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PROLOGUE
Nina’s Untrained Ear
“Octopus,” said Angeline Persopolis.
She was only a baby. It was the first word she ever said, which was why it was preposterous.
Nina, Angeline’s mother, was the one who had heard it. Her big eyes opened even wider. “Abel!” she screamed with delight. “Abel! Angeline said something. She said her first word! Abel!”
“Wha’d she say?” asked Angeline’s father as he rushed into the living room, where Angeline lay in her crib.
Nina suddenly looked very confused.
“Come on, Nina,” urged Abel, “what did she say?”
Nina looked oddly at her husband. “She said…octopus?”
“Octopus?” questioned Abel.
They turned and looked at Angeline, who lay peacefully sucking her thumb.
Abel called the doctor because, well, he didn’t know what else to do. It was she, the doctor, who said it was “preposterous.” She told them that they had absolutely nothing to worry about. She said that Angeline was only making simple baby noises—“ock” and “tuh” and “puss”—and that it was just a coincidence that it had happened to sound like “octopus” to Nina’s untrained ear.
Angeline’s parents were satisfied. They realized it had to be a coincidence because, after all, Angeline had never seen an octopus, and they couldn’t remember ever saying “octopus” in front of her. In fact, they couldn’t remember ever saying “octopus” at all.
Okay, fine. However, to this day Angeline remembers saying “octopus.” She is eight years old now. She has big green eyes like her mother’s and jet black hair like her father’s. And she remembers lying in her crib, in her soft pink blankets, peacefully thinking about the ocean, and the fishes, and especially about the funny-looking creature with eight legs.
There are some things you know before you are born. As Angeline grew up she seemed to know a lot of things that couldn’t be explained any other way.
When she was three, her mother, Nina Sandford Persopolis, died.
And then again, there are some things you never know.
One
How Abel Smells
Angeline lay on the floor of the living room with her feet up on the sofa, reading a book. The living room was also her bedroom. The sofa folded out into a bed.
It was a book about a sailor who was in love with a beautiful lady who didn’t love him back, which was why he became a sailor—to forget her. Only he couldn’t forget her, but he was an excellent sailor and he fought a pirate with one eye.
Nobody tried to figure out anymore how Angeline knew all the stuff she knew, the stuff she knew before she was born. Instead, they called her a name. They called her “a genius.” And even though it really didn’t explain anything, everybody considered it a satisfactory explanation. Like the way she always knew what tomorrow’s weather would be. “How does she do it?” someone might ask. “She’s a genius” they’d be told, and somehow that would explain it. And that way, nobody ever had to really try to understand.
She heard her father outside the apartment door. She bent the page in her book to mark her place and jumped up to greet him as he opened it.
“Don’t hug me until I take a shower,” he said, pushing her away. “I smell like garbage.”
“I like the way you smell,” said Angeline.
