Dolphin Girl

by Shel Delisle

  But the fireworks I expected never materialized. At least not in front of me.

  It stayed quiet until August, when John announced he’d decided not to go to UF, but rather FAU — which was only about twenty minutes from home. Because the dorms were all full, he put his name on a waiting list, scheduled his classes and kept his job at the Organic Cornucopia.

  I’m pretty sure there are nights he doesn’t come home. Last week, I wandered into his room a couple of days in a row, sort of wishfully thinking he’d be there or just wanting to be reminded of him. His bed was made but there was a huge bump near the middle where the sheets and blanket were bunched up. The next day, same bump, same place.

  As I stood there, Mom walked in, threw back the comforter and pulled the sheets and blanket taut. “I guess he left already,” she said as she smoothed the comforter into place. It made me wonder if she hadn’t noticed or if she was just pretending.

  ~~~

  The anhinga’s wings finally dry and he takes flight, swirling overhead before settling onto a branch that bends and dips under his weight. The nearly completed sketch is good — tight lines but not too cramped, the way a nature sketch should be.

  I glance at my watch. Only twenty minutes have elapsed. That’s another amazing thing about the preserve. Time almost comes to a standstill here. I get up and stretch, arms and heart wide open like I can embrace the landscape.

  When I look out over the water, I wish, as always, that a dolphin would swim up to the end of this dock. It couldn’t happen, though. This spot is too far inland and not connected to the ocean. But it feels so magical here that I can’t stop myself from wishing. And if it ever did, there’s a part of me that wouldn’t be surprised at all.

  ~~~

  Somehow, even though I stayed after school to work on the murals and then stopped at the preserve, I still manage to finish every item on Mom’s list. It’s a miracle.

  She walks from room to room, smiling and nodding. Finally she says, “The house looks beautiful. Thank you.”

  I follow her to the kitchen, where she peeks into the oven to check on the casserole. Shifting from foot to foot, I say, “I got it in on time today.”

  “Fantastic!” She removes the mitten potholder and places it on the counter.

  “I was wondering—” I stop when Mom eyes me. “This girl in school asked if I could be a photographer for the yearbook. They only have one, and she said they need another and thought I might be good at it.”

  Mom rests her right elbow in her left hand, rubbing her chin.

  “The thing is — I think they need a person before my grounding is over.”

  “Hmm. Would you be hanging out with that group of kids?”

  That Group—my pod.

  Mom was never a huge fan of Lexie, even when we were little kids. There was a time in third or fourth grade when she came over to play. We raced around the backyard, giggling and chasing John. Then we tromped, all sweaty, into the kitchen, and Lexie asked Mom for something to drink. Later on, after she’d gone home, Mom said, “That child never says ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’”

  Mom hadn’t seen the look of gratitude on Lexie’s face when she handed her a big glass of Gatorade, because for her it’s more about what’s said, but for me it’s more about what’s done. I can tell by looking into people’s eyes if they’re sad or angry. Or their smile shows if they’re being sarcastic or sincere. Sometimes people say thank you, but their face is saying screw you. So, I think Mom’s missing out on a huge part of communication.

  Then, last April, my best friend did something Mom’s never gotten over. Lexie always had this thick sheet of pale blond hair that hung to her waist, the kind everyone envies. Truly. She chopped it off into an ultra-short, spiked ’do and pierced her upper lip at the same time with a thin gold ring.

  Mom freaked. At dinner, after she’d seen Lexie’s new look, she ranted. “What was she thinking? It’s horrible. Horrible.”

  “It’s not a big deal, Mom.”

  “What is she going to do when she has to go to work? Nobody’s going to hire her with that—” she twirled her finger around the edge of her lip.

  I said, “When she takes it out, you can’t really tell.”

  That’s when Mom’s voice took on an I’m-about-to-go-over-the edge tone. “Don’t you ever think about doing that.” She pointed at me and then drummed her finger on the table. “Or you, either.” She stared at John.

  John and I eyed each other while Mom forked up some tetrazzini. Right before she put it in her mouth, she said, “Thank God she didn’t get a tattoo.”

  Honestly, I don’t know what came over me when I smirked and said, “At least not where we can see it.”

  John had just taken a bite of his casserole and he barked a laugh.

  “That’s not funny,” Mom said.

  John covered his mouth trying to stifle the laugh, and the casserole went down the wrong way. He coughed and made these harump sounds. I got up, whacked him on the back, and he looked up at me with glee in his eyes.

  That’s when I started laughing and couldn’t stop. It was this hahahahahiccuphahhahahiccup thing. It came from somewhere deep inside and I don’t even know what struck me as funny. I kept trying to stop. I’d calm down and then it would burst out of me again.

  “Stop that, Jane. What’s wrong with you?” Mom tapped her finger on the table.

  But I was hysterical. Really. And when I think about it now, I wonder if it was temporary insanity.

  Dad, who had been silent during this whole exchange, said, “The tetrazzini came out good tonight, hon. Can I get seconds?”

  At that, John cracked up too. I laughed until tears leaked from my eyes. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and kept laughing, my head resting on his shoulder.

  Mom took Dad’s plate. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you two. I don’t know what’s wrong with this family.” She stormed to the kitchen.

  Pretty funny looking back when you consider that I’m now under house arrest for the exact thing I’d yanked her chain about. I kinda doubt she’ll bend her own rules and let me be a yearbook photographer.

  But she surprises me. “It sounds like a great opportunity. I’ve wanted you to do something during high school other than just sitting around the house. So, okay, yes.”

  “They might need me to take pictures at the dance,” I try.

  Mom eyes me with a sideways glance. “No dance. You’re grounded, in case you forgot.”

  Not on your life. So okay, I didn’t get everything I wanted, but getting part of it — for a change — is probably the biggest shocker in a day that’s been filled with the unexpected.

  Humans have always been fascinated by and drawn to dolphins. In fact, in ancient times killing a dolphin was as serious a crime as killing a man. Whether it’s their intelligence, their curious friendly faces or their playful demeanor that attracts us, one thing is certain. We have been linked to them in the past and will be linked to them in the future.

  (Excerpt: The Magic and Mystery of Dolphins)

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The irony of this situation is not lost on me. That song by The Pretenders about a chain gang floats through my open window for the fourth — no, fifth — time. While a song about prisoners is being played at The Monster Mash a mere three blocks from my house, I am a prisoner unable to attend. You can’t even script something like that.

  I’m about to close my window to block out the constant reminder of what I’m missing: the decorations, the dance. Sam. But right before it’s completely shut it, I notice my screen is a little loose. Mom’s been after Dad to fix it. He hasn’t, and of course that begs the question about why she cuts him a lot more slack than she’d ever cut me when it comes to her To-Do list.

  I wiggle the screen, and it pops off the track. My cage door is open. I could be at the school in under five minutes. Dolphin Girl hangs in my closet, but bringing her complicates escape. My stomach knots. What if I’m caught?

&nb
sp; It seems like an hour passes while I refuse to move. I’m holding my breath. Ridiculous. I could’ve already been at the school. Okay. Go. With that, I’m up on my desk and out the window before I can change my mind. During the silent jog to the school, all I can think about is Sam. Will he be surprised to see me? Was he just teasing when he asked me to dance? Which costume did he go with? Et cetera, et cetera. Obsess, obsess.

  When I reach the school cafeteria, two Bulletin-Boarders are stationed at a table outside the door. One is dressed up as Cleopatra. The other is a 60s go-go girl. Both a cash box and a spiral of red tickets sit on the table in front of them.

  “Crap. I forgot my money,” I say.

  “Yeah. Did you forget your costume too? What are you supposed to be?” asks Cleopatra.

  “I’m a teenager sneaking out of her house when she’s grounded,” I say in frustration, then soften my tone. “Look, can I just peek in there real quick? I’m looking for someone. I’ll only be a sec.”

  They shrug, which I take as a yes. So I prop open the metal doorway and hold it in place with my hip. Right away I spot Sam. Not only is he easy to pick out because of his height, but there he is linked up and shuffling around by the refreshments with all his trophy case buddies. A few people in the crowd start with a chant. I can’t make out what they’re saying at first and then I finally get it.

  “Chain. Gang. Chain. Gang.” The DJ cues up the song again. The Trophy-Casers lurch to the middle of the dance floor and Alana throws her arms around Sam.

  Why’d I have to see that? It kills me. How can prison be better than freedom? I let the door close gently. “Thanks,” I say to the Boarders.

  “Did you find who you were looking for?” Cleopatra asks.

  “Yeah.” Unfortunately. “Yeah, I did.”

  ~~~

  “You’re really a mess, you know?” This is the first thing Lexie says when she walks into my room. She moves a pile of clothes aside so she can sit on my bed.

  Last night I texted her after I got back from my jailbreak, and she was mad I didn’t call her when I was right outside the café. Then she called early this morning and wanted to stop by to commiserate. She said, “Just ask your Mom. Even those on death row get some kind of visitation.”

  I could hardly believe it when Mom said okay, but for no more than an hour. Amazing. She’s willing to cut me some slack. Or maybe she just feels guilty about making me miss the dance.

  “Wow, your closet looks great.” Lexie gets up and goes over to fix a few out-of-place pieces. “What’s this?” She takes Dolphin Girl out of the closet. Because she’s short, it drags on the floor. She looks it up and down. “Was this your costume? It is, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” I confess.

  “Why didn’t you ever show it to me? Were you unhappy about the way it turned out? Because, I mean, you shouldn’t be. It’s really good.”

  “It’s weird, dontcha think?”

  “It’s memorable, like you.” Lexie re-hangs the dolphin and hugs me. “It sucks the big one that you couldn’t go last night. It was fun, but I missed you. And someone else missed you too — guess who.” She bounces on my bed, pumped up by the scoop she’s got.

  “Who?”

  “Sam Rojas.”

  My heart skips a beat. “Really?”

  “Yeah. He asked me if you were going to be there, but I told him you were still on house arrest. I can’t believe you didn’t call me when you were right outside.”

  “I forgot my money.”

  “I would’ve paid your way!”

  “I didn’t have a costume.”

  Lexie rolls her eyes. “Speaking of costumes — you shoulda seen Sam’s. It was hysterical. He got together with five other guys and they went as a chain gang. And then, the DJ kept playing that old Pretenders’ song.” Her voice is static, like a radio station not quite tuned in. The glimpse of Sam with my ex-bestie still stings. “And Alana hooked up with Travis. It was so gross.”

  Whaaa—? Travis? “You’re kidding!” While this news shocks me, there’s also this huge sense of relief that Alana didn’t end up with Sam.

  She gets up and starts putting away my clean clothes. I know Mom’s never seen Lexie’s neat-freak side. If she had, she’d like her better. “No. I’m not kidding.” She lays a few tops in the drawer then twists her head over her shoulder. “Totally brisk tongue action with everyone watching.”

  “Ew. What got into her?” I ask.

  “Hopefully not Travis.” She smirks, and we both crack up.

  But she’s right because Travis makes my skin crawl, and I’m not the only girl who feels this way.

  “What is it about him?’ I ask.

  “He’s crude.” She closes every dresser drawer. “And it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s hungry or something.”

  I nod in agreement and then walk over to Flipper’s tank and tap on the glass. “Does it ever bother you that we’re not friends with Alana anymore?” It might seem like I’m asking Flipper, but I’m really asking Lexie.

  “Not really. You know she always wanted to hang with that crowd.” Lexie sits back on my bed and stretches out her legs, pointing her toes. “Don’t you remember during our sleepovers, she’d go on and on about what Whitney wore or what Brittney said.” She’s talking about the cute identical twins who are Trophy-Casers.

  “Yeah. I guess you’re right. But don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to hang out with them?”

  She scrunches up her face. I sense I said the wrong thing and hurt her feelings. “Not if I ever, ever, ever had to kiss Travis,” she says.

  I laugh; she’s right.

  “But I can see why you’re crushing on Sam. He’s a cutie… and nice.”

  And funny. And smart. And I’m more myself around him than I am with anyone else, except maybe John. Or when I’m by myself at the preserve.

  I don’t say of any of this to Lexie.

  “Maybe he’ll come hang with us at the fountain,” she says.

  Right.

  One of the reasons we’ve stayed friends for as long as we have is because she’s always optimistic. But she’s wrong about this. Because the odds of Sam ending up in the water fountain crowd are about the same as me ending up in the trophy case: slim to none.

  ~~~

  Sam sets his pizza-laden tray across from me and says, “If J Lo married Rob Lowe—”

  I laugh. “She’d be J Lo Lowe.”

  He tosses a packet of pictures on my lunch tray. This whole scene is like déjà vu of the day I brought Sam my summer vacation pictures. The lame name game. Sharing pictures. Except this time Sam brought the photos for me.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “They’re from the Mash.”

  “Cool,” I say. But it’s not really. Why torture myself about not being there? At the same time, I don’t want to be rude.

  I flip through them slowly, careful not to leave fingerprints. There are a couple pictures of the chain gang — Sam, Travis, Chase, Alex, Brian and some other kid I don’t know. When I say, “It’s the whole trophy case crowd,” Sam shrugs.

  Next, there’s a close-up of Travis making out with Alana.

  “God, Sam! Were you right in their faces?”

  “He was next to me in the chain. Like, this close.” Sam puts his face so close to mine. His lips are right there — mere inches from mine. Kiss me, I say mentally. Then he pulls back. “I couldn’t get away, so I decided to capture the romance on film.”

  This cracks me up, and I go back to the pictures. The next few are boring. And then one really gets my blood pumping. Sam’s got Alana tucked under his arm. She’s dressed in a black cat costume, her arms wrapped around Sam’s waist hugging him from the side. The picture reminds me of when my three-year-old cousin grabs me by the leg and I can’t shake him off. It’s almost exactly what I spied from the door. In fact, it might be.

  I want to claw the picture. “Never cross the path of a black cat. It’s bad luck.”

  Sam sno
rts. “Hey, I know how to handle cats.”

  What exactly does that mean?

  I flip through a few more pictures — one of Ashley and Chase looking like models straight from a magazine. All of a sudden, I’m looking at a picture of the mural I painted of the foyer of a haunted house. The style, tromp l’oeil, is supposed to give the illusion of 3-D and I nailed it. The foyer looks great, spooky in the dim lighting. I’d only seen them in the harsh florescent lighting of the art room and cafeteria.

  Next is the dining room mural. The photo is so clear you can see the cobwebs I painted on the chandelier. I keep flipping on and on. Sam took a picture of every single mural, even the ones done by other kids.

  I hold my breath — a dolphin that hasn’t surfaced for a while and needs fresh air. Barely audible, I fumble, “What? Why?”

  “Well, you talked about these decorations non-stop. I thought you’d want to see them hanging, but I gotta tell you, the other members thought I was crazy.”

  “Huh?”

  “The chain gang. I dragged them around while I took pictures.”

  “You…” I start. “They… I mean, everybody was with you?”

  “Yep.”

  I can’t believe he did that for me. I can’t believe he made all the other Casers do it too. In shock, I barely manage a thanks.

  Sam raises his eyebrows, tongue resting on his tooth. “You broke your promise. You didn’t dance with me,” he teases.

  I almost tell Sam about sneaking out, but instead I blurt, “You wouldn’t have wanted to dance with me once you saw my costume.”

  “What were you coming as? You can tell me now. There’s no reason to keep it a big secret.”

  “Well,” I act bashful. “It wasn’t a cute little kitty cat.” I’m still annoyed about the pictures with Alana.

  “I never thought you’d be something so common,” he says.

  I hesitate because I don’t know how Sam will react. “I was going to be Dolphin Girl. She has a pink bow, pearl necklace and pretty lashes.” I bat my eyes at him. “She’s quite feminine, actually.”