Dolphin Girl

  DOLPHIN GIRL

  By

  Shel Delisle

  Published by Shel Delisle

  Copyright © Shel Delisle, 2011

  Cover by Matt Delisle

  e-book formatting by Guido Henkel

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  For my favorite pod mates

  Ken, Matt, Cam and Ryan

  CHAPTER ONE

  I never knew how painful this would be.

  That’s what I was thinking — what I was about to say aloud to Lexie — when Tattoo Man asks, “How come a dolphin?”

  “What?”

  “Everyone comes in here with a reason for why they get inked, and everyone has a reason for what they pick.” He harrumphs at himself while the needle pricks the skin on my lower back. Tears flash, blurring my vision. “You should tell me. It’ll take your mind off the hurt.”

  From my awkward belly-down position on this imitation dentist chair, I catch glimpses of Tattoo Man’s arms and hands. If this wasn’t just another steamy day in South Florida, you’d swear he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. But he’s not. It’s his tats, solid from shoulder to fingertips.

  Lexie and Desiree — my partners in crime — wait for me, sitting along the wall in metal chairs with shredded black leather seats. Lexie rests the back of her hand against her mouth, and I can’t figure out if she’s holding back a laugh or a shriek of utter horror. Desiree’s flipping through some magazine. Organic Gardening, or something like that.

  “Every picture tells a story, don’t it?” Tattoo Man sings.

  “Huh?”

  “Rod Stewart. You know him, right?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “How much longer?” I ask.

  “A little bit. You might as well tell me why a dolphin. Unless you like it when I sing you oldies.”

  Not especially. “Okay. Why a dolphin? I think the whole thing comes from this time when I was around five years old.”

  “You’re eighteen now?”

  Sixteen. “Yeah.”

  And so I tell Tattoo Man the story of when our next-door neighbors at the time — the Mitchells — bought a third-hand boat and invited us to go for a cruise. The strangest thing is my almost total recall of that day. The way the wood dock creaked as we walked toward their boat. The strips of space between the boards, where I could see and smell the salt water below. I remember feeling afraid that my sandals might catch on the edge of one of those boards and I would fall through the crevice.

  The gaps were way too small for that to happen, probably only three or four inches wide, but I worried about it anyway. Apparently, so did my mom.

  “Careful, Jane!” she said, gripping my wrist as tightly as a knotted shoelace.

  At the boat, Mr. Mitchell lifted me up and over onto the deck. He handed Mom an orange life vest.

  “Here you go.” She wrestled it over my head. It smelled wet and a little dusty, like it had been buried somewhere. “This will keep you safe.” Mom emphasized every word as she pulled the straps taut.

  The back of the jacket had this huge cushion roll that kept my head immobile and made it practically impossible to look around without turning my whole body. “Take it off,” I begged. “It’s uncomfortable.”

  “It’s for your protection. In case you fall in the water.”

  “John isn’t wearing one,” I complained.

  “John’s almost eight.”

  “I won’t get hurt. I’m a good swimmer.” Which was 100% true. I’d taken swim lessons the summer before, and the instructor had called me a little fish.

  Suddenly, the needle stings and Tattoo Man says, “So you want a dolphin ’cause you’re a good swimmer. Makes sense.”

  “No,” I say, “there’s more to the story.”

  “There always is.”

  “Well, really, there was no use arguing with my mom about the life vest.”

  Because it was not coming off, no matter how much I yanked at it or made faces or hurky-jerked around like I was being tortured. So I finally sank into one of the seats and decided to make the best of it.

  After all, the sun was shining and once we’d pulled out of the marina, Mr. Mitchell sped up. A clean breeze blew into my face, whipping my long hair behind me. The only thing that could have made it better would’ve been convincing Mom to take the life jacket off. Or, at least, loosen it a little.

  Finally we made our way out of the Intracoastal.

  “Let’s open her up.” Mr. Mitchell pushed the throttle forward, and we took off, skimming along waves.

  Even eleven years later in this sterile tattoo parlor, I can smell the gasoline, salt water and seaweed. I can still feel the wind blowing in my face. I can practically taste the spray that landed on my lips. It’s weird to remember every single detail, every single sensation after so much time has passed.

  Eventually, when we were a ways offshore, Mr. Mitchell cut the engine. “Look there.” He pointed at a spot we’d just gone past. All I could see was the sun reflecting off the waves as the boat rocked back and forth, but Mr. Mitchell didn’t lower his arm. “C’mere, Jane.” He pulled me over to him and let me follow along the site line of his finger. “See them?”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. And then, a fin broke the surface of the water.

  “Is that a shark?” I asked. I knew all about sharks because John had played for a baseball team that had one as their mascot. But even as I asked this question, I knew it was definitely not a shark. The shape rolled forward until there was only a hint of its tail.

  Mr. Mitchell’s finger tracked one as it resurfaced. “A dolphin. I’d guess a bottlenose. Keep watching, you’ll probably see the others.”

  I did. They surged alongside the boat and then swam to the front of it. Mr. Mitchell and Dad took me up there to get a closer look.

  “Make sure you have a good hold on her, Tom.” Mom’s voice was as tight as my life vest.

  The next thing I knew, I was hanging over the edge while two of the dolphins grinned up at me. “Hi there, dolphins,” I said.

  “To this day,” I tell Tattoo Man, “I swear they said, ‘C’mon in and play. The water’s nice.’ They didn’t say it with their mouths, but it’s like I heard their voices in my mind. And so I wiggled out of my Dad’s arms and jumped.”

  Tattoo Man stops with the needle. “That was either really brave or really stupid.”

  “They bobbed around me and nudged me gently with their noses while my mom screamed in the background, ‘Get her in the boat! Get her in the boat!’”

  While everything happening on the boat seemed like chaos, while my spot in the water seemed calm beyond description. It’s almost like I was separated from the boat by more than just a few feet. It felt like I was in another world, another place.

  In the middle of all of this, there was a huge splash next to me. Mr. Mitchell was in the water. ‘Stay with us’ came from the dolphins. And I would have, if two strong hands didn’t grab me and lift me overhead into my dad’s arms.

  “Are you okay Jane?” He set me down onto the deck.

  “It was neat, Daddy.” I tried to walk over to
the edge of the boat to look at the dolphins again, but my mom had knelt next to me. She grabbed me by both shoulders and shook me while looking into my eyes. “You could’ve gotten hurt. You could’ve drowned. What made you do that?”

  “The dolphins talked to me. They said for me to come in.”

  Mom shook her head, locking her frantic eyes on mine. “Don’t you ever do that again. You almost gave me a heart attack. Not ever. Do you hear me?”

  I laugh, remembering Mom’s look. “I was never, not even a little bit, in danger,” I tell Tattoo Man.

  “I ’spect you’re right.” He wipes the tip of the needle with a paper towel. “You’re all done.”

  I’m not sure if he means with my story or the tattoo, but then he angles a mirror.

  I crane my neck to see my body art. “I love it.”

  “Glad to hear that. And that was some story you told me. Now I know why you’re getting inked in addition to why you picked a dolphin.”

  He knows why I’m doing this? Honestly, I’m not even sure I know why I wanted a tattoo badly enough to fake being eighteen. “You could tell all that from my story?”

  “Sure.”

  “So why am getting it?”

  “Because—” he sits back to admire his work— “it’s your way of ripping off that life jacket.”

  Scientists and trainers often observe signs of intelligence in dolphins. One of the most remarkable traits is that dolphins recognize themselves in a mirror, proving they have self-awareness.

  (Excerpt: The Magic and Mystery of Dolphins)

  CHAPTER TWO

  I peer out at myself in the mirror through the mouth of my Halloween costume. The transformation is complete. I am Dolphin Girl.

  Wild.

  Graceful.

  Free.

  Okay, so my life is actually nothing like that, but the costume lets me pretend otherwise.

  Sheathed in a leotard made from a sleek, silvery material, I move my flipper-arms, the pectoral fins, to see how I’ll look dancing. Cool. The dorsal fin on my back bounces a bit but should stay attached if I don’t dance too crazy.

  I shouldn’t be playing around in my costume because I haven’t completed Mom’s totally boring, totally anal and incredibly long list of housekeeping tasks, which hangs on the refrigerator with a Do Not Ignore magnet. Here’s what I can’t ignore.

  Today, Item #6—clean the bathroom grout — is what sent me running for sanctuary. She makes me crazy.

  I scrutinize the costume’s reflection. The oversized head is cartoonish, like a college mascot, only girly with an oversized pink bow and long eyelashes. I’m not sure why I made a Disney version of a dolphin. Maybe this way, if it’s completely uncool, I can pass it off as a joke?

  But it’s not, because the hours I spent constructing the costume are too immense to count, and I’m happy with the results even if others aren’t — namely, Mom.

  The first time she saw it she had a conniption. “Jane, what in the world? Why don’t you dress up as a cute black cat or a witch?”

  So tame. So lame. So Mom.

  “It’s cool, dontcha think?” I knew she didn’t but tried to convince her anyway.

  Mom struggled to drag my dad from the sports page. “Tom, did you see Jane’s costume for her Halloween dance? Don’t you think she should go as something more—” her shoulders heaved as she searched for the right word before sighing—“normal?”

  Dad mumbled and hummed behind the newspaper until my mom tapped her fingernail on the page and peeled it down. “Tom. Do you agree with me?”

  “I really don’t care what she goes as.” My dad lifted the paper. “When has Jane ever been normal? What makes you think she’s going to start now?”

  And that summed up exactly how my dad felt about me and everything else. Apathetic. But I still couldn’t believe he said it with me in the room. Nose to newspaper, maybe he didn’t even realize I stood five feet away. But those five feet may as well have been half the world.

  I guess I should’ve been used to it. Most days I’m convinced God made a mistake when he put me in this family.

  It can happen, y’know — He makes mistakes. Just look at the duckbill platypus.

  Grabbing fish food from my drawer, I head to the oversized tank in the corner by my desk. Flipper, my goldfish, is the only acceptable family pet because he doesn’t shed or bark and only uses the bathroom in his tank. He swims to the surface, and I sprinkle a few flakes and make kissy noises.

  “Do you like my costume?” I ask him.

  He darts, snatching the flakes. I take this as a yes.

  Even though I love the costume and Flipper has given it a fins up, a voice of self-doubt bubbles to the surface. What will everyone think? Will anyone want to dance with me? Do I have the guts to wear this?

  It’s funny. I knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t love this look, but if I’m honest with myself, I want someone to like it.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Mom sticks her head in. “Jane.” Except the way she says my name makes me feel I’ve been caught doing something wrong. Ordinarily she waits for an answer, but not this time. She takes one look at me. “Again with the dolphin thing?” She shakes her head and blurts, “Did you finish the grout?”

  I didn’t even start. “Um, no.”

  Mom eyes me and walks over to my closet, throwing her hands up. She pulls tops still on their hangers from the bar and tosses them into a pile on my bed, covering my ripple-patterned comforter. I picked the comforter, colored in every shade of blue from deepest midnight to palest aqua, because it looked ocean-y.

  “Would you take that off? It’s ridiculous and uh, uh… a distraction.”

  The head is warm, so I pull it off and set it on my bed next to a pile of clean clothes and a worn copy of The Magic and Mystery of Dolphins. Then I step carefully out of my costume and lay it on the bed. Mom brushes it aside.

  With my back to her, I hear, “Dear God! What is that?”

  “Huh?” Oh, crap.

  “That bandage. Did you get hurt?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “That’s not ‘nothing.’” Mom’s voice is worried as she walks toward me. “That bandage is big. Are you okay? Let me see what happened.”

  This is what happened. I’ve been caught. Big time. And it’s way worse than not getting the grout done.

  As Mom peels the bandage off, I gasp. Then she does too. “Please tell me that is not a tattoo on your waist. Please.” The worry is replaced with irritation.

  My answer is silence. I wish I had a good lie handy.

  “My God! What were you thinking? What possessed you!” Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. She’s going into shock as she plops onto my bed. “That’s illegal, Jane. You’re not eighteen. How did you?”

  Leave it to her to think of that. “Mom,” I start with a calm voice. “A lot of kids get them before they turn eighteen.”

  “They are not my kids!” she practically yells. “And how? Tell me, how do they get them if it’s illegal?”

  I don’t even breathe.

  “How did you get one?” Her voice is several decibels louder.

  I don’t think I should tell her about my fake ID or how Desiree helped me, or how Lexie drove. It’s what you would call TMI. “It’s not a big deal, Mom.”

  She grabs a handful of tops off my bed and re-hangs them in the closet, sorting them by sleeve length and color. Uh-oh. She always does this when she’s going nuke. “Oh no, Jane. You’re wrong. This is a very big deal.”

  “Look. It’s so little.”

  “You’ll never get a job with one of those.”

  “Mom! Who’s going to look at my back during a job interview? I don’t think you’d want me interviewing for any jobs where my back—”

  “Don’t you get smart with me! It’ll turn colors and stretch out as you get older. Believe me, you’re going to regret this.” She’s got the cleaning mads. Once all the shirts are in the closet, she moves to my neon corkbo
ard, hand-cut to resemble a coral reef. The reef is stuck with pushpins holding hundreds of my sketches, poems and paintings. “What a mess,” She pulls out pushpins, making a pile on the desk. “Why don’t you just frame a few of these? It would look so much neater.”

  “Mom,” I plead. Her hands fly between the corkboard and the desk, pulling down all my work.

  She glares at me colder than today’s frozen casserole. Which was Item #3 on today’s list. The casserole, I mean, not the glare.

  “You’re grounded. One month. I want you straight home after school. Do your homework and the list. That’s it, nothing else.”

  No way. Not now! “One month is kinda long, dontcha think?”

  “A month isn’t long enough. I’m so mad right now, Jane, I could ground you ’til you graduate. How could you do this? Your brother never did anything like this—” She pauses for five beats— “in high school.”

  “John skipped school, and you didn’t even ground him.”

  “That was different. He asked our permission to skip. It was senior skip day. He was a senior, Jane.” She taps the top of my dresser with her manicured nail. “Totally different.” She taps once more. “Besides, considering how things have turned out, maybe we should’ve done things differently with John. I don’t want you ending up like him.”

  The whole John/Desiree thing bugs her so much. Now I have to pay for it.

  “It starts after the dance, right?”

  “It starts now.” Mom jabs a pushpin in my direction for emphasis. She’s not close enough to do any real damage with it.

  “My costume. The decorations. I’ve worked so hard on them.”

  While she takes apart my reef, I sit on the corner of my bed, the only spot not covered with clothes. I glance at the mural-sized dolphin poster hanging on the opposite wall. The poster was a compromise. I wanted to paint an underwater mural, but Mom said no way, that it’d be impossible to paint over when I moved out. I guess she can’t wait.

  A tear slips from my eye. I brush it away. Even if it’d help my cause — and as angry as Mom is right now, it probably wouldn’t — I don’t want her to see me cry.