Dolphin Girl Page 5

  Sam snorts and cracks up. As his face turns bright red, he lays his head on the cafeteria table, catches his breath and mouths the words, “You kill me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Before the first bell, I lean against the wall with my backpack bumping into the water fountain. Lexie’s running band names by me for approval, but I’m only partly listening, because the rest of my attention is on Sam as he talks to Travis and Alex.

  “Garage Girls?” she asks.

  I wobble my hand back and forth. “Maybe.”

  “I’m still undecided about Estrogen Ocean.”

  That one is not my fave, but the art is ready to go. I bobble my head because I’m so not into this. I love Lexie, but Sam’s more interesting right now.

  He just told a joke or heard a joke. I can tell, because he snorts, laughs, and his face turns bright red. Alana stands with Whitney, Brittney and Ashley next to Sam. It looks like she bumps him intentionally. Sam and the boys absorb the popular girls like sponges. One big circle of cool kids.

  When Sam glances in my direction, I face Lexie, pretending to be involved in her band-name dilemma. I don’t want him to think I’m gaga over him or a stalker-chick.

  “Are you listening?” Lexie asks me.

  “Uh-huh,” I lie.

  The next thing I know Sam’s leaning into Alana, nodding while she talks. She grabs his forearm and shakes it to emphasize her story, and the whole group cracks up.

  When I face Lexie, she’s watching me watch Sam laugh at a girl who used to be our friend. “You can’t let it bother you.” She shakes her head.

  Good old Lexie. She knows I’ve got it bad for Sam, but I’m not sure if she means him or Alana this time. I think I heard pity in her voice.

  Mercifully, the bell rings.

  ~~~

  Between second and third periods, I stop at the bathroom in the Fine Arts hall. It’s my favorite because it’s never crowded. Except today, it is. There’s a group of girls huddled in front of the mirrors re-applying make-up and styling their hair. At the far sink, Ashley gossips with Alana.

  When Alana sees me her lip curls into something that’s not a smile and she intentionally turns her back to me. Clearly I’m not invited to talk. I’m barely allowed to exist.

  Unfortunately, the only open stall is the one directly behind their sink. I go in and lock the door. As I unzip my pants, I overhear Alana tell Ashley what she and Travis did over the weekend. Ew. She didn’t lose her mind the night of the dance. It’s been missing in action for two weeks.

  Afterwards, I step up to the sink next to theirs to wash my hands.

  “So then, is he a boyfriend in training?” Ashley asks.

  “More like a friend with benefits.” Alana dabs on some lip gloss. “I have my eye on someone else.”

  As I soap my hands and eavesdrop, I think, She’s so different from the girl I knew in middle school.

  “Who?” Ashley asks.

  When Alana replies “Sam Rojas,” I freeze and watch the water wash soap bubbles down the drain.

  They must realize I’m eavesdropping because Alana notices I’ve turned to stone and asks me, “Are you okay?”

  I grab a brown paper towel and dry my hands. “Yeah. I just zoned out for a minute.”

  Alana laughs and turns back to Ashley. “Where was I? Oh yeah, Sam. Travis is his best friend, so that’s a little weird and all, but he’s so hot.”

  Re-shouldering my backpack, I turn and head for the door while Ashley nods in my direction. “He is, but you’ll have to get in line.”

  Oh God. Does that mean Ashley likes him too? Or that she knows how I feel?

  ~~~

  I snag a tuna sandwich and lemonade as I work my way through the lunch line. Two freshmen girls giggle in front of me. They make me sentimental for a girly, gossipy lunch, like the ones I had last year with Lexie.

  The line comes to a halt as we reach the cashier, and I overhear a snippet from the girl farthest from me. “He’s so cute. I’m pretty sure he’s a junior.”

  Are they talking about Sam?

  “He must be madly in love with that tall girl. They eat lunch together every day,” the girl closest to me says.

  Are they talking about me?

  The girl farthest from me glances in my direction and catches my eye. I smile openly at her because I don’t want to make her feel bad or let on that I overheard them. She gives her friend a nudge and cranes her neck in my direction before obviously changing the subject to a new shoe store.

  How strange to have someone gossiping about me and Sam. It’s sweet — and a teeny bit awesome — that they think he’s madly in love with me. I can’t even figure out if he’s madly in like, though.

  As I put my tray down across from him, he asks, “Have you started your paper for Breckenridge?” I gaze at Sam while he waits for me to answer. Lately, he’s really been bugging me about this assignment.

  Actually, there are two reasons I’m annoyed with him. One — he’s nagging me, but also, two — he’s too attractive to others — namely Alana and Ashley, but also those freshmen girls. And who knows how many more. I don’t stand a chance.

  I swallow hard. “Are you my mother?”

  “No, I’m your friend.”

  The words hang there.

  Friends eat lunch together every day and occasionally walk from English to Biology. They don’t say hi in the morning or speak in the hallways. They barely acknowledge each other in English, but pass notes and talk in Biology. Conversations during the weekends are off-limits, but conversations about weekends are not.

  The rules of the game we’re playing really suck.

  “You okay?” Sam asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “You sure?”

  “Hey if Tweety Bird marries Conway Twitty—” I’ve been saving this one.

  Sam laughs hard and rests his hand on mine. My stomach trembles. What was it that was bugging me again?

  Later on, Sam waits outside English to walk me to Bio for the second day in a row, but who’s counting? We turn the corner into the main hall and practically run into Alana right in front of the trophy case.

  “Hey, you.” She rests her hand on Sam’s chest, ignoring me. “A bunch of us wanna play Rock Band tonight. Are you up for that?”

  Sam looks at me, and I’m not sure what this means. He thinks I should be asked too? He doesn’t want to answer in front of me?

  “You can come too, Jane,” Alana says. I can hear the phony.

  I shake my head no and try to sound lighthearted. “I think I have a date with a thirty-five millimeter camera tonight. I need to get to know its parts, intimately.”

  Sam laughs. He knows I’m still grounded, and Alana knows I got the position as the second photographer because she’s one of the editors. Working on yearbook together might help us mend our friendship.

  “Next time then?” She doesn’t mean this either. I guess this is as chummy as it gets these days.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Just play along. “Hey, I just remembered I have to stop by the media center. See you guys later.” I make an about-face and take off down the Language Arts hall.

  I don’t fit in with them. Understatement! But with how I feel about Sam and the new yearbook thing, I’m not sure where I belong.

  ~~~

  Clavell lectures us about the reproductive systems of plants. Sam passes me a note and waggles his eyebrows. It reads: Pistels + Stamens = Stimulating!

  I clap a hand over my mouth, but part of my laugh burbles out anyway. Clavell glares a warning at me.

  Should I have laughed? His note was funny, but is that what Alana or one of her friends would have done? Does it make me look trashy?

  Sam makes invisible loop-de-loops in the air and points at me, but I fold the note and stick it in my backpack. He pouts when I don’t play along.

  I rip a sheet of paper from my notebook and smile at Sam. Flirt, flirt. But before I can fire off a reply, Clavell says, “Pick a partner,” and s
he weaves around the room, placing study guides on each lab table. I face Sam, assuming we’ll be partners, but Travis flies across the room.

  He taps the shoulder of the kid who sits in front of Sam. “Hey, why don’t you move?” He thumbs in the direction of his table on the other side of the room.

  I wait for Sam to tell Travis he’s going to study with me, but instead he asks Travis the first question from the guide.

  Meanwhile, Brendon/Brandon, who sits in front of me, turns around. “Here, quiz me first, Jane.”

  For the remainder of class, we study for tomorrow’s test, but I don’t concentrate because I’m paying more attention to Sam and Travis’s conversation than I am to Brendon/Brandon’s questions. This is a mistake, a huge mistake. This kid knows science. When the dismissal bell rings, Sam says, “Later, Janey,” as he strolls from the room with Travis.

  Later. Great. But which Sam will I get?

  I head directly to the Journalism lab, HQ for both the newspaper and yearbook. Karen Perry is in waiting there for me with a heavyset kid who’s wearing thick glasses. “Jane, this is Irwin, the other photographer. Irwin, Jane.”

  “You can call me Tad. Everyone does.” He looks at the floor and pushes his glasses up when he says this.

  Karen shakes her head and mouths, “No, we don’t.”

  I’ve never seen this kid before. His black hair and clothes are unruly, like he went to bed, got up and came straight to school. There’s a bright red spot of acne on his chin. I wonder what pod he’s in.

  He scowls at me. “Did you bring the camera?”

  I reach into my backpack and pull out the Nikon I checked out earlier in the day. I hold it out like I’m offering him a gift.

  “Good. Now, you know what you’re doing, right?”

  I don’t. All the pictures I’ve taken at home were on my dad’s digital. “No, I’ve never used a thirty-five millimeter before. Can’t I just use my digital?”

  Irwin shakes his head and says to Karen like I’m not there, “Couldn’t you find me an assistant who knows what to do? She’s clueless. Now I have to take pictures and train her.” He shuffles off, head down, to a bookcase and pulls three books off the shelf. Then he shuffles back and hands them to me, never looking up from the floor. “No. You cannot use your digital. With this camera and film you’ll get sixteen million pixels, give or take. Can your digital do that?”

  I’m not entirely sure what a pixel is, so I stay mum.

  “Read these. I can’t even talk to you before then.”

  I take the books and juggle them with the camera but finally manage to get everything packed away. “Okay, thanks. If I need to look for you in the morning before classes, where do you hang out?”

  For the first time, Irwin looks me in the face. The lenses of his glasses are smudged so badly I don’t know how he can see out of them. His tone is biting. “The darkroom. That’s where you’ll find me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I should be working through mom’s list or reading one of the three tomes Irwin gave me, but it’s Friday afternoon and I have the whole weekend under house arrest to do those things. So at my desk, I sketch a daisy that could be the second object for my 11th grade mobile. I write parts of my day with Sam on each petal: lunch, morning hall, biology. As I draw, I’m thinking, He loves me, he loves me not.

  I toss the flower aside because I don’t know if daisies have an odd or an even number of petals.

  Distracted, I switch on my laptop, launch the Internet and select the Dolphins Plus bookmark to visit the site for the bazillionth time. Dolphins Plus is an attraction in Key Largo where you can swim with the dolphins. They offer two options — you can go for a hands-on educational experience or swim with them unsupervised, no touching allowed. I want to do both. Fortunately they have a combo package.

  About a month ago, I printed the information and price list. “This is all I want for Christmas,” I told Mom and Dad, handing them the pages.

  Mom raised her eyebrows at Dad. “Looks dangerous. We’ll see.”

  I’m about to print a page to hang on the fridge as a reminder when I hear my bedroom door open. I twist, expecting Mom, but see John instead.

  “Janey-bo-baney!” He smiles wide, walks over and kisses me on top of my head.

  “I was starting to think I’d never see you again.” I click on the print button.

  John sprawls on my bed, one arm tucked beneath his head, staring at the ceiling. “What’s the casserole du jour?”

  “No casserole. Mom’s making Pink Pasta, Caesar salad—”

  “And garlic bread.” John finishes the sentence for me because Mom, if anything, is predictable. “I picked the right night for dinner.”

  Pink Pasta is what John and I call Mom’s Penne Rosa, which is really Penne alla Vodka on the wagon. It’s a favorite for both of us.

  After picking up my sketch pad and soft black pencil, I lean into the back of my desk chair. “How’s Desiree?” I make an outline of a head and scrutinize John’s face. He’s got a scruffy beard, and his side burns are longer than the last time I saw him.

  “She’s—” John pauses.

  I stop sketching. “She’s what?”

  John scratches his head and then pushes the hair away from his eyes. “Good. She’s good.” He gets up from the bed and roams around my room, touching the mobiles. “Remember this?” He’s touching a snapshot of himself on my sixth grade mobile.

  The photo shows John on his skateboard in our driveway. He’d popped it up and gripped the nose while I rotated the camera to a forty-five degree angle. In the printed black and white photo, John is vertical with a huge grin, but the background looks like we live on a steep incline. There are no hills in South Florida, but I’d made it look that way. The world — my world — was completely out of whack, but John wasn’t. I loved this photo.

  When I showed it to Mom she said, “Great expression on John, but it’s crooked.”

  She didn’t get it. I wonder what Irwin would think of it.

  “I’m going to be a photographer for the yearbook.” I pat the camera on my desk.

  “Cool.” John walks over to the fish bowl. “Hey Flipper, how you doin’ boy?”

  “He’s good,” I say, not looking up. “Give him a little food, would ya?”

  John sprinkles food in the bowl, telling Flipper to keep swimming, buddy. Then he wanders to my closet and inspects Dolphin Girl. “I like it. You would have really stood out.”

  “So you heard? I’m under house arrest ’til November twenty-third.”

  “Yeah. Bummer. Mom told me all about it.”

  I thunk my forehead on the desk. I can just imagine the tone of the conversation, where Mom is concerned about me and seeking John’s advice because he’s the only one who understands me. Blah, blah, blah. “When did she tell you? What did she say?”

  “I stopped here one morning after you left for school, but Mom hadn’t left for work yet, so I got a lecture about the example I was setting for you. She blamed me for your tattoo.” John pulls my costume out of the closet and holds it while imitating Mom’s tone perfectly. “You know Jane’s peculiar to begin with. She doesn’t need any more encouragement.”

  “She called me peculiar? What did you say?”

  “I said you’re a good kid and that she should give you some space.”

  Dolphin Girl’s head bobs, so it looks like she’s agreeing with him.

  Wow! I can’t believe he said that to Mom. “Thanks.” I beam at him when he re-hangs the costume.

  I stare at John and then look back down at the sketch. The facial features on the paper aren’t his. Deep set, dark eyes look at me over high cheekbones. I fill in the last details: straight nose, full lips, slightly chipped front tooth. Sam’s face stares at me and I think it’s pretty good, considering I don’t have a picture or the living, breathing person in front of me. I toss the sketch to the side and start another.

  John stands over me and picks up the sketch. “Hey! That’s no
t me.”

  “Cool your jets. I’ll do you now.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Just this guy I eat lunch with every day. Don’t be so nosy.” I take the sketch from John and pin it in to my coral reef bulletin board.

  “So you like him.” It’s not even a question.

  “Yeah.”

  “And he likes you.”

  “I’m not too sure about that.” I rip a clean sheet from the sketchbook and smooth it out.

  “He eats lunch with you. I don’t think he hates you.”

  “I suppose.”

  John’s leans over my shoulder to watch me work. “Have you gone out with him yet?”

  I look up and give John a have-you-lost-your-mind? look. “House arrest!”

  “Oh, yeah.” John studies Sam’s face on the corkboard. “He looks like a nice guy.” He points to another sketch of Sam pinned next to the one I just finished. It’s a full-body sketch, fully clothed of course. “That’s him too, right?”

  “Yeah.” My pencil makes the basic shape of John’s face at an angle.

  He slumps on to my bed. “So when am I going to meet him?”

  “Not gonna happen.” I jot light hash marks where I want to place John’s features, then sketch the outline of where his scruffy beard will go. “He hangs by the trophy case, and you know I’m strictly a water fountain kind of gal.”

  “Nobody cares about that stuff once you’re out of high school.”

  Giving him a yeah-right glance, I say, “Mom cares.”

  John flops sideways and stares at me. “Mom’s in a group all her own.”

  I laugh. “Don’t move so much. You make it hard to draw you. You’re right,” I say, referring to Mom. “But, I don’t know. I wish he and I were in the same group. It’d make everything a lot easier.” Now I’m adding highlights to his hair.

  “So, you want me to teach you how to hang with the trophy case?” he asks.

  I don’t — not really. I don’t like Whitney or Ashley or Travis. I used to like Alana, but can’t tell yet if we’ll ever be friends again. But the problem is, I like Sam a lot. “Could you?” I add John’s mouth and nose to the sketch.