Free Half Brother by Kenneth Oppel Page B

signed, jabbing his thumb urgently at his lips.
    He wouldn’t get his drink until he’d eaten some food. Mom was very firm about that; she worried he’d fill up on milk and ruin his appetite.
    Off to the side, the photographer was moving around, taking pictures.
Time
magazine was doing a feature story on Project Zan and they’d sent a reporter and photographer to spend the day with us. At first, Dad hadn’t been sure hewanted them to come. He didn’t think we were far enough along. He wanted to wait. But the university was keen, and I think they’d pressed Dad into it. It was an international magazine, and it would get the university a lot of attention.
    And us too, Mom had said. She’d spent all of yesterday frantically cleaning the house and Zan’s suite, and worrying about what we’d all wear. She had me in cords and a vest, and had slicked my curly hair down with this cold, slimy stuff that was actually called Slik. I hated it, but I could tell everyone was stressed out about
Time,
so I just did what she wanted.
    Today was like Zan’s first public performance, and we didn’t really know how he’d react to having strangers in the house, watching him all day. I kept thinking about that Bugs Bunny cartoon where the guy discovers this frog that can dance and sing. But whenever he tries to show other people, the frog just sits there stupidly and goes
ribbit.
    We all wanted Zan to be our dancing frog today and show everyone how smart he was. In the six months we’d been teaching him, he could already make eight signs, and understand dozens more.
    I still had trouble believing it. A chimp learning human language? But every time he mastered a new sign it was like he was learning to name the world, bit by bit. No other chimp had ever done anything like this before. For the first time in human history we could talk, really talk, to another species. Sometimes it really did seem like something from a sci-fi movie.
    Dad had carefully planned out the whole day so Zan would be doing things that would encourage him to sign. I’d been alittle worried earlier, because when the reporter and photographer first arrived, Zan was pretty wild. He bounded around on all fours, he climbed furniture and bounced off walls. He was really interested in all of the photographer’s gear: the lighting stands and the shiny umbrella things and the camera itself. He wanted to shriek at everyone, and touch everything. Luckily Peter and I had managed to distract him with one of his dolls. After a few minutes, he seemed to lose interest in the strangers, and just wanted to get on with his regular Saturday.
    Now, in his high chair, he signed
drink
to me once more, a little half-heartedly, and when I signed
no
he just stared at me reproachfully for a few seconds.
    Out,
he signed, gripping his long brown fingers in one hand, then pulling them free.
    I couldn’t help smiling. If Zan liked his food, he’d stay and eat contentedly until it was gone. If he didn’t, he got restless within minutes. This particular cereal-and-vegetable blend wasn’t his favourite, but it was good for him, so we tried to get it down him.
    Eat,
I signed again.
    Zan looked down at his food miserably, then back at me.
Hug,
he signed.
    I laughed. He was hoping I’d take him out to hug him—another favourite ploy of his to end mealtime.
    “Incredible,” I heard the reporter murmur behind me. He’d been watching the whole thing, taking notes. Dad and Peter had been quietly translating the ASL signs for him.
    Hug,
I signed to Zan, and leaned closer so I could put my hands around his little shoulders and touch my face to his. Ifelt his long skinny arms around my neck, but when I tried to pull back, they tightened.
    “Zan,” I said aloud, “let go, please.”
    He didn’t let go. I heard the soft hooting sounds he made when he thought something was funny. I tried to pull back but his grip was surprisingly strong and I couldn’t help giggling. And the more I giggled, the