The Elephant of Surprise! I mean, this is a zoo, right? We're standing next to the elephants."

Min smiled at last. "The Elephant of Surprise. Can you imagine if it really existed? No, I definitely think we can do without him—or her."

"Yeah," Gunnar said. "Imagine if he stepped on you. Ouch!"

Looking back now, I can see we were all wrong about that elephant not existing. There definitely is such a creature, and it was definitely on the move in all three of our lives.

Oh, and Gunnar was right: when the Elephant of Surprise stepped on you, it really, really hurt.