by Shel Delisle
John frowns when I say that. “I have another idea.” He pushes my sketch stuff aside to get my full attention and puts his palms together. “You have to see him away from school. Not with a ton of other kids around, but alone. That way you’ll figure out what’s what.”
“No one else eats lunch with us.”
“Doesn’t count. It’s still at school, so there’s still school stuff going on.” John is suggesting the impossible. “So, what are you gonna do?” he asks. He grabs last year’s yearbook off my shelf and flips through the pages. Like he’s bored with this conversation or he’s already done his part.
“You’re nuts,” I say.
“Why don’t you ask him over after school to listen to music?”
I think John has lost his mind. It’s a lame idea that would never work. “He wouldn’t come.”
“He might. You have to think about how you ask.” His words become mumbles to me because as he’s explaining how to ask I’m struck by an idea that might work.
“I could take him to the preserve,” I interrupt. “I could tell him that’s where I most feel like Dolphin Girl. I think he might be curious.” John raises an eyebrow. “It’s a nickname he gave me,” I explain.
John bobbles his head back and forth as he mulls it over. “That might work. You sure he’s okay, not a dawg or anything?”
It’s sweet John’s worried about me, but I’m not. “He’s fine.”
He folds the yearbook closed. “Let me see.” John grabs my sketch of him and inspects it. “How do you do that?”
“It’s no big deal.” I tuck the pencil behind my ear. “You have to look at each piece as separate, just focus on one little thing at a time and pay close attention. Most people don’t want to pay close attention. Or they get overwhelmed by the whole thing in front of them instead of working through one detail. Really, anyone can do it.”
I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I’m not even sure I believe me. It sounds too much like Mom’s approach to housekeeping and life. That’s frightening, because we’re not at all alike and I refuse to end up that way. I look at Dolphin Girl in the closet, but her head isn’t bobbing. I can’t even tell if she believes me.
John hangs with me for the rest of the afternoon, and we talk about all sorts of randomness exactly the way we used to before college and Desiree. When Mom calls both of us to dinner I remember what I was doing when he dropped in.
“Go talk to her for a minute. I need to look something up.” When John leaves, I Google daisies + number of petals. The first site talks all about the math of daisies — Fibonacci numbers and sequences in nature. Interesting, but I don’t have time to read, so I bookmark this page for later.
Where’s the petal information? Oh, daisies come in 34, 55 and 89 petal varieties. Who knew? I use my limited math skills to calculate I have a two out of three chance Sam loves me. Not too shabby. Armed with this newfound wisdom, I’m ready to face another family meal.
Everyone has dished up their plates by the time I reach the table. Mom hands me a large ceramic bowl of Pink Pasta before I take my seat. “How was yearbook? Is the other photographer nice?”
Irwin is not what Mom had in mind when she wanted me to broaden my group of friends.
“Great.” I scoop some pasta onto my plate. “His name is Irwin.”
Mom’s brows furrow when I say this.
“But everyone calls him Tad. He gave me three photography books to read.” I take the salad bowl from John. His expression is wary.
“That’s nice,” Mom says and turns to John, “Do you know Tad?”
“Yes. I know… Tad. He takes all the sports shots.” I’m grateful John plays along with me. Because if he knows Irwin, he also knows I’m withholding information Mom would deem critical.
We eat in silence for a few minutes then Mom asks, “Where’s Desiree tonight? I hope you two haven’t had a fight or anything?” She uses what John calls her plastic flowers voice.
John dishes himself more pasta. “She’s at work.”
“She works too hard. She should have asked for the night off.” Still fake.
“She’s been putting in extra time.” John swipes his garlic bread through leftover dressing in his empty salad bowl. “’Cause in four months she’ll need time off for the baby.”
What? Did he say baby? I must have been daydreaming about Sam or something because there’s no way he said that. I lean forward, elbows on table.
John’s palms are flat on the table. “We’re having a baby.”
WTF! He did.
Mom takes a bite of her food and says in this matter of fact tone, “You can’t have a baby. You’re too young to have a child.” It’s so weird that she’s acting all calm like that. God, look how she freaked over my tattoo.
“It’s a little late for that,” John says.
I flop against the chair, stunned. I can’t believe we spent all afternoon together, and he didn’t tell me.
Mom props her elbow on the table and rubs her forehead. “I’m sure it’s not too late. How far along is she?”
“What does that mean?” John’s voice booms.
Mom arches one eyebrow. “What about everything you’ve worked for?” Her finger is poised for a tap, and Dad puts his hand over hers. “You need to think about your future.” This is definitely not a part of her plans for John.
“This is my future.”
“Be responsible, John,” Mom manages. “You’re not making sense.”
“Responsible is exactly what I am being.”
I’m still stuck on the word baby, but force myself to focus on the conversation.
Dad puts an arm on John’s shoulder. “You sprung this on us a bit. Let’s see if we can’t all calm down and discuss this reasonably.”
Mom’s mouth tightens as she pushes away from the table and stares at the ceiling, searching for an answer. Her head rolls down and she stares at John. “John, you have no idea. Babies — not just babies, children — are a huge responsibility. It’s a life besides your own that—” She stops. “It’s an obligation like no other. So many things can go wrong.”
John swallows hard.
“Right, hon?” Mom’s asking Dad for support.
Dad strokes Mom’s hand and says, “You’re right.” He looks to John. “I do like that girl a lot.” Technically speaking, Desiree’s not a girl; she falls somewhere in between John and my parents. But Dad’s mellow comment cools the conversation. “I guess we should say congratulations.”
Mom starts to tap out ‘SOS’ in Morse code, but Dad’s hand stifles her again. She closes her eyes and her shoulders slump. “Have you decided when the wedding will be?”
Perfect. Of course, appearances matter to her.
“We were married yesterday. Desiree didn’t want anything big. That’s why I came by tonight — to tell you.”
Mom gasps and pulls her hand from under Dad’s. She snatches everyone’s plates and scrapes the remains into the serving bowl.
I wasn’t done eating. I hadn’t even started.
“Jane, help me with dishes. In the kitchen.”
I clear a few things. Mom’s already standing over the dishwasher, bowls and silverware clattering. Working back and forth between the table and kitchen is like travelling between two foreign countries. Dad and John huddle with hushed voices; Mom makes as much noise as possible.
I don’t belong with either one and that’s okay, I guess. It’s not my crisis this time. In fact, I’m not sure it’s a crisis at all. Sure, for Mom it is, but John’s always been an excellent big brother and I’m sure he’ll make an excellent father, too. I just don’t understand why he didn’t use a condom. I mean c’mon, eighth grade Sex Ed. Duh.
As I clear the last of the food, Dad stands by the front door with John and gives him a bear hug. In the kitchen, Mom uses the counter as a crutch. She’s crying as she hangs onto it. Dad approaches her from behind and wraps his arms around her, but she throws his arms off and glares at him. She’s silent-trea
tment angry.
“Liz, I’ll be upstairs when you want to talk,” Dad says.
As I wipe the counters down with the sponge, Mom flings open the junk drawer. She piles thread, chewing gum, batteries, picture hangers, matches, shoelaces and a bunch of stuff I can’t identify onto the counter and wordlessly begins to sort it back into the compartments in the drawer organizer.
Does she really think that will make everything better?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Shutter speeds? Condenser lens? I can’t concentrate on the book Irwin gave me because my mind keeps replaying our catastrophic family dinner.
There’s a steady thwock thwock on my bedroom window. Lifting the blinds, I see Lexie’s grinning face outside.
I flip the latch and open the window. “Hey, what are you doing?”
Willow and Tara lurk on the sidewalk over by Lexie’s mom’s Jeep.
“We decided to go pool hopping. It wouldn’t be the same without you, sooo… you have to come.”
“I’m grounded, remember?”
“Duh. That’s why I’m knocking on your window instead of the front door. C’mon, sneak out.”
I tip my head in the direction of the street. “How’d you convince your mom to let you have the Jeep?” Lexie usually drives her brother’s hand-me-down car.
“I didn’t, so I’m breaking rules, too. C’mon, are you in?”
It sounds fun. Like something we’d do on a hunt. Willow is jumping like she’s on a pogo stick, and Tara waves like a maniac. I shake my head. “Okay, okay. Give me a few minutes to make sure the coast is clear.”
I tiptoe out of my room and glance upstairs. There’s no light underneath my parents’ bedroom door, but I can hear the muffled sounds of their TV. I wonder if they’ve talked yet, or if they’re watching a program, or if they’ve both conked out and left the TV on. I decide to risk it and head back into my bedroom, slipping out the window quietly.
The Jeep’s parked two houses down. Trying not to make any noise, I run diagonally through a couple front yards and hop in the front seat. Willow squeezes my shoulder and when I turn around, she and Tara do our crank-it-up dance.
“We’re headed to Willow’s neighborhood. Fewer screens, y’know?” Lexie puts the car in first and pulls away.
Willow’s neighborhood is where I wish we lived. Even though it’s older, the houses all sit on yards that are ginormous by Florida standards. Because of this, a lot of the homes don’t put screens around their patios or pools, leaving everything more open. This makes it a lot easier to hop. If dolphins had to live out of the water, this neighborhood is where they’d choose to live.
It’s a little cool out tonight and I shiver, glad I threw on a Roxy sweatshirt. I start to twirl my hair into an elastic, then decide to let it blow all over the place. Lexie’s punky pale blond hair whips around like confetti in the moonlight.
Our wheels show how far apart her Mom is from mine. My Mom drives a Lexus. I love the Jeep’s bumpy, adventurous, open-to-the-elements drive.
When we turn onto Ixora Way, Willow says, “Don’t park on my street. Go down to that cul-de-sac.”
Lexie edges the Jeep against a curb and we leave our shoes in the car, sneaking barefoot into the backyard of a huge rambling one-story with a circular driveway covered by a roof that extends from the house to keep the owners dry during rainstorms. Nice. There isn’t a car parked in it or anywhere else we can see. With all the lights out, it’s a safe place to start.
Fresh cut grass tickles my bare feet as a dog starts barking a couple houses over. It sounds as big as a Clydesdale, so I hope he’s fenced. We all take turns jumping in one end of the pool, swimming the length and crawling out the other end. What a rush!
That water’s warm. The pool must be heated. A soft nighttime breeze swirls around us as we giggle, trying to be silent as we jog through a yard without a pool. Another dog, a small, yippy one, joins the other in barking, but it doesn’t discourage us. In and out at the next pool. One after another.
It’s awesome.
My sweatshirt and jean shorts droop as water drips down my legs.
When we reach the edge of the next yard, Lexie says, “I’m going au natural.” Her grin, and the way she wiggles her eyebrows is a dare. She shimmies out of her clothes and the next thing I see is her pale butt running toward the pool.
Willow’s halfway undressed and Tara, who never needs a prod, has already taken off. Naked.
I strip and motion for Willow to go first. After she’s in and out of the pool, I sprint, wind against my skin, and then dive. When I glide underwater, something inside of me cascades into place. Silence. Calm. The way the water feels without a suit — silky — returns me to dolphin life. As I pull myself out of the pool, the others are heading back to get dressed, but I take off for the next one.
My drenched hair slaps against my back as I fly through the next pool-less yard. Glancing over my shoulder, I realize my nudist friends are laughing and running after me, clothes held in front of them. But I won’t stop, can’t stop.
I’m free. I’m free.
Ahead, there’s an enormous pool. It’s not exactly Olympic-sized but it’s huge and rectangular, made for swimming laps. I don’t slow a bit as I come to the edge but adjust to a flatter dive since the pool’s not very deep. I swim under water and surface at the center, the water barely covering my chest when standing.
Oh, God! There’s a group from the trophy case in that house. On the other side of sliding glass doors, in a brightly lit den, they’re playing Rock Band.
Please don’t see me. Please, please, please.
Ashley Grant gets up off the couch and walks toward the doors. I duck underwater. Why can’t I just disappear? Bubbles escape my nose and mouth. Maybe I could just drown? That way, even if I’m found naked, I won’t have to be embarrassed because I’ll be dead.
I blow out the last of my air and let my head surface like a periscope. Now Ashley is holding the mic, Chase Dunne is on drums and Alana on guitar. Travis sits on the couch behind all of them and grabs Alana around the waist, pulling her into his lap. Get me out of here! She laughs and gives Travis a quick hug.
In middle school, during our sleepovers, Lexie, Alana and I talked all night about the mystery of boys — about what they wanted and the girls who attracted them. We never figured it out then, but it looks like Alana finally did.
I, on the other hand, am a naked submarine, spying just beyond enemy lines. Without a clue about boys or Trophy-Casers or popularity. None of these people are my friends. Then, it hits me. Where’s Sam? This is, after all, his pod.
As my eyes gradually adjust to the lighting, I notice a shadow on one of the lawn chairs. It snorts — a laugh I know all too well. The tall, gangly outline stands, takes a step closer to the pool. “Jane, is that you?”
Omigod! OMIGOD! The sub siren sounds ah-OOG-ah, ah-OOG-ah. Dive, dive, dive. I submerge again, knowing this does nothing — not even cooling off the heat that has spread over every inch of my body and face. I’m so hot from embarrassment, I expect the pool to begin boiling any minute now.
I want to drown, but my body won’t let me. I gasp as I surface.
“It is you,” he says.
“It’s me,” I confess. I can hear my friends giggling. They sound oceans away.
Sam grins at me. “This is an interesting situation.”
“Sam!” I use my hands to conceal as much as I can. It’d be better to be an octopus right now. “Please don’t tell them I’m out here. Please.” I nod toward the doors.
“I won’t.”
I look over my shoulder and see Lexie, Willow and Tara at the edge of the yard. I’m pretty sure Sam hasn’t noticed them when Lexie steps beside him. “Do you have a towel?”
“Aw, man. You are such a buzzkill,” Sam says to Lexie as he saunters to a patio chair and grabs a bright red beach towel. He walks back to the pool and holds it, his arms open wide.
He’s kidding, right? I can’t get out like this.
“I’ll close my eyes,” he says. “I promise.”
“Get real, Rojas. Lexie jerks the towel from his hands, and Sam laughs.
“A guy’s gotta at least try.”
Lexie holds the towel open, a shield between Sam and me. The best thing is, I’m as red as the towel, so maybe it’ll act like camo. I hoist myself from the pool. Water drizzles off me. I wrap the towel around and tuck the corner under the top edge. A huge sigh of relief escapes now that I’m semi-decent.
“I think you owe me one,” Sam says.
Yikes! And what will payback be? I pull the towel tighter.
Sam tips his head toward the sliding doors. “I better get back inside before somebody comes looking for me.”
“Yeah.” I smile shyly.
After the door closes, Lexie hands me my sopping jean shorts and sweatshirt so I can get dressed on the side of the house. Behind some hedges, I shiver while slipping into them. Cold? Fear? Both. My gaze drifts to the backyard and through the patio door, I can see Sam playing lead singer, toy mic in hand.
A few minutes ago there was very little separating Sam from me. A little terry cloth, that’s all. The glass of the patio door feels more secure.
Yep. Definitely much safer.
~~~
On Monday, I take a deep breath before stepping into the cafeteria, because I haven’t talked to Sam since Friday night. As if high school wasn’t quite awkward enough for me. Doesn’t everyone hide a little bit of themselves?
Except me.
On Friday night.
When I was buck naked.
After paying the cashier, I wonder if I could sit at another table, but Sam’s already at our regular one, waving me over. I smile but don’t meet his eyes as I sit across from him.
“Nice to see you,” Sam says.
Honestly, I can’t look up from my tuna sandwich and meet his eyes.
He snorts a laugh. “Why were you in my pool this weekend?”
Oh God! I didn’t realize it was his house. Why didn’t Willow stop me?
