Dolphin Girl Read online

  “We were just messing around. Pool-hopping. I didn’t know it was your place. We never see each other outside of school, y’know?” I take a quick bite of the sandwich so I’ll shut up.

  “I saw a lot of you this weekend.” Sam snorts a laugh. “Correction. I saw all of you.”

  The heat in my face must be turning me raspberry red. I’m in full-blush mode when Alana and Karen Perry stroll up. What are they doing here? It’s not their lunch hour.

  “Hey, Sam!” Alana says. “Ready for the big meet today?”

  I’d forgotten all about that — the Regionals today — because I’d been so worried about the whole naked thing.

  Karen Perry says, “Good luck,” then turns to me. “We were looking for you. Can you go to the meet? We need pics, and Irwin can’t go.”

  A chance to see Sam swim? I nod at Karen. “Yeah.”

  She hands me one document after another. “Okay. Here’s your press pass. That will let you in for free. And here’s the pass for early release from your last class.”

  Sam and I will leave Biology together. Can this day get any better?

  “We got you a spot in the swim van. You need to be out front at two-thirty,” Karen says. “Don’t forget to stop by the darkroom to check out a camera.”

  Sam grins at me. “I guess it’s only fair. I saw you in the pool, and now you’ll see me. Except I’ll be dressed.” He snorts again.

  And I feel the raspberry return.

  ~~~

  At 2:30, the group going to Regionals waits in the loop for the van to arrive. There are thirteen of us. The ten swimmers — six girls and four boys — are juniors and seniors. The team manager, the assistant coach, and I are the other passengers.

  I can’t believe my lousy luck when Alana walks up. “You didn’t tell me you were coming,” I say.

  “I have to write the copy for this spread.” She says it like this is the last place she’d want to be. “And then Mr. Fischer asked me if I could cover it for the school newspaper. I needed another assignment like I needed a hole in the head.”

  Yeah. Right. I wonder how she finagled this.

  Both of us want to be here because of Sam, but he stands separate from everyone with his iPod plugged into his ears. His posture is erect and his eyes are trained on some point in the distance.

  When Mr. Leonard, the swim coach, swings the van into the loop, the swimmers step back, letting the rest of us go first. I follow Alana through the side door but sit in the row behind her, next to the team manager and assistant coach. Then the swimmers file on board. A group of the girls sit in Alana’s row. When Sam eases into the seat next to me, he gives me one quick smile and then looks straight ahead, sprawling his legs into the gap between the seat and the sliding door.

  Ha. I get to sit next to Sam. I know that petty voice is jealousy. Not cool, but I can’t help the way I feel.

  Alana turns halfway around in her seat, reaches her arm over the back and taps him on the knee. Sam pulls out the ear bud. “I need to ask you a few questions for the article I’m writing,” she says.

  “After the meet.” Sam sticks the bud back in. Discussion over.

  No way am I going to try to strike up a conversation, so I keep myself busy by fiddling with the camera.

  After a bit, Sam glances at me and smiles. He pulls out a bud from one of his ears and gently puts it in mine. The lead singer shrieks the lyrics while both of us listen.

  Don’t play the game

  They don’t set the finish line

  No need for shame

  If you try, you’ll see the sign

  You ran the race

  You set the pace

  Win, show or place.

  It’s all yours.

  ~~~

  Sam walks out onto the deck wearing nothing but a swim cap and Speedo. Most guys would look bad, very bad, in that suit. But, he looks — ahem — well, let’s just say he looks like he belongs in it.

  As he stands behind his platform, he pulls goggles over his head. Then he goes through a ritual of tugging the swim cap, adjusting the goggles and pressing his palms flat against them three times. He goes through this routine so many times I lose count.

  Then, he rotates his arms in huge circles, shaking them. He grabs his thighs and jiggles them around until he’s loose.

  Flap, cap, goggles, arms one last time before he steps to the edge of the platform and bends over to dive.

  My heart pounds. I’m nervous for him.

  I crouch, watching him through the lens, and the official fires the gun, which startles me for a second until I find the shutter release and snap like crazy — a pic of him as he surfaces; one as he kicks; one as he makes his turn. I wish I could lie on the bottom of the pool, taking his picture as he swam above me. A dolphin’s view of this event.

  Sam makes the butterfly look effortless. He’s almost a full length ahead when he touches the wall. Click. Ripping off the goggles. Click. Big chipped tooth grin after seeing his time. Click. Arms overhead for the victory shot.

  Wow. Is that Sam? He looks like he could be the singer in the song. He looks like he could scream, hard and untamed, “It’s all yours.” This is a side of Sam he’s never showed during our lunches when he’s the easygoing guy who plays word games. I like it.

  Even though this is new to me, it makes sense. Because if I’d thought about it before, I’d have realized he needs that streak in order to be good enough to be one of the few juniors to make it to Regionals.

  And his competitive side just won him the 200-meter butterfly and a spot at the State Championship. I hope Irwin’s photography books taught me what I needed to know to capture Sam swimming dolphin-style.

  Streamlined in movement, dolphins possess the ability to move quickly from place to place, rapidly changing their environment. When they are in a hurry, they will jump out of the water as they reach the surface. Because it requires less energy to travel through the air than water, every leap speeds them towards their goal faster than swimming under the surface.

  (Excerpt: The Magic and Mystery of Dolphins)

  CHAPTER NINE

  “We’re the Fallopian Tubes,” Lexie announces as I reach the water fountain the next morning.

  “Huh?”

  “The band. It’s the new name. The Fallopian Tubes. Don’t you just love it?”

  No, I don’t. I really, really don’t. Their old name — The Ginger Girls — is so much better. It suits their music and sounds like a band that could be on the radio. I can’t imagine a DJ saying, “Here’s the new one from The Fallopian Tubes!” It’s too weird.

  But Lexie’s so excited. I can’t tell her it sucks, can I? Besides, who am I to judge the name? It makes me feel a little too much like Mom. So instead of suggesting that she keep thinking up new names, I say, “That’s cool. What do you want for cover art?”

  Lexie’s face falls. “I hadn’t thought about that.” Then she brightens and adds, “You’ll figure it out. You’re so good at that kind of thing.”

  She apparently has more faith in me than I do because there are no flashes of inspiration, no lightning bolts from above. In fact, this is one more thing heaped onto my rapidly growing pile of projects that include an essay for Breckenridge, helping John pack and move, homework, Mom’s ever-present list, figuring out how to ask Sam to the preserve and then actually doing it and a yearbook meeting with Irwin.

  Honestly, it all has me a tad stressed. Ha! Made myself laugh. A tad stressed. Everybody-calls-me-Tad Irwin. Sam would probably appreciate that, but he’s hanging on to every word of a story Alana is telling. From her position in the center of the trophy case.

  With lots of overly dramatic arm movements.

  This makes me even crankier.

  “We’re gonna rehearse at Willow’s later. Do you think your Mom will let you come?” Lexie asks.

  “Doubtful,” I say. “I’ve still got more than a week left on house arrest. But even if she said okay, I couldn’t come. I’ve got a yearbook meeting
and now I need to figure out what ‘Fallopian Tube’ artwork looks like.”

  Lexie’s shoulders sag a little. “You don’t have to do it tonight.”

  But I figure I better start soon before the wave of other things comes crashing down on my head.

  ~~~

  I’m forced to skip lunch with Sam today because I need to tackle the first part of developing my photos from the Regional meet and allow three hours of drying time before finishing them after school. This doesn’t improve my mood.

  But if I thought I was stressed out and crabby, it’s nothing compared to Irwin’s mood. As I walk into the lab, Irwin rolls his eyes, says, “C’mon” with a huge sigh and then lumbers to the darkroom.

  Once inside, everything, including Irwin, has a strange red cast to it. The smell of chemicals is overwhelming. Sharp and tangy — but not unpleasant. The area we’ll work in is cramped, nothing like the open air preserve where I usually create art.

  He sets to work immediately, organizing his equipment and issuing commands. “You need to measure the exact amounts for each chemical. Read the instructions on the label every single time.” Or, as he picks up one container of pre-mixed chemicals, “Here. Look. This one is about to expire. Always check the expiration dates.”

  The number of things to remember has my head spinning. Irwin has posted lists and rules above each step, and he taps them as he takes me through his routine. I don’t love this; it’s so not me.

  He shows me how to agitate: invert, twist, bang, bang. Then he tells me I can find the agitation technique that works for me. Why tempt fate? I’ll probably just stick with his method.

  “Last year,” he tells me, “Cynthia Andreade was the other photographer. The way she left the darkroom was a nightmare.”

  “Oh, you must be happy she graduated,” I say.

  “She didn’t graduate. I just told Mr. Fischer I couldn’t work with her anymore.” Somehow this tidbit doesn’t surprise me. “That’s how I ended up with you.” The way he says this makes me think he might prefer Cynthia.

  As Irwin works, I notice he appears more confident in here than he does outside the darkroom. His fluid motions and straight shoulders make me think I could almost call him Tad.

  He slowly pulls the film off the reel and clips one end to an overhead cord. “Okay, this is the last thing we’ll do until after school,” he says, then pulls the rest of the film off the reel and weights it with a clothes pin. Damp sponge in hand, he makes me feel the amount of water in it. “Like this,” he says, sliding the sponge down the film, barely touching it. Despite his clumsiness, he does this gently, almost lovingly.

  “Now you try.” He hands the sponge to me. “Be careful not to scratch the negatives. They’re soft right now.”

  I mimic his motions, treating the film as though it’s something fragile in Mom’s china cabinet.

  “Good,” Irwin proclaims. “Meet me back here after school.”

  We step from the darkroom into the bright fluorescent lights. His shoulders slump immediately, changing him from everybody-calls-me-Tad into plain old Irwin again.

  ~~~

  At home that afternoon I doze, my wavy comforter snuggled under my chin. Images from school swim through my mind — Lexie in the front hall before the first bell, my meetings with Irwin. His negativity sapped my energy and left me drained. After school when we reviewed my shots of the Regional swim meet, he pointed to one after another. “Sloppy. Boring. Amateurish. Blurry. This one isn’t framed right, but we might be able to save it with cropping.”

  Well, that was progress.

  Finally we came to Sam’s victory shot. It was backlit with great contrast, and the beads of water on him glistened. But the best part was his genuine smile and the emotion I captured when he raised his arms overhead. Even Irwin knew it was good.

  “This is a keeper. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  I roll over and smile. The photo of Sam makes me happy, partially because it’s him, and partially because I know it’ll end up in the yearbook. So I accomplished one thing today. But, it’s time to tackle the next project — the Fallopian Tubes cover art.

  I haul myself out of bed. Sluggish. Then sit at my desk. Slowly, I flip through the sketchpad of my old ideas. What was wrong with the name Estrogen Ocean? I’d be nearly finished now.

  Page turn.

  I still really like the butterfly. Maybe I should hang it.

  I tear this sheet from my sketchbook and set it aside.

  The jellyfish are cool, but have nothing to do with Fallopian Tubes. Why did Lexie pick that as a name?

  On a fresh sheet, I doodle with a sharpened pencil, tunnels, circles, the profile of a pregnant woman who could be Desiree in a couple months, the outline of a curvaceous female. I stop. And stare deeply at the drawings, which are a lot of nothing.

  Then, the lightning bolt strikes.

  I take the butterfly and slowly turn it upside down. What appears is a female form — and the antennae, if I angle them in rather than out, are the tubes.

  This delights me more than Sam’s photo. I pick up the phone and call Lexie at Willow’s house where they’re practicing. Without giving her a moment to talk, I spew the idea ending with, “I’m so excited because this was everyone’s favorite drawing the other day.”

  She whoops it up and hollers to the others, “We have cover art!” then into the phone, “I knew you’d figure it out.”

  Like I said, Lexie’s always had more faith in me than I do. This time, it took me turning things upside down to see she was right.

  ~~~

  When John moved into Desiree’s apartment, Mom went into a cleaning frenzy. It’s given our house an electrical charge, like the power lines running along the preserve where it’s so quiet you can hear the crackle. That’s the kind of current she’s throwing off. And I don’t want to get zapped.

  Today she’s hosing off the exterior of the house, the patio and garage floor. Dusting ceiling fan blades, the tops of doors and blinds. The linens are changed for everyone, not only John’s empty room. Bathrooms sparkle; clean towels are folded and hung. Now she’s armed with a toothbrush and sponge.

  While dancing to the Chili Peppers, I scrub the kitchen, even though I did it two days ago. I won’t complain. John told me Mom will consider time off for good behavior. With only three days left on my grounding, I plan to ask for early parole.

  As I finish the floor, Mom walks into the kitchen. “This looks great. Thank you.” She takes her toothbrush to a corner under the kitchen counter, loosens a few crumbs and wipes with the sponge. Cleaning is a battle to her. Today she has conquered the dirt and is gloating in victory.

  Timing is everything. At least that’s what John said when I asked his advice during the move to Desiree’s apartment on Saturday. “You gotta catch her in just the right mood. Like when the house looks good.” John carried a large box of his stuff, while I strolled next to him with an armload of clothes on hangers to the open door of the apartment. He let me go through first and said, “The bedroom’s on the left.”

  When I walked in, it hit me — this is Desiree’s room. I mean I knew they were married and everything, so I don’t know what I was thinking. John would still have his own room? Duh. But still, it’s a shock.

  Her apartment was so different from our home. Not nearly as nice. Two bedrooms, one bath and a tiny kitchen with a stacked washer and dryer made it feel cramped. There was a weird mix of art on the walls and what Mom calls knick-knacks.

  John put down the box and grinned. “Home, sweet home.” He was happy to be a free man. That was his official break from Prison Robinson.

  I hope to be liberated — today — by taking his advice.

  “Hey, you know my grounding ends on Friday night, but a bunch of kids from school are going ice skating tonight, so I wondered if I could go,” I say while wiping the refrigerator door.

  “Who’s going?” she asks in a way that sounds promising. Her toothbrush attacks the kitchen faucet. At
least it won’t get cavities.

  “Alana will be there.” Mom thinks if I spend enough time with her, maybe her newfound style and popularity will polish me to a shine.

  “Oh, that’s great. She’s beautiful on the ice.”

  Ack. Did she have to remind me Alana used to figure skate competitively? Instantly I feel completely inferior to my ex-bestie. “Right. Lexie’s mom said she’d drive.”

  “Oh, Lexie’s going, too?”

  “Everyone’s going,” I say.

  This is a slight exaggeration because I’d bet real money Irwin won’t go. Ditto for Nigel Chang and his courtyard buddies. But there was quite a buzz at school about it, so a lot of kids will be there.

  “Let me call Mrs. Murphy to make sure it’s okay.”

  If it makes you feel better. “So does that mean I can go?” I ask.

  “I’m confirming.” Mom picks up the phone, dials, puts it to her ear and taps her fingernail on the kitchen counter, my signal to calm down.

  She covers the mouthpiece. “Why don’t you go dust the family room?”

  Whatever you say, Warden.

  ~~~

  “What size?” an old guy missing most of his front teeth says to me. He’s standing behind a scarred wood counter and appears to be the official Keeper of the Skates. Capitalize that title, please.

  “Eight and a half.”

  “No half sizes,” he says, and sucks where his teeth ought to be. He grabs a pair of size nines from the shelf behind him and hands them to me.

  The rink, Polar Ice, is grungy. Mom would have a conniption, because even I can see it needs a cleaning and a fresh coat of paint.

  Lexie shivers, zipping her sweatshirt all the way to the top. “How did I let you talk me into this?”

  I sit on the bench and pull the straps through the front of the stiff boots, snapping them into place. For some reason it reminds me of the lifejacket. Too snug. “You agreed because this is my first night of freedom in a month and you are a truly supportive friend.”

  “There has to be a warmer place I could support you.” She waves her hand at one of the glowing red space heaters mounted to the ceiling. “A place where I don’t run the risk of making a total fool of myself. I haven’t done this since that scavenger hunt in middle school.”