“Just keep them right there.”
Tara bridges and Sammy magically appears in front of us.
“There you go, Sammy. Now, KT, just keep your hands right there for a shake.”
Sammy faces me square on and literally puts her fins in my waiting hands. Which is cool. For sure cool. I can now confirm that dolphin skin feels exactly how I imagined and also not at all like it. Like rubber and windbreaker material had a monstrous, whale-sized baby.
Yes, Sammy is huge. Her size up close proves more impressive than her skin.
I shiver.
“Perfect. Thank you, Sammy. You’re such a good girl!” Tara throws Sammy a fish. Sure enough, she uses her Tic Tac teeth to snag the little guy. There sure are a lot of them. Probably more than she needs. Great hunting teeth. Could definitely bite if they wanted to. Sammy swims away, and though her tail doesn’t smack me in the face, I flinch anyway. Her change of direction causes a swell and the water suddenly rises to my chin.
I can’t help but imagine everything that’s beneath the surface of the water. Seven dolphins. Some innocent fish that may be eaten by the aforementioned dolphins. Seaweed. Maybe some crabs. Possibly an eel. Shoot, there could be the remains of a shipwreck for all I know.
And me.
Tara instructs me to unbuckle from the chair. When I do, I float to the surface of the water. The life jacket that I knew was a little too big doesn’t slide off me, but it is super uncomfortable. It digs into the bottoms of my armpits. I don’t even need it. I haven’t swum with a life jacket in years, and it makes me feel wobbly, when usually in the water I feel like a mermaid because it’s the only place I can move freely without fighting gravity.
“Okay, when I say so in a minute, you can swim out to the middle of the lagoon. We’ll start with a dorsal pull first, and then go for a little kiss!” Tara howls. “Once you’ve swum out, all you’ll need to do is hold your hands out like you did before for the shake. When Sammy swims by, grab on to her top fin, and she’ll give you a little ride back into the dock.”
At least I think that’s what she said. Maybe she said more, I’m not sure. It’s hard to pay attention when I’m so cold and shivery and my chest feels so fluttery, and my stomach, too, now that I think about it. I know Sammy’s swimming around below me somewhere, but I can’t see her. I imagine her charging back and forth. And then I imagine Luna and Cola and Ginger and the three others all doing the same thing. A lagoon full of charging, toothy dolphins nowhere actually to be seen.
Oh, boy. I could puke, I think. If I puke, will the dolphins be grossed out?
“Sammy away!” Tara’s lost sight of her. Sammy could be anywhere. Across the lagoon, right next to me, right under me about to shoot up. If dolphins don’t have depth perception, how on earth will they avoid smacking into me?
I suddenly wish I were swimming with Cola. Even though he’s new to Dolphina Cove, dolphin training is all about relationships, right? We had a moment. A wave. Cola gets me. Right?
Sammy is still away, and most of the dolphins are doing that thing where they’re hiding again. A dorsal fin or tail here and there, but the more I consider what’s really occurring, it feels like chaos, and I have no idea what could happen next. Why does the water have to be so not transparent? How is this the one place in all of postcard-y Florida with dangerous dark water, like it’s hiding a secret?
I sense movement again. Sammy’s back at the dock, next to Tara. She feeds her a fish. I realize how far I’ve floated from the dock. I could easily swim back, but suddenly I feel all alone out here. KT Island in the dolphin lagoon.
I glance at my mom, who gives me a wave. All the other guests lean on the dock railing, watching the scene unfold. I’m in the spotlight.
“Good girl, Sammy. You’re doing so great, aren’t you?” Tara coos. “Okay, KT, now put your hands up in front of you like before.”
I’m about to, but the image of six more dolphins runs on a loop in my mind. Six more dolphins that I can’t see. Six more dolphins without depth perception charging underwater with Tic Tac teeth that can snag fish—or an almost-thirteen-year-old girl bobbing helplessly in the middle of a murky lagoon.
I think about bridging, and how it literally makes no sense that a human can communicate with an animal with a single whistle sound.
I think about dolphins being gigantic, oversized marine mammals.
I think about the times during training that Sammy and Ginger and Luna and the others didn’t earn a reinforcement, and how Cola’s only trained to tail wave with guests.
How do the trainers really know what is going to happen?
I steal a glance up, away from the maybe-eel-maybe-monster-infested mystery water. The sky is still Disney-movie blue, which feels strangely optimistic in this moment. Mocking, really.
I try to lift my arms, and as Sammy swims by, some salt water seeps into my mouth. It tastes almost poisonous. Sammy dashes by. Like a torpedo, a bullet, a predator. There’s no way I could’ve caught her dorsal fin even if I’d wanted to. And I’m not sure I want to anymore. The pressure of her wake confirms that she is big and I am small and—
I have to get out of here.
“Sammy away. Cola away,” Natalia calls from her station on the dock.
Tara bridges, I think. Then she slaps the water with the palm of her hand. The sound cracks like a whip.
I have to get out of here right now.
“Tara, I’m actually really nauseous,” I cry. “I’m gonna barf.”
Or maybe I didn’t say that at all. I certainly meant to. I mainly remember swimming as fast as possible back to the closest dock. Not the movable one, just the closest way to get out of the water. There was a lot of splashing. Swimming with a life vest is much harder than regular swimming.
As Mom and Natalia lift me out of the water and onto the dock, all I can imagine is dozens of Tic Tac teeth nipping at my toes. When I’m out, I frantically look to find my feet to make sure they’re not bleeding without my knowledge. I spend the next forty-five minutes seated safely in Sprinkle, wrapped tight in a towel, watching the other guests get dorsal pulls and kisses from the dolphins. The entire time Mom gently strokes the wet ponytail plastered to my neck. Tara asks if I want to give it another go at the end of the session, but I shake my head no.
I’m never, ever getting back in that water.
At the end of the day, I give Tara and the other trainers hugs goodbye. I assure them that, yes, I’m totally fine, no big deal, must have gotten seasick, had the best day ever. They look a little worried still, but I insist I’m fine. I keep on insisting until their smiles look a little more relaxed and the flood of worry has left their eyes, though my chest still feels a little fluttery. I’m pretty sure that by the end they believe my lie. Maybe it wasn’t a lie. Maybe I really was seasick.
No. It was the water. The unpredictability. The size. Surprises nonstop.
Tigers are cool, but I don’t want to go in a cage with them.
Sammy never gave me a kiss. I never got to ride on her dorsal fin, never sailed through the water like the kids with the big smiles in all the photos.
That little girl in the striped one-piece probably didn’t think I was brave at all.
I leave Dolphina Cove sad, scared, disappointed, and ashamed. Too many emotions for one almost-thirteen-year-old girl at once.
I tell Mom I don’t want to talk about it on the way home. All I can think about, as warm air filters through the open window and palm trees make long shadows over the road in the afternoon sun, is how much I miss snow.
I only check my phone when I’m at home, in my bedroom that I don’t share with Lucy, door shut. I have a bazillion texts from Cady and Kaytee asking for pictures and updates and more pictures.
Nothing about today makes sense. How can some of the best moments of your life be followed by some of the worst? I don’t understand how the thing I love the most can also be the scariest. Dolphins are supposed to be fun and playful and joyful and happy and wonde
rful. They’re supposed to bring joy and laughter. They do bring joy and laughter. Why not to me? Why not anymore?
Iowa City feels farther away than ever.
Dad comes into my bedroom to say good night. His leather-bound journal is in his hand.
“Write anything good?”
Dad went to school for poetry. He realized halfway through his master’s degree that there was no way he’d make a living doing it, so he tagged along with a friend on a residential electrician gig, and it became his day job. Then it became his job-job.
He takes a big breath and lets it out slowly. I like how Dad thinks about his answers, doesn’t just say them. “The air is different here,” he says finally.
“That’s not the only thing,” I mutter.
“Different air, different words.”
I nod. Though what he said basically makes no sense, I think I get it. I’m glad I’m not the only one who might feel like they’re suddenly living in outer space.
“How are you doing, KT Lady?”
“I’m fine,” I respond quickly.
“Mom told me today ended a little differently than you expected.” Different. The word of the day, week, and probably year.
I nod again. Now that I’m not near the potentially eel-infested dangerous water and hypothetically menacing marine mammals, my fear of swimming with my still-beloved dolphins feels a little less severe.
“You don’t look totally fine.”
I shrug. I’m not sure what will happen to my voice if I try to speak. I could cry, and after the long day in the sun, I’m just not in the mood.
“Remember: If something doesn’t feel doable, you’ll just find another way to make it happen.” He looks me in the eye for a few seconds, then adds, “But only if you want to. Okay?”
“Okay,” I acknowledge.
Dad kisses me good night on my forehead, just to the right of center like always.
“Leave the door open,” I remind him when he turns to go.
“Of course. For the ghosts to sneak out,” he replies, referring to a longstanding Wynn family joke that nobody really remembers the origin of anymore. Yes, tradition is tradition. Some things aren’t meant to change.
I send Cady and Kaytee some stills from the Dolphina Cove parking lot and text, More to come! before turning my phone on silent.
But not before I set my alarm. Tomorrow is the first day of school.
I awake to the smell of muffins of the blueberry-cornflake variety. When I open my eyes, I’m temporarily disoriented. The room is dark, but the walls are bare. My dresser isn’t by the doorway, it’s next to my bed, the window faces the wrong way, and nobody is snoring in the top bunk.
Oh, right. I’m in Florida. Not home. Those muffins, though …
Dad makes blueberry-cornflake muffins every time there’s a big day ahead. A “big day” can be a birthday (forty-seven days, by the way), the first day of the NCAA basketball tournament, or if he had a happy dream the night before. One morning in May, I came into the kitchen and he threw a warm muffin to me before declaring, “Happy Rainy Monday Appreciation Day!” (For the record, it was hardly even drizzling, but ever since the beginning of the week, precipitation feels like good luck.) Whatever the occasion, made-up or legit, Dad always determines when there’s a big day. And, historically, the first day of school counts as a big day. He must have gotten up extra, extra early to make them before he had to leave for work.
It’s still dark outside, so it’s really the muffins that get me out of bed, not the promise of daylight. I can only snooze so long when there is such a delicious scent in the air. I was tossing and turning all night anyway. The first day of school is always nerve-racking, but if the first day of seventh grade—in a new school—were an earthquake, it’d measure off the charts on the Richter scale.
I grab a muffin from the kitchen and bring it back to the bathroom to nibble on while I get the flat iron going. I’m not going to deal with this Southern frizz on day one.
The muffins are good, but—and I’d never tell Dad this—they tasted better back in Iowa City. Maybe it’s the water here or something. Kaytee once told me that bagels can only truly be made in New York because there’s some special mineral in their tap water that adds a unique flavor. Maybe that’s the case for Iowa City and blueberry-cornflake muffins.
One hour later, I examine myself in the mirror. Not bad. I’m wearing a lavender cap-sleeve T-shirt I got at the mall before we moved, white jean shorts, and a pair of white low-top Converse. An outfit that really says, “Iowa flair, don’t care, ready to rock, ready to roll …” I haven’t figured out the rest. On second thought …
“Luce, will you come here for last looks?” I call. I make sure my dolphin studs are locked in extra tight. They fit perfectly on my slightly-smaller-than-typical earlobes.
“Don’t be lazy. Come in here,” she answers.
Ugh, fine, I think. Lucy doesn’t let me get away with anything, which is annoying but also a very important quality in a sister.
I wheel into Lucy’s room to get an outfit check. She sits on her bed, cross-legged, French braiding her hair.
“When’d you learn that?” I ask.
“I dunno.” Never in the history of Lucy Wynn has she worn her honeycomb-blond (what some might call dirty blond but, no, because—rude) hair in anything other than a topknot or ponytail. I mean, never. Even when she’s fresh out of the shower, it always goes right up.
“Cute,” I say. It is, though it’s amazing how different someone you’ve known your whole life can look with a slightly changed hairdo. “My first-day outfit on point?”
“Solid,” Lucy says.
“I picked the lavender top because I think it accentuates my tan,” I explain. Sun-kissed skin seems like the right first-day-of-Florida-school vibe. “But I also have the coral one with the V-neck and tiny pocket.”
“Lavender for life,” Lucy says definitively. “Ugh, this is so hard,” Lucy mutters to herself. She messes up her hair to start over.
“You snooze, you lose on the muffins,” I say. “You know I’m a bottomless pit when it comes to breakfast carbs.”
“True story. I’ll be out in a sec,” Lucy answers. I turn Sprinkle to go, when she adds, “Hey. Fernbank Middle School won’t know what hit ’em. Let’s have a great day. Sister Secret.”
“Sister Secret.”
And even though it’s more of a promise than a secret, I feel better knowing that Lucy and I are on the same page. New grade, new school, new state, new looks, and new Sister Secrets.
Off we go.
The first thing that strikes me about Fernbank Middle School is the teal. So. Much. Teal. It’s a pretty color, and I know, I know, we’re near the ocean, and I get it’s the school’s color (well, teal and gray, technically, but the gray doesn’t exactly pop), but my goodness, it’s everywhere: the sign that says “Fernbank Middle School, Learning Today, Leading Tomorrow!” outside the main entrance. The front doors. The trim below the roof of the low buildings. The poles that hold up the awnings lining the hallways. The lockers. The general vibe. Aquatic overkill. Like the humidity, it’s relentless. Iowa City Middle School’s colors were black and yellow, but it’s not like everything was painted like a bumblebee.
Oh! And the hallways aren’t inside. That’s right. The passageways connecting classrooms, cafeteria, and the main office are open-air. A (teal) roof thing keeps everything covered, but there are no walls. They’re like wall-less hallways. It’s all very Florida. This kind of architecture would never fly in Iowa City; it gets way too cold and snowy.
As planned, Mom comes into school early with me so we can touch base with the principal and make sure cutout desks are set up in my classrooms, the elevator between floors is working, there’s a plan in place for gym, et cetera, et cetera; stuff that happened when I started middle school last year in Iowa City but wasn’t all that complicated because Principal Boundy and my mom went to high school together, and she’s known me since I was born, so she
was super cool and on top of everything.
“So happy to have you joining us here at Fernbank Middle,” Principal Lim says after we’ve gone over all the details. “I know it’s tough to adjust to a new state and a new school. If you need anything, my door is always open.” She looks me in the eye when she speaks to me. Phew.
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.
Principal Lim turns to Mom. “Same goes for you, Mrs. Wynn.”
I hear a timid knock on the door. When I turn to see who’s there, a head with lots of short, dark brown braids, wide brown eyes, and jittery eyebrows appears in the doorway. The girl’s body is hidden behind the wall, her head floating in the air like a balloon without a string.
“Sabina, perfect timing,” Principal Lim says. “You can come on in.
Sabina walks through the door. She wears cuffed jeans and a yellow-and-white-striped T-shirt. She holds the shoulder straps of her backpack tight in her hands and taps her right foot to a nonexistent beat. She also smiles big, revealing perfect teeth behind a very obvious retainer.
I have always been a fan of big smiles, retainers notwithstanding.
“Hey, I’m Sabina,” she says with a little wave. “But everyone calls me Socks.”
I instantly stare at her ankles. No socks in sight.
“Hi. I’m KT.” I give her a wave that turns into a peace sign that then turns back into a wave, because I’ve never given anyone a peace sign before in my life, and that’s just odd. Oof. Awkward. Socks doesn’t seem thrown, though. I realize that for all she knows, this is my signature wave. She’s never seen me wave before!
“Socks volunteered to show you around today,” Principal Lim says. I like that she calls Sabina by her nickname. “Y’all have homeroom and a lot of your classes together. Plus, Socks is kind of like the mayor of this school.”
I’m not sure what that means, but Socks takes a grand bow, which makes me grin. I notice her cheeks are slightly flushed when she’s returned upright. She fiddles with one of her braids like it’s a good luck charm.
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