Micha Rand
Santa Monica, CA
2022, Senior, Creative Writing

Mr. Baker was not the sort of plankton who enjoyed parties. Oh, no, he wanted nothing to do with them. But, at the same time, he had endless adoration for his son, Harold. And so, on this special occasion, Mr. Baker set his preferences aside.

Family after family swam through the Bakers’ front door. The Bakers were not especially wealthy, hence their home being somewhat below the ocean surface, but they were well-off enough to host this gathering. The Thompsons, MacArthurs, and Wellingtons all swam through and into the backyard, where Harold was delighted to be the center of attention. “Happy Shell Day!” each guest wished him. His aunts and uncles added, “Your Shell Day already? My, how time has swum!”

Mr. Baker checked his watch. On the one hand, he hoped the Kingsleys would not show up at all; on the other, he knew how Harold enjoyed April Kingsley’s company. He held his breath until his watch struck noon, and then, not seeing the Kingsleys anywhere, sighed and shut the door. “I’m doing this for Harold,” he reminded himself.

In the backyard, Harold was practically glowing. Mrs. Baker was making conversation with the Wellingtons while the children ran around giggling and jumping. Mr. Baker swallowed his nerves, thought of his son, and announced, “Greetings, everybody! Settle down now, settle down. As you are all aware, today is a very special day. I share the same shock that all of you feel at how quickly our younglings have grown up. I can hardly believe that I am here, welcoming all you dear friends to celebrate my son Harold’s first Shell Day!”

Everyone whipped their tails through the water in jubilant celebration. As Mr. Baker continued, Harold’s excitement gave way to nerves. He had spent hours practicing shell construction, reading manuals, and examining pictures of some of the most famous shells. He didn’t expect to be perfect on his first shell, but hoped he could get through the process without halting, and end up with a complete and fitting shell.

“And now, whenever you are ready, Harold!” said Mr. Baker.

Harold waited while the applause died down. “At least the Kingsleys aren’t here to see me fail!” he thought. He took a deep breath, got his tail into position, and—

Knock knock! Someone at the door?

Mr. Baker swam over. “Who is it?” he called. He already knew, though. He smelled the overpriced shells, beautifully crafted ones that they had imported from the Arctic. Still, he hoped.

“It’s the Kingsleys!” Oh dear.

Mr. Baker opened the door and was blinded by the sheer amount of wealth the Kingsleys flaunted.

“How nice of you to—”

“Awfully dark down here, Mr. Baker,” said Mr. Kingsley. “Where do you get your light?” The Kingsleys swam through the doorway. “Where is Harold?”

“He’s, uh, in the backyard,” said Mr. Baker.

“Thither shall we swim!” exclaimed Mr. Kingsley, and led his family into the yard. The Kingsleys received a warm welcome from the other families.

“April! You came!” said Harold.

“Of course, I came!” April swam over to Harold and hugged him.

“I don’t think my shell is going to be anywhere near as nice as yours,” said Harold.

“It’s your first one! Just make any shell you can. I’m sure it will be great!”

Mr. Kingsley swam up to Harold. “You’re a young man now, aren’t you. I’d like you to have this,” he said, and pushed a little package over to Harold with his tail. “Something to decorate your shell with.”

Harold opened the package. Inside, packed neatly with soft sand and kelp, was a beautiful golden shell ornament. And next to it was a beautiful business card with the name and contact information of Hans Mueller, the most famous Arctic crafts-plankton to ever live. The business card alone was some of the finest designs Harold had ever seen—it even had a watermark! He could barely put words to express his gratitude as Mr. Kingsley swam back into the crowd.

“Well then,” said Mr. Kingsley. The crowd quieted back down. “On with the show!”

Once again, Harold drew a deep breath, shakier this time. He got his tail into position, closed his eyes, and began.

He whipped his tail left and right and to and fro, muttering to himself throughout the entire process. Mr. Kingsley watched very closely, nodding his head subtly. Mr. Baker looked over at Mr. Kingsley’s squinting eyes and wondered if he was impressed by Harold’s performance.

“Come on, Harold!” whispered Mr. Baker. “You can do this!”

“Yes, Harold!” shouted April. “That’s the best form I’ve ever seen! Keep going!”

All the phytoplankton watched closely as a shell began to form on Harold’s back, with fine swirls and spirals placed neatly all over it—they were, in a word, shell-shocked.

Harold came to a stop. He was done. He felt the new heft of his back, felt like a grown-up, finally. He looked out at the audience, proud and smiling, but none of them smiled back. Mr. Baker had his tail over his mouth; Mr. Kingsley’s monocle popped off his eye. April had the same expression on her face as when she saw a poor baby diatom curled up in an alleyway during the storm last week.

“Harold, there’s a big—” April was interrupted by a loud crack! Harold felt light again. Mr. Baker was almost in tears. April shook her head. Falling slowly to the ground were several pieces of a shell—Harold’s shell. By the time Harold looked down, the pieces were dissolving, the designs were fading.

“Dad, what did I do wrong?” asked Harold.

Mr. Baker shook his head. “I… I don’t know, son—”

“Harold, that was the finest performance I ever did see,” said Mr. Kingsley, “on par with April’s performance last summer, certainly.” He patted Harold on the back.

“Why did it fall off, then?” asked Harold. “Why did it crumble if I did everything right?”

“You are not the first. My nephew’s shell cracked just last week, and so did some of April’s friends. The sea is changing.”

Mr. Kingsley turned to face everyone else. “Our home is changing. It’s becoming less accommodating to our lives. It is getting in our way, and it is breaking our children’s shells. I was hoping to announce this next week to a larger audience, but I feel now is an appropriate time: my scientists, in the Kingsley Research Labs, established just last week a pattern that they believe has been consistent over the past three years: the sea is becoming increasingly acidic, and it will begin dissolving all our shells if it continues in this way.” All the plankton families felt chills run through their flagella.

“What should we do?” asked Mr. Baker. “Our children need shells!”

“Only the humans can help us. But it is our job to call them! I say we strike!” Mr. Kingsley pumped his tail into the air and received the greatest round of applause he had ever known.

* * *

Over the next few days, the plankton banded together. News of the strike spread through the sea until all were making a concerted effort to halt their oxygen production. Several helicopters caught images of plankton formations that appeared to spell out, “NOT MY ACID TRIP.” With half of the world’s oxygen gone, the humans were quickly compelled to figure out what was going on. Humans tried desperately to bring down their carbon production to comply with the phytoplankton’s demands.

Were they successful? We’ll see.

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The Day the Phytoplankton Quit