Dolphin Girl

by Shel Delisle

  “You know what the kids who buy the yearbook want to see?” His voice has turned nasty. “Pictures of themselves. That’s why we make the group photos dominant.”

  What’s the point of arguing with him? I can’t win. “Look, I know you’re comfortable with your lists and everything.” I wave at the darkroom. “But I thought you, of all people, would be a non-conformist.”

  Irwin grits his teeth and looks at the floor. “We need to go over the schedule.” Candid conversation — over.

  With the paper in front of us, we divvy up the assignments for the next week. Then, in the week before Winter Break, there are three important after-school activities: the Christmas Tree Sale, a toy drive by the Student Government Association and the Snow Ball.

  “I’ll take the tree sale and toy drive. I don’t do balls.” Irwin smirks.

  I laugh at first. Then a huge sigh escapes me. “Can’t you do it? Pleeeease. I’m going and don’t want to take pictures all night.”

  “You’re going? With who?” Behind the perpetually smudged glasses I can see his eyes open in surprise.

  To admit I’m going with Travis had been hard enough to do with my water fountain friends. They all looked at me like I’d lost my mind. But I know ultimately, they still like me. Irwin’s disdain will be a different matter. I can’t figure out how he feels about me, but for some reason I want him to like me.

  “Travis Thomlinson,” I say at half volume.

  Irwin pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and holds them in place. “Isn’t he good friends with that Sam guy — the swimmer?”

  Irwin might have guessed I have a thing for Sam because I’ve posted a couple of the swimming photos in the darkroom.

  “Yeah,” I say. “He’s Sam Rojas’ best friend. It’s complicated.”

  A lopsided smile spreads across his face. “Okay. I’ll shoot the ball, but you have to take the other two activities. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  ~~~

  Mom shoos me to the dressing room at the end of the hallway because it’s large enough for both of us. Six or seven dresses weigh on my arm, and she’s behind me with who knows how many more. We’re over our limit, but Mom sweet-talked the sales lady.

  Hanging the dresses on hooks spaced around the room, Mom oohs and aahs over her selections — all in black — so predictable. She holds a taffeta skirt. “This one is darling. Absolutely darling.”

  It’s probably the worst of the bunch. I mean, c’mon it’s taffeta.

  Mom’s thrilled that I’m going to the Snow Ball — and with a good boy, no less. Our shopping excursion today is the highlight of her life ever since John went and got married and moved in with Desiree. When I told her I’d been asked, she said, “Oh honey, you’re blooming, even if it is a little late.”

  What she doesn’t realize is it took a lot of fertilizer to get me here. I’m going with Travis Thomlinson, for God’s sake.

  And even that seemed up in the air for a while because he didn’t ask until four days after my conversation with Sam. But he did. Finally. And I, according to the plan, said yes.

  This is the fourth store we’ve hit, and I’m firm on leaving here with a gown. I’m sick of shopping, sick of Mom. And since we can’t agree on anything — not style, not color, not length — it’s time for me to make a stand.

  “I really want something unique. Something that says Jane, Jammin’ Junior,” I tell her. That sounds pretty dorky, but she always riles me up.

  “I want you to look beautiful too, honey. Nothing says sophistication like a little black dress.” Mom sorts the gowns in the order she wants me to try them. She pauses, surveying one with teeny rhinestones circling a halter neckline and holds it in front of me. “Oooh, so cute.”

  “All the girls will be wearing black and for once, just once in my life, I want to stand out and be noticed. Can’t you understand?”

  I take one of my choices — a pale aqua mermaid dress — off its hanger and shimmy into it. Mom clucks her tongue while I turn sideways for her to fasten the hook at the back.

  In the three-sided mirror I toss my head side to side, feeling elegant. “I like this one.” It’s glidy and floaty. It’s me.

  Mom rubs her hand gently across her forehead, studying my reflection and taps her forefinger on the wall. “I adore that cut on you, but the color is all wrong for this time of year. It’s too bright. It’s meant to be a prom dress.”

  What difference does the color make if I feel pretty?

  “My favorite’s the black feathered dress at Gowns Galore,” she continues. “It was very chic.”

  Chic, Schmeek! It had feathers. I wonder if she’s from another planet because her favorite would make me look like a crow.

  I pose in the aqua gown, doing my best to sell her. “This is the one.”

  “You haven’t even tried on the others.”

  Twirling in the mermaid gown, I say, “I love this.”

  “Just try them. Maybe you’ll find something better.”

  Why fight it?

  One by one, I slip into and out of the gowns; zip, snap, tie, fluff. I’m a Winter Ball Barbie doll clothed in rich jewel hues of burgundy, royal purple, evergreen and black and black and black.

  The sales lady knocks on the door. “How’re you doing in there?”

  Mom opens the door a crack. “We only have a few more to try.”

  “Let me know if I can help,” she says, and I hear her carpeted footsteps fade away.

  Two dresses are left, both black, including the one with rhinestones Mom deemed “oh-so cute.” The dressing room is oppressively small.

  “I don’t need to try these on. I can tell I don’t like them.”

  “What about this?” Mom holds the skirt of the rhinestone dress.

  “It’s boring,” I practically yell at her.

  “Honey, this dress is not boring, it’s classic. And see, the bottom is quite interesting.” She points out the hem of the dress is longer in back and uneven. I clench my teeth. There’s no way she’s getting me into that dress and she senses it. “Okay. Try on the aqua dress again.”

  Burying a smug smile, I slip into my favorite. I see the finish line, and I’m going to win this time. Mom fastens the neck hook, and I’m surrounded by my reflection. This dress is perfect. It’s exactly what Dolphin Girl should wear.

  The saleslady knocks again. Mom throws open the door, which is a teeny bit embarrassing.

  “I love that dress on you,” the saleslady says. “A lot of people have tried it on, but they never buy it.” She tugs at the waist, making a minor adjustment.

  “Why not?” Mom asks like she’s concerned it’s defective.

  “Because of this.” The saleslady bends over and grabs the bottom where it flares out. “See, if you hem this dress, you lose the line. But—” she holds me at arms’ length— “it’s made for you.”

  There’s love and enthusiasm in her voice. Either it really is made for me, or she’s an excellent saleslady.

  “Plus, since nobody’s been the right height, it’s marked down.” She pulls the tag under my arm and shows Mom. I see slashes of red, blue and purple ink. “You want it?” The sales lady is definitely an advocate for my gown.

  Mom rubs her chin. “I think we have a few more to try. Thanks.” She closes the door and pushes the lock.

  “Aw, Ma.”

  “Humor me, Jane.” She takes the black halter dress on the hanger and holds it right under my chin. “See, sophistication, right?” Then, she moves it away so I’m in the aqua dress. She does the gesture again.

  The black dress is more elegant. God, I hate it when she’s right.

  “So you want me to try this one?” I resign myself to doing what she wants, realizing the nightmare is not over.

  “I think so. I know you see it. You have an artist’s eye.” She says this gently, taking away some of the sting.

  I slip into the silky dress, which is just this simple halter, low cut, super tight under my chest and
cut sort of A-line with a wide bottom. Mom gets behind me to hook the neck and looks over my shoulder at me in the mirror.

  “Oh, honey.” Her eyes tear.

  Mine are a little watery too, because this stupid dress was nothing special on the hanger, but now it looks pretty good. It clings in all the right spots and there’s a glow, a clear aura framing me. It must be the rhinestones.

  “Look. It’s the perfect length,” Mom says.

  The bottom of the gown breaks at my arch. I glance over my shoulder at my back and it looks good from that direction, too. It’s world’s better than the taffeta one, galaxies better than the feathers.

  I know this dress is similar to what other girls will wear, but for a minute I feel like I could fit into the trophy case crowd and become one of them. If just for one night.

  And so I weigh my options — blend, or be myself? It’s not as easy you’d think. I take another peek in the mirror. I look nice in this dress. I glance at the aqua gown and try to choose.

  Mom makes the decision for me. She hugs me from behind, kisses me on the cheek and beams. “You’re going to look beautiful. Take it off, and I’ll go pay for it while you get dressed.” While I slip out of the dress she adds, “We still need to get you shoes and a purse, and something pretty for your hair.” Mom lifts my hair at the back of my head. I sigh and she adds, “Maybe another day.”

  She leaves me alone to get dressed. In the three-way mirror, I glimpse my dolphin tattoo as I slip into my jean shorts. It scolds me. I’m not a little-black-dress person. This day has been one big battle — and, of course, Mom fashioned the outcome.

  Before leaving the dressing room, I take the mermaid gown from the hook and hold it in front of me, turning this way and that. The saleslady’s face appears behind me. “Oh, I’m glad you decided on that one.”

  “I’m not getting—” I start to tell her about the black dress, but say then instead, “Could you hold this for me? For one day?”

  She smiles and takes the hanger from me. “Sure thing, hon. It’s made for you.”

  In the wild, bottlenose dolphins can be seen playing with articles, like stones or sponges, found in their habitat. Sometimes they drape seaweed on their heads or bodies and resemble nothing so much as little girls playing a game of dress-up.

  (Excerpt: The Magic and Mystery of Dolphins)

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rodeo Bob’s is lit up with a neon cowboy being kicked by a neon jackass. Oops, I mean donkey. Every time the donkey kicks, the cowboy’s neon hat flies off.

  How have I ended up here?

  My three-inch silver sandals click-clack on the unfinished, hardwood floors. The lobby is decorated in early cattle drive; the speakers blare with the same music Travis played in his pickup on our way here.

  I turn to Travis. “You said the food’s good here?”

  “Huh?” He leans closer, his ear to my mouth. I can see the top of his head.

  When we bought my shoes, I moaned they would make me too tall. Mom’s advice: Don’t be afraid of your height. With Sam, they would have been fine.

  “The food’s good here?” I yell.

  “You’re right — it’s hard to hear.” A tuxedoed Travis slips his arm around my waist, oblivious to the fact that we look totally out of place.

  It’s hard to miss me in my rhinestone gown as I wobble to an open spot, scanning for a place to sit. Unfortunately, we’re trapped like roped rodeo sheep.

  A lady in blue jeans, cowboy boots and a western shirt stands next to me. It’s not my style, but at least she’s dressed for Rodeo Bob’s. She turns to her boyfriend, who’s also dressed cowboy. “Isn’t that cute? It must be their prom or sumthin’.”

  Or sumthin’ is more like it.

  Earlier tonight, I hid out in Mom’s dressing area because in every single TV show or movie I’ve seen, the girl makes an “entrance.” Quotation marks, please. This way I could walk downstairs while Travis gazed up at me, spellbound, from the first floor.

  Honestly, it seemed phony. If I were going with Sam, I’d probably open the front door myself.

  Mom poked her head in to check on me. “Look what I’ve got,” she said, waving a rhinestone hairclip. We’d searched high and low for something to pull up my hair — with no luck. “I found it yesterday.”

  I perched on the upholstered bench in front of her vanity while she fiddled with the back of my head.

  “Beautiful. Look.” She handed me a mirror, and I angled it to see the clip. Perfect.

  Mom and I have reached some kind of truce since the invitation to the ball. At times during our shopping expeditions, I wanted to shoot her, or better yet, myself. But she honestly wanted to help, and our ceasefire has lasted more than a week.

  Maybe this is the mother-daughter relationship she always wanted. Or maybe I became the good child, what with John’s new life and everything.

  I stood and slipped into the sandals while Mom compulsively smoothed the back of my dress. “If some of the kids go out after the dance, you can go, but be sure to call and let us know. Don’t go off by yourself. And if someone offers you alcohol, don’t take it.”

  Her advice and the de-wrinkling bugged me, but I knew she meant well, so I hugged her and said, “I know. Don’t worry, Mom.”

  When the doorbell chimed, she said, “That’s probably Travis. I’ll go downstairs and — Wait! One more thing.” She dashed to her jewelry box and returned a moment later with her diamond pendant and fastened it at the back of my neck. “There. Now you’re ready.”

  We did the pin-the-flower-take-the-photo-shake-the-hand-be-careful-and-have-fun-thing in the entry hall. In the pickup on the way to the restaurant, Travis announced there’d been a change of plans and that we were going to Rodeo Bob’s, home of the best steak and ribs.

  “Oh, I thought we were going to Chez Antonio’s,” I said.

  Travis impatiently pushed a button to get the CD to a track he wanted to hear. “Sam likes to call all the shots.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I sorta giggled and played along. “So he likes Rodeo Bob’s?”

  “I like it. Chez Antonio is too stuffy.”

  I was totally confused. “So, Sam and Alana are meeting us there? I mean, at Rodeo Bob’s?”

  “No, I called the shots this time. We’ll see them at the dance.” He paused. “Maybe.”

  “Oh.” I was like a broken record of vowel sounds — oh, oh, oh. It sounded like I was at a loss for words, but not so. I just couldn’t say aloud all the words in my head: What about Sam? You didn’t take Alana here for a formal, did you? What about Sam? I can’t believe he’s going to have dinner without me. I really wanted to try the food at Chez Antonio’s. What about Sam?

  I might have gone on like this all the way to the restaurant if Travis hadn’t interrupted my thoughts. “You ever been to Rodeo Bob’s?”

  “No,” I confessed.

  “Well, besides havin’ the best steak and ribs, they give you a bucket of peanuts in the shell, and you get to throw the shells on the floor. It’s great.”

  As we stand in this crowded lobby, I try to avoid the peanut shells on the floor and play with Mom’s diamond pendant. Who knew she’d let me wear her favorite necklace? Guilt creeps in — when we get to the dance, I’m switching into my aqua mermaid gown, courtesy of Lexie. This dress isn’t me, but neither is the restaurant, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

  Thank God our wait for a table is brief and the waitress seats us in the back. As she hands us oversized cow-shaped menus, I notice her nametag says Howdy! I’m Betty Lou, which I don’t believe for a minute.

  The table’s good — we’re out of view, and now I have something to hide behind. Reading it, or pretending to, gives me an excuse for not talking to Travis. I want to hug you, Betty Lou, or whatever your real name is.

  Travis lowers the cow and peeks at me. “Know what you’re havin’?”

  “Still looking. How about you?”

  “The baby back ribs.” Travis helps himself to some peanuts
, cracks them open and munches away. He throws the shells to the floor and pushes the bucket toward me. “Here, eat some.”

  I would have figured out Travis was a peanut fan even if he hadn’t told me, because our bucket is almost half empty now and I’m still playing with my first one as I scan the menu. I’ve never been a carnivore and the menu screams beef, pork and chicken. The only fish is fried catfish. I bet Chez Antonio’s has awesome seafood.

  Once I settle on the Shrimp Ka-RODEO-Bob’s, I can’t use entree selection to avoid Travis any longer. I fold the menu, plastering a pleasant, interested expression on my face.

  Travis smiles at my boobs. “Didya’ decide?”

  “The shrimp kabobs sound good.” I gingerly place the peanut shell next to my water glass and Travis brushes it to the floor.

  “You should have the ribs. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  I don’t like ribs.

  During the awkward silence that follows, I take my napkin and polish my silverware. Then I polish Travis’s silverware. Suddenly I realize this is prissy behavior, like something Mom would do. I stop, fold the napkin and lay it on my lap.

  Sam and Alana must be huddled close, sipping designer water with floating lemon slices, while Travis belches his root beer. Strolling violinists serenade them while we groove to “Red Neck Woman.” They’re enjoying candlelight, while I bask under barn-themed fixtures.

  I so want this dinner to end.

  Unfortunately, the rest of the meal is more of the same. Travis wolfing his food and licking sticky barbeque sauce from his fingers. Me, elevating to a whole new level of prissiness I would have thought impossible. Could it be this dress? I even hand him a Wet Nap to wipe his hands. The worst part is when Travis says, “Sam did a good thing, fixin’ us up.”

  “Yeah?” I ask in confusion. Because this date—and I use that word tongue in cheek — was not the plan. Wasn’t Travis supposed to be with Alana? Wasn’t Sam supposed to be with me? Weren’t we supposed to be eating much better food?