Swimming With Dolphins

by Jessie Paddock

  “Dad will pick you up after school, okay?” Mom says.

  “Okay.” I’m relieved their schedules worked out so I don’t have to take the bus. Mom’s classes are all in the afternoon and evenings this semester, and Dad’s job starts super early in the morning, so he’s off just in time to get me by the last bell at two forty-five.

  Mom gives me a hug and a sweet tug on a strand of my flat-ironed, frizz-less hair. “Have the best day, KT Lady.”

  Mom leaves, Principal Lim stays, and I follow Socks out to the Fernbank Middle hallways en route to homeroom. She walks, I wheel, and we talk. The nice thing about no walls is that the acoustics are better. It’s actually easier to have a conversation than in the echoey corridors of Iowa City Middle.

  Good thing, too, because Socks barely pauses for a breath.

  “So we have almost every class together, except for math because I think you’re advanced.” Socks pauses to glance down at the schedule in my hand. “Yep, you have advanced math, but other than that we have everything together. Not that that’s why I’m your buddy. I was way into it, but it doesn’t hurt that our schedules are major simpatico, ya know?” she asks, and I nod. “It looks like your locker is in hall C, so we can hit that later.”

  Socks officially talks faster than anyone I have ever met. It’s like her mouth has a motor.

  “So this is the main hall. I mean, duh. The school is shaped like an E, so it’s pretty easy in that sense.”

  I can already tell that the lack of walls on the hallways will be disorienting.

  “Whatever you do,” Socks continues, “don’t go to the end of hall A before lunch, like no matter what, because that bathroom smells like rotten Cheerios before noon. It’s unbearable, and I wouldn’t want that kind of torture for you. Trust me. I learned the hard way.”

  Hallway 4 in Iowa City Middle always smelled like microwaved cat litter.

  “Gotcha,” I acknowledge. I look around, taking it all in, ignoring all the kids’ eyes who linger on me a moment too long, then dart away when I make eye contact. I make sure to smile and act like I’m having a good time, because nobody wants to see a mopey girl in a chair.

  A joke.

  Sort of.

  Not ready to try that one out loud.

  “Sorry, I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Not that I’m nervous. I also talk a lot when I’m not nervous. I’m a talker!” Socks throws her hands up like she has no choice in the matter, which is probably true.

  “All good,” I say. I’m happy to have a talker as my official Fernbank Middle tour guide. “So, you’re the mayor?”

  “Unofficially, but basically officially,” she declares proudly. “My mom calls me a social butterfly. My brother, who’s totally annoying, calls me a social carnivore. I think of myself as a social avocado: delicious, nutritious, and adaptable!”

  “I’m into that vibe,” I say. “Never met a social avocado before.”

  Socks suddenly stops moving. “Am I, like, walking too fast for you?”

  “Nope, all good,” I assure her.

  “Oh, okay, cool. I don’t want to be, um, weird or anything.” Socks darts her eyes around like she’s trying to spot a bee. “Anyway, I’m so rude! I haven’t really even introduced myself. A little bit about me: I’m a Florida lifer, born and raised right here in Fernbank. I’m going out for basketball this year, but only if it’s confirmed that I don’t have to get braces again. I’m basically allergic to gluten and peanuts, but what I lack in wheat I make up for with sucrose!” Socks pops a handful of M&M’s straight from her pocket into her mouth. “Blue ones are my favorite. My parents think I’m hyper.”

  Socks gives me a huge, closed-lip smile, two thumbs up, and keeps going.

  We get to the doorway from the hallway to the stairwell. The elevator is right on the other side.

  “Can you grab the door?” I ask once I see that it’s one of the heavier steel ones that are a pain in the you-know-what to deal with on my own. Also, it’s teal. Obviously.

  “Oh, gosh, of course, so sorry!” Socks appears panic- stricken.

  “Totally chill.”

  Socks holds the door open, and I cruise through. I press the button twice but it doesn’t light up. Hopefully the elevator works. Students scamper up the stairs behind us. Hearing snippets of excited conversation, laughter, and shouts of greeting reminds me of the first-day-of-school whirlwind I’d be a part of at Iowa City Middle if I were there. I try not to think about it.

  We wait for a moment in silence. Socks taps her foot against the linoleum floor and hums a song to herself. I think she wants to talk but doesn’t know what to say. I got this.

  “I’ll ask for help if I need it,” I add. “Like with doors and stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you can ask me a question if you don’t know what to do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Or even if you just have a question. I’d rather you ask.”

  “Okay. Don’t have any. All good.”

  I hear the gears of the elevator moving behind the elevator doors, but they must be rusty. Sure is taking a while.

  “Okay, I have one. Is that okay?” Socks spits out.

  “Yep.”

  “Have you always used a wheelchair?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Like, you were born in one?”

  “That’s two questions. Over the limit.” I couldn’t resist.

  “Oh, gosh, sorry, I—”

  “Kidding, kidding, I promise!”

  Socks plays with a braid sprouting from her temple, but she keeps her eyes on me. For a talker, she’s way above average at eye contact.

  “I was in an accident when I was really young, so basically my whole life. I don’t know it any other way.”

  At last, the elevator arrives, and we go inside. I press the button for the second floor and the lift makes its slow trek up. Like, turtle slow. It reminds me of being lowered into the dolphin-infested lagoon.

  It’s been at least three seconds, and Socks hasn’t made a peep. Although I’ve only known her for all of five minutes, I’m under the impression this pause in conversation (or monologue, if I’m being honest) is unusual for her.

  “I’ve never been in this elevator before. Way off-limits,” Socks whispers, as if we could get caught at any second.

  “Stick with me, kid,” I say with a dramatic wink, quoting a movie I forget the name of.

  Socks laughs and lets out a breath I don’t think either of us realized she’d been holding.

  We finally arrive on the second floor and join the throngs of kids rushing to class.

  “Ms. Vasquez’s homeroom is down here to the right. Whatever you do, don’t use the water fountain outside her room because it tastes kind of like chlorine and licorice. Nasty.”

  “We had a water fountain in Iowa City that tasted like bubble gum. Not as great as it sounds.”

  Socks makes a face. “Oh, and really important—”

  But she stops speaking mid-sentence. I follow her gaze and my eyes land on a boy in a red hoodie leaning against a locker. I can smell his cologne already. I’m almost certain he stole it from an older brother. For someone living by the beach, he’s very pale. And very tall.

  “Hey, EJ!” Socks says.

  “Yo,” he grunts.

  After we’ve passed, Socks whispers, “So EJ is best friends with Ayden, who’s like childhood friends and also sort of best friends with Juan Carlos. You’ve haven’t met them yet, but you will. I think EJ’s cute or whatever, but that’s it. I’m so busy with school and clubs and me time that we’ll just be friends. Oh, here we are. Room 215. Homeroom, here we come!”

  Socks holds the door open and I roll myself through. The classroom is cluttered—much more crowded than my sixth-grade homeroom. The teacher’s desk is in the back of the room, not the front, which seems strange to me, but maybe I’m just not used to it.

  I see my desk immediately. I’m relieved that Principal Lim was good on her word and they act
ually have my cutout desk, but I still hate that I need it. It’s lower and bigger than all the other desks. Like someone doing the wrong choreography in a synchronized dance.

  Straight out of the first-day-of-school handbook, Ms. Vasquez has us go around the room for a little icebreaker. “Team bonding,” she calls it. “Everyone share their name and one thing you’d like us to know about you.”

  As my turn nears, I debate the perfect reveal. This is my first impression, after all, and I don’t want to blow it. Nobody knows anything about me so the options are quite endless.

  “KT Wynn, that’s you, right?” Ms. Vasquez asks. All eyes are on me. I must have zoned out. Shoot. I hope it wasn’t for long.

  “Yep. Hi. Hey. I’m KT. I just moved here from Iowa City. I was offered an arm-wrestling scholarship for a school in the Swiss Alps, but I decided to come to Fernbank Middle because I’m obsessed with the color teal.”

  That gets a bigger laugh than I expected. Even Ms. Vasquez cracks a smile.

  Then I add, “Iowa City is the best place ever.” I speak so softly I’m not sure anyone can hear, but the words felt too important to keep in. I think about Kaytee and Cady and wonder how their first day of school is going.

  I’ve never felt so homesick.

  Morning passes quickly. The classrooms continue to be cramped and cold. I’m grateful for the outdoor hallways. Inside, the AC is set to what has to be polar level. I wish I had brought a blanket. Seriously. Shiver central.

  Finally, it’s lunch. Socks does not slack on her new-student-buddy duties. On our way to the cafeteria, she provides bits of information about the student body.

  “Those are the twins that nobody can tell apart,” she says, pointing to two very identical-looking boys. “And over there, Ava and Charlie”—a tall girl and a short boy hold hands as they talk closely in front of an open locker—“have been a couple since last year. Longest in our grade, for sure.”

  “We had a couple like that in Iowa City.” I laugh to myself remembering the hallway drama when Isaiah asked Ruwa out with the assistance of a kazoo and top hat. “It’s a long story,” I assure Socks.

  “Chill,” she responds, though I’m a little disappointed she doesn’t ask for the short version.

  Socks continues to talk my ear off on the way to lunch. She’s deep into a story about the time there was this big misunderstanding about Halloween costume dress code at school. Once she mentions food coloring and corn syrup, I start to zone out a bit, mind drifting to the Cruella de Vil and dalmatian costumes Cady, Kaytee, and I wore to school in fifth grade. We really knocked those out of the park. Socks slows down as we come to a girl with long braids that have a couple streaks of electric blue woven throughout.

  “That’s my cousin Jas,” Socks whispers. She whispers when she’s nervous about something, I realize. “Second cousin, technically, but still cousins.”

  Socks takes a step forward and taps Jas on the shoulder. She’s putting some sort of sticker behind a little mirror for the back of her locker.

  “Hey, Jas, this is KT. She’s new,” Socks offers by way of introduction.

  “Nice to meet you, Jas,” I say. “Sweet Converse.” The whole footwear ensemble is pretty sweet, really. Her shoes are bright red with purple shoelaces. Not a combination you see often. “I’m dying for a pair of green ones. One of the downsides of Iowa City. Colorful-sneaker-shopping options so not on point.”

  Maybe I talk a lot, too, when I’m nervous. I sense Socks stiffen next to me.

  “Well, there’s always the Internet,” Jas replies.

  “Sure, but with sizing … you know.” My mind races to find something else to say. “The Internet is chill, too, though.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Jas says, though based on the look on her face, her experience of our exchange was anything but nice. She shuts her locker, and as she walks away, she scoffs, “Really, Socks?”

  Once Jas is out of earshot, I ask, “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Okay, so, how do I put it?” Socks seems flustered. I’m starting to realize that might just be her standard operating mode. “So, back in fourth grade, Jas begged her mom, who is my mom’s first cousin, to get her a pair of green Converse, and she was so excited when she finally did that she wore them to school like every day for a month. Until finally one day Ayden said, ‘Those are the color of boogers,’ like really loud at recess, and it embarrassed Jas so much that she never, ever wore them again.” Socks finally pauses to catch a breath. “Anyway, it got really nasty on Saint Patrick’s Day that year. All I can say is, D-R-A-M-A.”

  I don’t totally get it. “Is she still upset about it all these years later?”

  “Hashtag duh! Jas has been in love with Ayden since third grade!” Socks exclaims like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then, in a whisper, “That’s, like, common knowledge!”

  “Gotcha.” But I still don’t understand. Guess you had to be there. Licorice-infested water fountains, rotten Cheerios, and fourth-grade sneaker drama-trauma. As the new kid, I have a lot to catch up on. “Is that somehow related to how you got your nickname?” I’ve been waiting to ask her that since she (literally) popped her head into Principal Lim’s office.

  “Nickname, lifestyle, same difference. But no. I’m just a sock fanatic. Always have been, always will be.”

  I check her feet again. Nope. No socks in sight.

  “I know what you’re thinking. I’m wearing my lucky ones, duh, for the first day of school. They’re ankle socks. The bottom looks like a shark’s mouth and there are eyes on the toes.”

  “They should do that for a dolphin,” I say, remembering how many tiny Tic Tac teeth Sammy revealed the other day.

  “I’d buy them,” Socks confirms. “Anyway, we should hustle so we can beat Jas and Kisa to the cafeteria. We don’t want to get stuck at the tundra end of our table.”

  Apparently, the tundra end of the table is the one closest to the AC vent. Meaning it feels like a frozen tundra. As I’ve felt borderline hypothermic all day, I’m glad that there’s still room on the tropical side when we arrive.

  I’m also glad that I have people to eat lunch with. I’ve seen all the movies about new kids eating in a bathroom stall on the first day of school. I’m not trying to eat a peanut butter and jelly in the same place I pee, thank you very much.

  I’ve never been timid in conversation. I’m not sure if that’s the same thing as being shy, but I don’t get that, either. Lucy tried to explain it to me once, but it never made sense. It’s never occurred to me to not say the thing that was on my mind. But after eating lunch with Socks, Jas, and Kisa (Jas’s non-cousin BFF), I kind of get it. Most of the stuff they discuss involves people I don’t know or events I’ve missed. Plus, it’s hard to get a word in.

  Jas and Kisa don’t talk as fast as Socks, but their rhythm is hard to break into. I wonder if it’s like that with Cady, Kaytee, and me. Every time I feel like I have something to add (“Sure, Ms. Vasquez has great hair for a teacher” or “Two pumps of caramel in my blended iced coffee is too much” or “The new superhero movie was all right, but the action sequences were so green-screened”) the conversation skips to the next thing before I’m able to insert an opinion. Jas no longer seems mad at Socks about the shoe thing earlier; they’re zipping back and forth about some annoying family barbecue coming up. I’m not sure if I’m included in that forgiveness. I’m about to apologize for my blunder when a girl with long brown hair and a not-subtle headband saunters up to our table.

  “Sup?” she says, looking at nobody in particular.

  “Hey, Lilly, this is KT,” Socks says.

  “Oh. Hi. Um, are you new?” Lilly’s lips are very shiny, like she’s spent lunch applying gloss instead of eating.

  “Yep,” I say. “Hot outta Iowa City!” I gear up to answer some questions about cornfields, cows, winter, or any other Iowa stereotypes, which I’m really happy to talk about because missing home is all that’s been on my mind as I’ve dolphin-doodl
ed.

  “Chill. Okay. Well. I just came over to remind y’all that the party part of my bat mitzvah this weekend will have a DJ. Also known as my older brother’s girlfriend. Hashtag she’s awesome. She has her septum pierced, but, like, for real,” she informs us, and I can’t help but bring my hand to my nose. “Anyway, y’all have to make sure to dance a lot, okay?”

  “Ayden’s coming, right?’ Jas asks, looking around to make sure he’s not within earshot.

  “Def. Everyone is coming.” Lilly stands there for a second. She fidgets with the notebook in her hands. “I’m sorry that you’re not invited, KT. It’s just that the invitations went out over the summer before I knew you, and my parents are, like, really strict about not going over budget. So, I can’t … you know.”

  “It’s okay,” I squeak, wanting this awkward half apology to end. I hate watching other people feel uncomfortable. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. “It’s hashtag chill.”

  “Cool.” Lilly flips her hair. “Extremely accurate dolphin, by the way.” She points at my napkin doodle. “Are you sure you’re from Iowa?” She laughs at her own joke but doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Gotta run. My fries are getting cold. Ugh. Cafeteria fries. Can’t wait till high school when we can go off campus for real food. Later!”

  I don’t necessarily want to go to Lilly’s bat mitzvah. I wouldn’t know anyone there anyway. I don’t even totally know what happens at bat mitzvahs, except that there’s dancing, apparently. But I do know, now, that it sure sucks not to be invited. That just would never happen back in Iowa City.

  Iowa City. It’s eleven a.m. here, so ten a.m. in Iowa. Cady and Kaytee are still in class. Part of me wants to tell Socks or Kisa or even Jas that the secret to making fries delicious, at least in IC, is mixing mayo and ketchup together for a dip, and that my BFF Kaytee always brought her own baggie of Old Bay Seasoning from home on French fry days. But they’re so caught up in conversation about what they’re wearing to Lilly’s bat mitzvah that French fries are way too off topic at this point.

  I think back to my second-grade teacher and the balloon breaths. I take some. I still feel the same. Aka bored and sad that I’m not in IC, where I would certainly be less bored and not sad. My mind wanders to Cola and the training note: 5–6 deep breaths in the AM or PM. I wonder if that’s what he’s up to right now, late in the morning. If so, I hope the breathing helps him more than it did me.