almost as picky. He thought most of the students were flakes he wouldn’t trust to fill up the car. Luckily there didn’t seem to be any shortage of people wanting to work with Zan. Dad said the entire university was buzzing about the experiment, and lots of students were eager to play with a baby chimp, and earn some extra money and course credit.
But as September crept closer, they’d hired only six people.
Peter McIvor arrived for his interview on a Tuesday afternoon, fifteen minutes late. I was the one who opened the door. He had long brown hair in a ponytail and a beard, and his clothes were very hippyish. He actually wore a Peace button. He looked rumpled, and smelled musty.
“Hey!” he said with a smile so big and friendly I smiled back right away.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m Peter McIvor. Sorry I’m late. I sort of … got lost. Had to ask for directions.”
He looked back vaguely at his car, like he was amazed he’d made it here. I was amazed too. His car was the most beat-up thing I’d ever seen. I felt kind of sorry for him. I knew Dad wouldn’t like him.
“Listen,” I whispered, and he leaned in closer. “When he asks you why you want to work for the project, tell him you think Chomsky is dead wrong. Chimps do have the cognitive ability to acquire language. Tell him you want to be part of the world’s first study to communicate with another species.”
I’d eavesdropped on enough of these interviews to know the questions Dad asked, and the kinds of answers he liked. “Uh-huh,” said Peter. “Cool.”
“Come on in,” I said, and showed him into the living room, where Dad was waiting with all these notebooks around him, looking terrifying and stern. I headed upstairs. But just at the top, I stopped and waited so I could hear what happened.
At first, Dad did the talking: his usual spiel about the project and its aims. I heard some papers rustling, and knew he was reading through Peter’s resumé and transcripts.
“So,” said Dad, “you’re going into your third year … majoring in psychology. You’ve got some linguistics courses under your belt, that’s good.” There was a pause. “Your second-year marks are a bit sloppy.”
It was the same kind of thing Dad said to me about my report cards.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “I didn’t have a great year last year, but I’m much more organized this year, more focused, you know?” “Do you know any ASL?” Dad asked. “What’s ASL?”
I winced. This was not going so well. “American Sign Language. That’s what we’ll be using to teach Zan.”
“No, but I’m good with languages. I grew up in Montreal and my French is still pretty good. I could pick ALS up like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“ASL,” corrected my father. “And you’d have to pick it up fast. So why do you want to work with Zan?”
I smiled in relief. I’d given Peter the perfect answer for this one.
“Well, okay, I’m going to be honest about this,” Peter said. “I really liked
Planet of the Apes,
not the movie, but the book, you know, the original French novel? I mean, I didn’t
read
it in French—but it was written in French, originally. The movie was all right—did you see the movie?”
“I didn’t, no,” I heard Dad say tersely.
My mouth was hanging open. I couldn’t believe it. What was Peter doing?
“Anyway,” he went on, “I just … it was really thought-provoking, and it made me think about ape intelligence and human intelligence and, yeah, I’m curious about how smart they are. Because in the book they evolve way beyond us. We like to think we’re the smartest thing going, but maybe we aren’t, you know?”
“Well, in this world we are,” said Dad.
“And I love animals,” Peter hurried on. “I had tons of pets growing up.”
“This isn’t about pets,” said Dad. “This is about finding out how language begins, and whether humans are the only creatures capable of it.”
“Oh,” said Peter. “But you’d
But as September crept closer, they’d hired only six people.
Peter McIvor arrived for his interview on a Tuesday afternoon, fifteen minutes late. I was the one who opened the door. He had long brown hair in a ponytail and a beard, and his clothes were very hippyish. He actually wore a Peace button. He looked rumpled, and smelled musty.
“Hey!” he said with a smile so big and friendly I smiled back right away.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m Peter McIvor. Sorry I’m late. I sort of … got lost. Had to ask for directions.”
He looked back vaguely at his car, like he was amazed he’d made it here. I was amazed too. His car was the most beat-up thing I’d ever seen. I felt kind of sorry for him. I knew Dad wouldn’t like him.
“Listen,” I whispered, and he leaned in closer. “When he asks you why you want to work for the project, tell him you think Chomsky is dead wrong. Chimps do have the cognitive ability to acquire language. Tell him you want to be part of the world’s first study to communicate with another species.”
I’d eavesdropped on enough of these interviews to know the questions Dad asked, and the kinds of answers he liked. “Uh-huh,” said Peter. “Cool.”
“Come on in,” I said, and showed him into the living room, where Dad was waiting with all these notebooks around him, looking terrifying and stern. I headed upstairs. But just at the top, I stopped and waited so I could hear what happened.
At first, Dad did the talking: his usual spiel about the project and its aims. I heard some papers rustling, and knew he was reading through Peter’s resumé and transcripts.
“So,” said Dad, “you’re going into your third year … majoring in psychology. You’ve got some linguistics courses under your belt, that’s good.” There was a pause. “Your second-year marks are a bit sloppy.”
It was the same kind of thing Dad said to me about my report cards.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “I didn’t have a great year last year, but I’m much more organized this year, more focused, you know?” “Do you know any ASL?” Dad asked. “What’s ASL?”
I winced. This was not going so well. “American Sign Language. That’s what we’ll be using to teach Zan.”
“No, but I’m good with languages. I grew up in Montreal and my French is still pretty good. I could pick ALS up like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“ASL,” corrected my father. “And you’d have to pick it up fast. So why do you want to work with Zan?”
I smiled in relief. I’d given Peter the perfect answer for this one.
“Well, okay, I’m going to be honest about this,” Peter said. “I really liked
Planet of the Apes,
not the movie, but the book, you know, the original French novel? I mean, I didn’t
read
it in French—but it was written in French, originally. The movie was all right—did you see the movie?”
“I didn’t, no,” I heard Dad say tersely.
My mouth was hanging open. I couldn’t believe it. What was Peter doing?
“Anyway,” he went on, “I just … it was really thought-provoking, and it made me think about ape intelligence and human intelligence and, yeah, I’m curious about how smart they are. Because in the book they evolve way beyond us. We like to think we’re the smartest thing going, but maybe we aren’t, you know?”
“Well, in this world we are,” said Dad.
“And I love animals,” Peter hurried on. “I had tons of pets growing up.”
“This isn’t about pets,” said Dad. “This is about finding out how language begins, and whether humans are the only creatures capable of it.”
“Oh,” said Peter. “But you’d
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