by Shel Delisle
I hold up the clothes and it’s hard to tell which is which because there is hardly any difference. “Why so many sizes?”
“Oh honey, they grow so fast,” Mom says.
But I think she may have gone overboard because the baby can’t wear the six-month size for, well, six months. Desiree will get to the store before then.
“Are we done?” I ask.
“Not even close.” Mom holds a registry form. It’s not Desiree’s picks, since she never registered. But Mom asked for a blank one to have a complete list. “We’ve got to pick the big items. Crib, changing table, stroller, car seat, swing. Babies need a lot of stuff, Jane.”
Mom’s totally in her element. This is what she lives for, and it drives me crazy. And this is what my weekends have been reduced to without a best friend. Or a boyfriend, since Sam and Alana have cultivated their couplehood.
I’m so not into this.
“Where are the strollers?” Mom asks no one in particular and turns the cart in circles, reading the overhead signs. Aisle 3. She points the cart, and I follow.
On the way to strollers, Mom gets sidetracked by a special display with sentimental items like baby books and kits to make footprints out of clay. The display features christening gowns and she examines the white, lacy dresses, taking one off the hanger, flipping it inside out, inspecting the seams and holding it to the light like some kind of rare stamp. The whole ritual embarrasses me.
She scowls at the price tag. “I wonder if Desiree is planning on having the baby christened? I’m sure I still have the gown you wore, and it’s much nicer than any of these.”
“I think so. She asked me to be the godmother.”
Mom, who has been irritatingly chipper all day, shuts down. Her hand freezes on the way to re-hanging the gown.
“A couple weeks ago — on the way to her appointment,” I add, filling the emptiness.
“You can’t be the godmother.” Mom re-hangs the gown without looking at me.
“Why not?”
“It’s too much responsibility for a sixteen-year–old. It’s nice Desiree thought of you, but she should have asked me first. She’s not thinking clearly about this. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her.”
I don’t know if Mom means Desiree should have asked her to be the godmother or asked for her opinion on choosing me. Whichever one it is, I’m not worried. Pissed? Yeah, well, I was kinda excited to be a godmother.
And either way, Desiree won’t be happy when Mom sticks her nose in.
Mom steers the cart to the stroller aisle. “I’m not really surprised she didn’t think this through. The baby’s due in about a month, and she hadn’t bought anything yet.” I can’t tell if she’s talking to me or to herself.
“I thought you were starting to like her.”
“I do like her. But that doesn’t mean I want you to be like her. Or that I want your life to be like hers.”
“You don’t get it,” I say.
Mom takes a stroller off the shelf for inspection. “Oh, I get it, all right. Desiree’s a twenty-nine-year-old pregnant waitress who’s married to your brother. She has no degree but takes classes every once and a while. She has virtually no savings, no house, no financial stability.” Mom’s face reddens, and her voice is as loud as it ever gets. She’s trying to unlock the stroller, to see how it opens, but it’s stuck.
“All those things — those things you worry about are so, so — superficial,” I yell. “Money, money, money. That’s all you ever think about. I’m sure if her parents helped she’d have a degree.” My fists clench at my sides.
“Well, I’m not sure she would. She’s got no direction. But that isn’t even the point. The point is, her parents didn’t help her because she cut off ties with them.” She taps her fingernail on the stroller, a signal for me to stop. Mom lowers her voice, but other shoppers have noticed we’re having a disagreement, because a couple people came to look at strollers and turned around instantly, leaving Aisle 3 to us alone.
“You have no idea why she left her family behind at eighteen, do you? Well, I’ll tell you why. They were like you.”
“Like me? What do you mean?”
“Too many damn rules!”
“Watch your language, young lady,” Mom commands. “That’s not true.”
“It is true. She told me. And you know what else she told me? Her parents wouldn’t let her see her boyfriend. It’s what you did with Lexie.”
“I’m pretty sure I made the right decision with that one.” Tap, tap. “She’s never had any manners.”
“Screw manners,” I yell, and wave my arms, hitting a teddy bear. He falls to the ground. I can’t believe I’m yelling at my Mom in the middle of a store. I’ve never even yelled at her at home.
“Jane, you need to calm down. This is not the place or the time.” Mom picks up the teddy, starts to put it on the shelf, but adds it to the cart. She steers the cart away from Aisle 3, with me close on her heels.
“I’m sick of your manners and rules. You don’t even follow them. What etiquette book told you it would be okay to buy all this,” I wave my hand above the overloaded cart, “without even asking Desiree what she wants?”
This stuns Mom. She stops pushing the cart, and her fingernail hovers. She lowers her voice. “I thought it was important for the baby to have a proper start. I’m going to be the grandparent, after all.”
“All you think about is yourself. What about Desiree’s feelings? You think of her as a kid, but she’s not. She’s going to be a mom. You need to think of her as a parent.” I wonder why it’s easier for me to fight for Desiree than it is to fight for myself.
Mom’s response is level and cool. “Parents set boundaries, Jane. I worry about Desiree being able to do this. I worry about John — he’s so young.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “Your boundary is a barbed-wire fence. You try to keep everything perfectly ordered. You don’t allow any mistakes.”
Mom stares at the floor. “That’s not true,” she says barely audible, playing with one of the binkies.
“You need to wake up, or I’ll do what Desiree did when she turned eighteen. I swear, I’ll leave and never come back.” Now I’m fighting for myself.
“I hope not,” Mom steers the cart to the register. Her hands shake as she places clothes, diapers and other paraphernalia on the counter.
Good. Finally I got to her.
Then she smiles at the cashier. “Hi, how’re you today?” Like everything is just peachy, like we’re not having the biggest fight of our life. What a phony! Mom continues to unload the cart. “You’ve still got a bit of growing up to do.”
Her dismissal scorches me. “Yeah. If you’d let me.”
I’ve always wanted her approval, but it seems out of reach. I’m about ready to say, screw approval.
~~~
Tuesday after dinner, I finally work up the courage to hand Mom my interim report. Her eyes dart from my grades to teacher comments, including the requested conference with Mrs. Fonseca.
I bombed the quiz on Monday. My interim shows a C. Barely.
“A seventy in Algebra? That’s not good. Why does Mrs. Fonseca want to talk to me?”
“I— My grade is getting worse. It might go down. I mean, it will go down. I don’t get the quadratic formula.”
“Well, that’s unacceptable.”
I knew this would be her reaction, but don’t know how she thinks I can fix it. “Look, I didn’t try to get a C.” I neglect to mention the Ds and Fs I’ve gotten lately.
Mom taps her finger on the table. “I refuse to go through this again.” What is she talking about? “First your brother, and now you. He got into UF and then walked away. You won’t even get in with grades like that.” She taps the fingernail with a steady tick, tick. “What’s happening to this family? What’s next with you?”
What does John have to do with the quadratic formula?
Mom smooths the interim flat on the table with her palms, ironing out my
wrinkles. “You know how important grades are to me. Everything else is a privilege.”
I don’t even know what everything else refers to. She’s taken Lexie away, and I lost Sam. Yearbook? Is that what she means? Fine. “So you want me to give up yearbook?”
Mom glances at the ceiling like an answer is printed there. Then, her fingernail becomes a machine gun staccato. “Yes, no more yearbook. And the dolphin swim is postponed until you get this Algebra grade fixed.”
What? That was my Christmas present! I can’t believe that’s my punishment. “Don’t take away the dolphins. Can’t I just be grounded again for a month?”
Mom shakes her head.
“Two months?”
“The dolphin swim is postponed,” Mom says with one final tap.
“That sucks,” I say under my breath and glare at her. She thinks my grade is unacceptable. How would she feel if I gave her a grade as my mother and she failed?
Because she would. Right now I would give her a big, fat F for epic fail.
Living in this house is unacceptable.
My life is unacceptable.
She’s wrong about me, and she’s wrong about this punishment or privilege or whatever she wants to call it. And you know what else? Desiree was wrong, too.
I am a rebel.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I pop up — wide awake — and look at the clock. It’s 3:30 a.m. Immediately, I begin replaying my disagreement with Mom. I fell asleep thinking about bad grades, no dolphin swim, no social life — all of it. As soon as I wake, the thoughts loop some more.
I don’t know how to fight back.
It seems like running away is my only option to be free. But the thought of leaving scares me. So I crawl out of bed and turn on my desk lamp. Sam’s face peers at me from the corkboard. “What should I do?” I ask the drawing.
Sitting at the desk, I pull a piece of paper from my sketchbook, but I’m so angry I can’t think of a thing to draw. So instead I scribble a list of everything that’s wrong with my life. When I reach item #10, I realize the list is something Mom would do.
She’s turned me into her.
I haul my duffle off the top shelf of my closet. Toss in some necessities: underwear, board shorts, T-shirts, flip flops, my can’t-live-without jean shorts and one hoodie. My favorite book—The Magic and Mystery of Dolphins. Photography stuff. What else?
Hands on my hips, I look around the room. Dolphin Girl? It’s ridiculous. I won’t need a Halloween costume, but I can’t bear to leave it behind. Right before I zipper it, I pluck Sam’s picture from the corkboard and also decide to bring the list I started this morning, in case I ever need a reminder about why I did this.
What time is it now? 4:12. That didn’t take long.
I can’t leave until after Mom and Dad have gone to work, so I need to find another way to kill time. Going back to sleep is not an option.
Staring at my dolphin poster, I zone out. It’s almost like sleepwalking as I glide over to it and tug on the upper right corner. The poster catches and tears in a diagonal gash. The rip is huge, at least a third of the poster. No turning back now. I take down the rest and pitch it into a pile.
The anger from earlier is gone. My insides feel empty. I grab soft lead pencils from my desk and outline the scene I’m going to create. A pod of dolphins swimming above a beautiful, colorful coral reef. I fill the wall across from my bed.
When the sketch is complete, I pull large, labeled Rubbermaid storage containers from under my bed. Art supply organization, courtesy of Mom. I shove the ones containing acrylic paints and brushes along the far wall next to the mangled poster.
Now, where is my palette?
I stick my head under the bed skirt, see it along the far side and pull it out. Dust bunnies cling to it. I can hear Mom’s you should take better care of your things. It pisses me off that she’s right.
Taking my favorite large brush, I paint in big, sweeping strokes the first layer of the ocean, leaving space around the areas where I’ll include the dolphin pod and coral reef. I’m underwater now, the paintbrush is my snorkel.
Working faster than I usually do, the paint flows onto the walls in exactly the right places. Ordinarily I fiddle and re-do and re-do, but I’m satisfied with the art that’s emerging. At least for now.
The smell of coffee breaks my trance. I hear my parents’ morning ritual: the shower running in Mom’s bath. Dad’s footsteps on the stairs.
What time is it? 7:27.
I tuck the paintbrush behind my ear, locking the door before someone comes.
“What’s that smell? Are you painting in there?” Mom asks.
“Working on my mobile.” My voice has a slight quiver in it.
“Okay, but you should stop soon to get ready for school. See you later, honey.”
Much later.
After I do sneaky things, like getting tattooed or switching out my gown, I suffer. This morning is no different as I watch Mom’s car pull out of the driveway. Guilt. I’ll be running away and skipping. But I don’t see another solution. Five minutes later, Dad leaves.
I re-open my door to air the room.
My hair’s fallen into my face. While holding the paintbrush, I use the back of my hand to push it out of my eyes.
The mural surprises me as I consider what to paint next. Light filters through the aqua to indigo water. The reef is scarlet and flame and wine, all textured. I’ll paint Flipper into the picture. Even though he’s a freshwater fish, it’s the closest thing to freedom I can give him.
A pod of dolphins is situated above the reef. Creating the look of movement is so difficult, but somehow I’ve pulled off the sensation they’re swimming.
I want to paint myself with the dolphins, except I can’t. Not yet.
My stomach grumbles and I glance at the clock. 9:15. It doesn’t seem possible I’ve been doing this for five hours straight. I glance at the duffle, my paintbrush, the mural, and decide it’s time to go.
~~~
The sun is low in the sky when footsteps from behind distract me from the sketch I’m working on — a self-portrait in four stages where I start as plain Jane and by the fourth picture I’m a dolphin. I turn to see who’s there. It’s the preserve’s ranger. The guy who hardly ever steps out of his trailer. “Miss, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
Before I left the house this morning, I removed Mom’s list from the fridge, crammed it into the duffle and replaced it with a note held up by the Do Not Ignore magnet: Taking away the dolphin swim was wrong.
That’s it. The note, and the nearly finished mural in my room. That should send a clear message about what I think of her rules.
I didn’t know where I was going, but my feet carried me to the preserve. All day, I’ve wished and wondered if I could live here somehow. It’s a dumb idea — no tent, no supplies, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it.
The day had been peaceful and solitary until ranger man showed up. “I need to close the park,” he says, glancing at the large duffle I’m leaning against, then rubs his hand over a yin-yang tattoo on his forearm.
Cool design, but I like my dolphin better.
Nodding, I unzip the huge bag and pack the sketch pad, drawing tools and what’s left of my bag of Sun Chips. “See ya!” I wave, and weave my way back across the raised walkways.
When I reach the entrance, he slides the chain link gate closed and pad locks it.
I need a place to go. On my cell there are two new messages — both from Mom. Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna call her.
Speed-dial John. He answers after one ring. “Hey! Janey-bo-baney, what’s new?”
I figure it makes no sense to make small talk. “I ran away. Can you come get me?”
Ten minutes later, the ancient Camry pulls onto the shoulder alongside the gate. He pops the trunk, and I heave the duffle and backpack into it.
“I’m still working, so you have to come to the restaurant with me,” he says as I duck into the passenger
seat.
Fine with me. I have no curfew now.
~~~
The restaurant isn’t very busy — only three of the fifteen tables are taken. Diners eat at two of them, and Desiree sits at one in the corner with her feet propped up on a plastic milk crate.
I drop my duffle next to the crate and plop into a chair across from her. She’s filling shakers with sea salt from a huge carton and gourmet peppercorns from a jug.
“Need help?” I ask.
“Sure.” Desiree slides a cluster of pepper shakers to me, like a dealer doling out chips in a casino.
The atmosphere here is so comfortable. Warm, spicy smells waft from the kitchen and the decorations are funky and eclectic. It hits me that John has worked here for almost nine months and I’ve only been once before, two weeks after John started back in May.
When we walked in, Mom had said, “Interesting décor.”
But although she didn’t approve, I thought it was cool the way none of the tables, chairs, plates or silverware matched. Sconces in every style from art deco to colonial lined the walls, casting a cozy indirect light. When John came to take our order, he put a plate of homemade hummus and crispy pita chips in the middle of the table. Mom made the same face she’d made when looking at the menu. “Is there any way I can get a plain turkey sandwich? With a slice of tomato?”
“Of course,” John said. “But you ought to try the cucumber sauce, it’s great.”
“I’ll stick with plain.”
Not too surprising if you think about what she named her kids.
Mom dotted a little hummus on the end of her tongue and shook her head. Dad and I didn’t mind; more for us. We scarfed it down. Then the sandwich came. Turkey piled high on thick-sliced bread with sunflower seeds embedded in it. It was easy to tell Mom wasn’t keen on the bread. She opened the sandwich and, horror, they’d put on cucumber sauce. She waved John over and showed him.