Dolphin Girl Read online

  “How’re you today, missy?” a round nurse dressed in purple asks Desiree after she calls us from the waiting room. She seems to know Desiree and leads her to the scale. The nurse slides the gadget, tapping it gently into place, and records Desiree’s weight on her chart. Then she hands her a plastic cup.

  “Be right back.” Desiree winks at me and disappears into the bathroom.

  Our next stop is a chair where Desiree gets her blood pressure taken and her finger stuck. Earlier this year in Bio, we had to type our blood. I nearly fainted and can’t watch now.

  After this, we’re on the move again. This time it’s the examining room. The nurse hands Desiree a flimsy paper gown and closes the door behind her.

  Through the door I hear her cheerful voice, fading as she walks away: “How’re you today, missy?” I guess she says this to everyone.

  I scope out the walls while Desiree undresses. They’re decorated with the same corny posters that hung in the waiting room: a woman looking ecstatic while riding her bike, a woman looking ecstatic while flying a kite. In the waiting room they had a woman looking ecstatic while walking by the ocean. At least I understood her happiness — she’s close to dolphins, but all the photos remind me of a Kotex ad.

  Desiree situates herself on the table and folds her hands over her belly.

  I point at the wall art and make a face.

  “Yeah, they could update those.” She wiggles and swings her legs back and forth, trying to get comfortable.

  “Do you have to get your finger stuck every time?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  This news — more than any sex ed class — is enough to ensure I’ll use contraception if I ever start doing it. No way do I want to get pregnant. I hate finger sticks. Cripes, getting the tattoo really hurt, but at least at the end I had something pretty to show for it.

  It’s quiet in the exam room. There’s no ticking clock, but time stretches in mind-bending ways until Desiree says, “John and I would like you to be the godmother.”

  “Really?” I ask, not knowing what that meant. It seems like there should be someone else she’d want. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What happened with your family? Why don’t you see them?”

  Desiree’s eyes meet mine. “Oh, that. Well, my dad was in the military. He was very big on rules.”

  Like Mom. “And, you didn’t stay in the lines?”

  “It was okay when I was little, but when I hit thirteen I got rebellious.”

  “Like me.”

  Desiree gave me a strange look. “You’re not the least bit rebellious. Anyway, we got on each other’s nerves and then they wouldn’t let me see my boyfriend, so when I turned eighteen I moved away. Far away. That’s it. End of story.”

  “You never saw them again?”

  Desiree’s eyes get watery. “I think they were relieved when I moved. They never came after me.” Her lips tighten.

  I fidget on the uncomfortable, backless stool. “Do you think you did the right thing? Leaving?” This question nags me because her situation seems to parallel mine.

  Desiree picks at invisible lint on her paper gown, so at first I don’t think she’s going to answer. She sighs. “Life isn’t a DVD that you can flip back to an earlier scene you want to replay. If I hadn’t left—” she turns to look me in the eyes— “I might not have met John, and he’s the best thing in my life.”

  There’s a quick rap at the door, and in walks the nurse midwife. She hurries to a table and scans Desiree’s chart, then jots a few notes. Plucking one, two gloves from a box, she’s got them on by the time she reaches the examining table. “Everything’s good? How are you feeling?”

  “Great,” Desiree answers.

  “You work, right? What do you do?”

  “Restaurant.”

  “On your feet,” the midwife says while writing and then lifts one of Desiree’s feet. Her ankles are swollen. “You’ve got a little edema,” she notes. “We need to keep an eye on it.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, we’ll keep an eye anyway.” She’s moves to Desiree’s mid-section, opens her gown and handles her belly like she’s buying a melon. I expect her to knock on it any minute now.

  “Okay. Let’s have a look at her,” the midwife says. She takes some Vaseline-looking gloop and rubs it on a piece of equipment that reminds me of the thingy they use to restart your heart on TV shows. She rubs a little more of the greasy stuff on Desiree’s bare belly and points to the screen. “There she is.”

  In front of me, an image appears. I can’t make anything out.

  “See—” the midwife points— “here’s her thigh.”

  I squint my eyes. I guess I can kinda see it. There’s a sudden movement on the screen, and Desiree touches her belly.

  “She flipped over,” the midwife comments. “She’s mooning us. Now you can tell she’s a girl.”

  I laugh and stare at the blob on the screen. It’s not clear to me. “How?”

  “Well we’re never a hundred percent sure, but if she was a boy we’d see another appendage right about here.” She uses her pen to point.

  A niece. That’s nice. “Have you picked a name?” I ask.

  “John and I picked the name Lily for a girl.”

  The midwife moves the paddle around Desiree’s belly in circular motions. “What a nice name.”

  “I don’t know if Mom will like it.” I’m thinking out loud — never a good thing.

  Desiree looks me straight in the eye. “I don’t care. I do.”

  My heart cartwheels. I wish I could be defiant with Mom, but of course my mom is not Desiree’s mom.

  “You’re Desiree’s sister?” The midwife wipes the goo off Desiree’s belly.

  “Her sister-in-law.”

  The midwife places her hand behind Desiree’s back and props her to a sitting position. Desiree arranges the paper gown around her like we’re at fancy restaurant. “And I hope she’ll agree to be the godmother.”

  Tears flood my eyes. I don’t know why she picked me.

  “Ah, godmothers are important,” the midwife says. She rummages through a cupboard and locates a plastic model of a baby. “This is how big the baby is right now,” she says and hands me the odd little doll. It’s much longer than I thought, but scrawny and light as a feather. When the baby is curled, it barely extends past the palm of my hand.

  I hand the model back. “Her belly’s a lot bigger than this.”

  “That’s because the baby is surrounded by amniotic fluid. It’s a cushion for protection.” She points to a picture on the wall.

  I’d forgotten about the fluid, even though they taught us about it in sex ed. It’s amazing; almost as if we all start life as dolphins. “Is it salt water?” I ask.

  The midwife laughs. “Well, there’s electrolytes in it containing some salt, protein, carbohydrates, even the baby’s urine.”

  Yuck. Maybe not exactly like the ocean. Or on second thought…

  She lays the model of the baby on the table next to Desiree. “Okay. I’ll see you in four weeks.” She pauses. “What’s your due date again?”

  “March fourteenth,” Desiree says.

  The nurse-midwife pulls a wheel from her pocket and spins it. “Right. Four weeks is fine, but I want you to keep an eye on those ankles and if anything changes, come in sooner.”

  March 14th is before Spring Break and my dolphin swim. Up to this point, the baby has only been an idea for me, but now I realize Lily will be here soon. Amazing.

  Out of water, dolphins become overheated very quickly. Their skin can actually burn, leaving scars.

  (Excerpt: The Magic and Mystery of Dolphins)

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  English class has always been one of my favorites, even if Breckenridge does have a few strange quirks. He rolls his tie up to the knot, holds it in place and lets it unfurl for emphasis. “Does anyone know what today is?”

  There are quips around
the room that range from “Monday” to “Your birthday?” to “February second.”

  Breckenridge paces at the front of the room and plays with his tie again.

  Should I put his necktie on the mobile?

  As he lets go of it, he says, “Well, you’re right about almost everything, except it’s not my birthday.” He laughs at himself. “February in Florida has the most glorious weather. Too bad it’s the shortest month of the year. But I have to tell you, when I lived in Pennsylvania and was buried under snow and ice, it felt like the longest.”

  January had been the longest month for me. The days just blurred together — no Sam, lots of work for yearbook, missing Lexie except for lunches. The only thing that was interesting was going to the doctor with Desiree.

  He stops pacing, leans against the corner of his desk. Roll. “One thing makes February bearable — smack in the middle of the month — we’ve got Valentine’s Day. Love makes everything better.” Unwind.

  It’s great my teacher is a romantic, but I’m not sure he’s right. It hurts to look one row over and two desks up at Sam’s profile.

  Breckenridge walks behind his desk and picks up a handful of paperback books. “So, with love in the air, it’s only fitting to study Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.”

  A few groans.

  “Oh Romeo, Romeo where for art thou, Romeo,” Steven says in a falsetto.

  Breckenridge laughs. “Good, Steven. You’ve already memorized a line, but there’s a lot more than that to the story.” He walks each row, placing books on the desks. “This is one of the saddest love stories of all time. Please read all of Act One by Tuesday.” The groans increase, but Breckenridge ignores them. “By the end of this play, some of you will hope you never read Shakespeare again.” He stops at my desk, places the book and smiles at me. “But there will be others who will enjoy this so much, they’ll enroll in my AP Shakespeare course next year.” He moves through the rest of the rows silently as I flip through the book.

  Pulling the TV cart to the front of the room, he continues, “Today we’ll watch West Side Story, which is a modern retelling of the tale.”

  When the movie comes on, Steven fakes a cough. “Modern?”

  The class laughs.

  The movie’s old, but by the time we reach the scene where they sing “America,” everyone is into it. Plus, Steven keeps calling everyone Daddy-O and even Breckenridge thinks it’s funny.

  Right before the bell, Breckenridge stops the movie before it’s finished and says we’ll watch the end on Monday. “As you read Romeo and Juliet this weekend, think about how it compares to West Side Story. Both are stories of forbidden love. Be prepared to discuss this.”

  I look at the frozen scene where Maria gazes at Tony from the fire escape. It’s clear how much she loves him, how hopeful she is. I wish I shared her hope, but I’m not convinced I want to watch the end of this movie. After all, Breckenridge said it was one of the saddest love stories of all time.

  ~~~

  I’m sorting photos for winter sports into three piles: Yes, Probably, and Maybe. The trashcan sits by my feet for the Nos. The yearbook lab is a flurry of activity before school because we’re on top of a deadline for more than seventy-five pages.

  Alana marches up to me, holding a proof of the Snow Ball spread. “I can’t believe you did this!” She points to the close-up of Sam and me in the dominant spot. “He wasn’t your date.”

  She’s pissed, and there’s a part of me that couldn’t care less. “He would have been if you hadn’t pulled the parking lot scam.”

  Alana’s mouth drops open. Actually, I don’t know for sure that Sam was going to ask me, but he might have. And if so, we might be a couple now instead of… of… crap, I don’t even know what we are. Ex-lunch/word-game buddies?

  “You’re living in a dream world, Jane,” Alana says in a snotty tone. “He’d never date a trashy tramp-stamp girl. Unless it was for one thing.”

  Someone says, “Ooh, you shouldn’t let her talk to you like that, girl.”

  A part of me knows that’s right. I should stand up for myself. But another part wonders, Is she right? I’m not good enough for Sam? And still another part realizes once and for all that this friendship is done.

  I toss a blurry volleyball photo I took into the trash and eye her. “Don’t be so sure, Alana.” My voice is shaky. It’s not the kind of comeback I’d like to shoot at her, but it makes her freeze for a second and that’s enough.

  ~~~

  When you start your day all flustered, you need your first class to bring tranquility. Mine doesn’t. Mrs. Fonseca distributes last week’s Algebra test and the top of mine has a red, circled 63 staring at me like some kind of bizarre eyeball.

  My heart sinks. I knew I didn’t do well, but never thought my grade would drop this low. The problem, my problem, stems from my inability to grasp the quadratic formula. Sometimes, when Mrs. Fonseca is teaching, I feel like I’m sitting in a classroom in another country — that’s how foreign this equation is to me.

  I hate, absolutely hate getting a D. But what makes it worse is knowing there’ll only be a couple more tests in this grading period. My math skills in averages and probabilities are decent, so I know it’s improbable I’ll be able to average a B.

  There’s a note next to the D: Please see me after class. I rub my forehead with my left hand. This is bad.

  When the bell rings, everyone starts filing out and Mrs. Fonseca says, “Jane?”

  Now I rub my forehead with both hands. Unzipping my book bag, I put in the math text, then my homework spiral, then my pencil, and finally the test. I zip it while all the other kids file past Mrs. Fonseca’s desk, dropping their papers one by one into her basket. I wait until everyone is out of the room before I walk up.

  She looks at me across her desk, over the top of her glasses. “Jane, you seem to be struggling with this unit. Is there a problem?”

  Yeah. The quadratic formula isn’t my thing. “The equation, I mean the formula… I don’t know.” I shift my backpack from one shoulder to the other.

  “The quadratic formula is like every other equation, so I don’t understand why you’re struggling. You’ve always been a ‘B’ student before, but if you need extra practice, I can tutor you before school.”

  My shoulders sag and the backpack slips off. “I can’t before school. I’m on yearbook and we have a big deadline. I have to be there every day.”

  “Do you have another resource?”

  Resource? I think she means, do I know a person who gets this. John? Brendon/Brandon? Maybe Lucas. Definitely not Lexie.

  “I can ask around,” I say.

  “Well, you need to. We have quiz on Monday and interims go home on Tuesday. If I don’t see improvement, I’ll request a conference with your parents.”

  Great, three days. Can I learn it in that time?

  ~~~

  On Wednesday, we watch the end of West Side Story and I struggle not to cry in class when Maria says, “Te adoro, Tony,” while he lies dead in the middle of the playground.

  It hits me, just as surely as if I’d been in the gang fight between the Jets and the Sharks — some couples are impossible. They aren’t supposed to be. Like John and Desiree because of their age difference. Like someone from the trophy case with someone from the water fountain. It’s a big no-go. According to the rules of love, Sam is supposed to be with Alana.

  “Now for oral presentations.” Breckenridge interrupts my revelation. He pairs boys with girls and gives each pair a scene.

  “Steven and Becca, you’ll read the balcony scene. Steven, I know you’ll nail this one — you already have the ‘Romeo, Romeo where for art thou Romeo’ part down.”

  Steven stands, takes a pretend bow, and everyone laughs. Breckenridge keeps assigning scenes until I think he’s done. I breathe a sigh of relief at remaining unscathed.

  “Hmm…” He rolls his tie, and it’s mesmerizing. “I need one more pair for the scene after they spend the nigh
t together.”

  “That’s the scene I want,” Steven says, and everyone laughs.

  “Omigod! They spend the night together?” Becca asks.

  “I know. Pretty racy for four hundred years ago.” Breckenridge grins. “That should ensure you keep reading.”

  Because I read ahead, I know the scene. It’s their promise to each other.

  “Ah. Got it.” Breckenridge’s tie unfurls. “Sam, you’ll be Romeo to Jane’s Juliet. And everyone, please read through Act Two by Wednesday.”

  No! He can’t pair us. Rehearsing the scene with Sam will be impossible. He’s only just started to acknowledge me again with a wave in the cafe or a hey in the main hall.

  One row over and two desks up, Sam turns in his seat to look at me, resting his tongue on that chipped tooth and thinking God knows what. Then he nods, smiles and pats his copy of Romeo and Juliet.

  Like the English dork that I am, I read all the explanatory notes at the end of the book, including Shakespeare’s use of fate.

  Well. This feels like fate is intervening; but is it going to help or hurt me?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mom props two crib sets next to each other on a dresser in Aisle 7 of Babies R Us. “Which one?” One comforter is mostly pink with white; the other is mostly white with pink.

  My favorite is a brightly colored tropical fish design Mom vetoed because “it’s not for a baby girl.” I think Desiree may have liked the tropical fish better too, but she couldn’t shop with us because her ankles were super swollen this morning and Mom decided she needed to stay off her feet.

  “I guess that one.” I point to the mostly pink comforter.

  “I think I’ll buy both, let Desiree pick, and we’ll return the other.” Mom places the crib sets into our already overflowing shopping cart.

  I had no idea how many things you needed for babies. We’ve got blankets, binkies, booties and bottles; diapers, diaper pail, diaper bag, diaper cream, and wipes; onesies, gowns with elastic bottoms, T-shirts, and clothes in newborn, 3- and 6-month sizes.