I’ve scribbled two more dolphins by the time lunch comes to an end. One could be Sammy, and one is a little bigger, so I guess that’s her mom, Luna. And the last, without a doubt, is a portrait of Cola.
After school, I wait at the corner curb for Dad to pick me up. Three minutes, his last text said. Dad is extremely accurate when running late. I’m still defrosting from a day in front of the AC, so I don’t mind waiting. The muggy afternoon air feels great.
Socks darted off after our last class because she’s signed up for the after-school program. “An abomination of picked-over art supplies, nonsense, and chaos,” as she described it. Yikes.
I take out my phone to text Dad and clarify that I’m on the far corner by the tallest palm tree (the corner closer to the school’s entrance doesn’t have a sidewalk ramp, which is annoying). I get distracted by a trio of girls leaving campus together, headed my way. They’re laughing and they still look shiny in their back-to-school outfits. One of them pulls out her phone and shrieks, “OMG we need a Day One photo!” She sees me, and I do my best to pretend I wasn’t staring at them. A for effort, C for effect, I’d say.
I miss Cady and Kaytee. I try another balloon breath. It’s been a long day of smiling and introducing and observing and not knowing. I feel tears rush to my eyes. I blink fast so they’ll evaporate before the unfortunate event of an overflow.
“Hey!” a voice calls. It’s the shrieker. “Would you maybe be able to take our picture?”
I blink away the last of the extra eye moisture and plaster a sunny Florida smile on my face. “Of course.”
She jogs over to me and hands me her phone.
I snap half a dozen photos. The three girls slightly change their pose every time. I don’t know them. In fact, I’ve never seen them before, but I find myself wishing they’d invite me into their picture. Weird, I know.
Later that evening at dinner—an extravagant meal of delivery pizza—Dad and Lucy ask how my day was. I say it was fine. Because it was. It was fine. No first day of school meltdown disasters. No bullies, fights, or fallen tears. I don’t offer to elaborate, though. My head has a lot to work out and I’m not ready to put it all into words.
Fine isn’t great, fine isn’t fantastic, fine isn’t exciting. Fine isn’t really even that good.
Being the new kid just … doesn’t feel all that different from swimming in an oversized life jacket. Doable, technically not life-threatening, but doesn’t feel quite right, either, I think as I munch on a burnt crust.
A part of me wonders if Cola felt the same after his first day at Dolphina Cove. Stray fish and swarming seventh graders, seaweed and teal lockers, murky water and confusing hallway layouts. Same energy, when you think about it. Maybe he misses the open ocean and his old dolphin friends like I miss cornfields and Katies.
I feel you, Cola.
That night, Lucy comes into my room as I’m getting into bed. I’m still not used to this whole separate-room setup.
“Tell me more,” she demands.
“Well …” I begin, “I spent most of my day with someone named Socks who compares her social appetite to an avocado.”
Lucy laughs. “Is that a good thing?”
I think about it for a moment. “Yes, actually. How was your day? Is the high school super teal, too?”
Lucy laughs again. “Very teal.”
“Did you make friends?”
“Not sure.”
“Same,” I say. “Was everything different and weird and like being in a fun house with wonky mirrors that distort everything?”
“Maybe. That sounds right.”
“Do you wish we were back in Iowa City?” That’s what I’ve been meaning to say all along, I realize. That’s the Sister Secret I’m waiting for.
“No. No, I don’t.” Lucy gives my hair a tug. “Sweet dreams, KT Lady.”
As she’s about to shut the door behind her, I say, “You have to leave it open! For the ghosts to escape.”
“Oh, right,” she replies. “My bad.”
How could Lucy forget?
“It’s okay. Sweet dreams,” I whisper to Lucy’s back as she turns to go.
Something about my voice reminds me of Socks and the way she sounded on our first ride in the teal elevator.
I want to ask Lucy a question, but I’m afraid of what the answer might be.
The next few days of school, I get lost twice and am late for class when the elevator takes too long. I wear an outfit I deeply regret on Wednesday, not because anyone says anything about it, but because I completely underestimated the fact that pit stains are still possible in tundra temperatures. I discover the bathroom on the first floor doesn’t have trustworthy locks. I’m blinded by teal.
I’m sure there will be more surprises to come.
The main differences between Iowa City and Fernbank are obvious. The hallways being outside thing. The teal everywhere thing. The fact that I know nobody and nobody knows me thing. But as the days go on, more differences come out.
Some kids have Southern accents, some don’t. That’s new.
A lot of girls here wear flip-flops. After school, when the dress code doesn’t matter, the dudes who think they’re cool put on saggy beanies even though the temperature is in the eighties. Both boys and girls tend to wear oversized sweatshirts. A lot of boys don’t seem to wash their faces much. On second thought, that’s probably a middle-school-boy thing everywhere.
I think people laugh more in Iowa City. Not that kids don’t seem happy enough here. I just remember there was more laughing back home.
I keep imagining Fernbank Middle but with the familiar faces from Iowa. That would make the teal so much less … teal.
Socks doesn’t ditch me after the first day, which I appreciate, and she continues to talk and talk and talk. She’s nothing like Cady or Kaytee; she’s definitely more hyper than my friends back in IC. We don’t have inside jokes yet, and she sometimes laughs at things I don’t think are funny. I’m not sure I’d ever have a joint birthday party with her, but I appreciate the company. I continue to sit at her lunch table.
At the end of the day, there are so many differences between Fernbank and IC that it’s impossible to keep track of them all. Still, I can’t help but try. Comparing the two feels as natural as my instinct to put sprinkles on a scoop of ice cream.
Then, on the third day of school, a flyer taped to the (teal) wall catches my eye:
Fernbank Constitution Needs YOUR Talent!
Are YOU an opinionated person who wants their views heard?
Do YOU want to see your writing in print?
Do YOU have what it takes to be a journalist?
When: Thursdays, 2:45–3:45 p.m.
Where: Room 207
First meeting tomorrow!
Yes, yes, and yes! Iowa City Middle doesn’t have a school paper. Finally, one comparison that doesn’t totally stink.
Plus one, Florida.
I ask Socks, Jas, and Kisa about it at lunch. I’m not sure if I’m permanently invited to sit at their table, so I’m glad I have a question (aka a purpose) as I approach. They’re all already seated when I pull up, so I’m stuck at the tundra side. Luckily, after the first day of school, I don’t leave the house without a backup garment. I twist to unzip my backpack, which hangs on the back corner of Sprinkle, and pull out my hoodie. Nobody objects to my presence, so I take a deep breath and spit it out.
“What’s the deal with the Fernbank Constitution? I want to sign up. Is that like a totally not chill thing to do, though?” Not that it would deter me from signing up. I don’t think. I just want to know what I’m getting into here. Reduce the probability of surprises.
“I’m all about activities,” Socks says. “Very helpful for college.”
“I didn’t know we even had a school newspaper,” Jas says as she chips lavender nail polish off her pinkie.
“Hashtag ambitious,” Kisa adds.
Hashtag I can’t wait.
Room 207 is a real hau
l from my last class of the day. When I arrive on Thursday afternoon at two fifty, a very tall and very skinny eighth grader (whom Socks had pointed out earlier—“He farted in the middle of our state math test last year but denied it was him even though it was so obvious to everyone it was”) in a green bow tie paces as he speaks to a room of about ten.
“I know this is the first meeting, but I’m not interested in anything short of excellence. I’m accepting pitches as of this moment.”
I nestle Sprinkle into a space in the back of the room. Nobody seems to pay my late entry much mind. Phew.
A boy with damp-looking hair is first up. “I envision a think piece called ‘The Simple but Hard Things in Life.’ ” He leans back in his chair with his arms crossed as he speaks. Overconfidence is never attractive.
“Go on,” Green Bow Tie commands.
“Just throwing ideas out there off the top of my head, but think: picking up a slice of pizza without ripping off the cheese, eating ice cream without getting it on your mustache …”
Next to me, ever so quietly, I hear a muffled, “You wish.” I follow the sound of the whisper to find a boy slumped in his seat. He wears black canvas sneakers, black socks, black pants, and a Hawaiian shirt. An old-fashioned camera rests in his lap.
He looks fun. Mischievous and fun. And cute. If you care about that sort of thing.
Our eyes meet and I shoot him a smile. My smile is returned with a grin, and then a goofy face that involves him slightly crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. Without thinking, I pretend to catch a bubble in my mouth and bat my eyelashes. He cracks up, and I stifle a laugh.
Green Bow Tie, aka Miles, continues with pitches. Other harebrained ideas are met with moderate enthusiasm. Hawaiian Shirt Camera Boy, Juan Carlos, promises a photo essay on something mundane yet profound and “dexterous.” That gives me an idea.
I raise my hand.
“Yes, in the back? You’re new?”
I’ve been asked that question like a gazillion times already this week. Duh, if you don’t know me, I’m probably new. I grin anyway.
“Hi. Yes, I’m KT. What about a ‘Day in the Life Of’ column?” I suggest. The moment the words are out, I start to get excited.
“Tell me more,” Miles encourages.
“Like a little slice of life from someone or somewhere you wouldn’t necessarily think about. Just to offer an experience of what it’s like to live in someone else’s shoes.”
“Intriguing.” Miles rubs an invisible goatee with his index finger and thumb.
“It could be an ongoing column with a new subject in every edition,” I explain. “I can interview people near and far to get all kinds of interesting insights.”
“I like it, newbie,” Miles says. “Run it.”
I feel a wave of excitement. My cheeks blush. I sense Juan Carlos glance in my direction, but I keep my eyes trained forward.
Miles tells us all pieces for the first edition are due on October fourth. Yes, the same October fourth that is my thirteenth birthday. I decide that coincidence must be good luck.
The first Fernbank Constitution meeting comes to an end (a full seven minutes overtime) and the room disperses. I text Dad to let him know I’m on my way out. I see through the windows that it’s about to pour any minute. The sky is dark, like a bruise. Dad better be outside. I’m not trying to get caught in the rain. Iowa has tornados, but according to Socks, Florida has monster storms this time of year. Looks like she wasn’t exaggerating.
As I’m about to put my phone away and get going, Juan Carlos walks by and says, “Chill idea, new KT.”
My stomach flutters.
I leave the first newspaper meeting with a tingle of Florida-sized excitement. Now all I have to do is come up with my first subject.
“I’m going to the mall to meet up with a few girls from school,” Lucy tells me Saturday afternoon. “You want to come?”
It’s nice of Lucy to invite me. I rarely turn down an opportunity to hang out with her friends. And the mall is a particularly great place to kick it because the floors are flat and glossy, glossy, glossy (Sprinkle’s dream terrain). But …
“I have a video chat date with Cady and Kaytee,” I say. “Thanks, though!”
“You sure?”
I think about it, but I don’t want to ditch my friends. It’s been a long week. “Yeah. Next time!”
I’m pretty sure Lucy rolls her eyes at me as she walks out the door.
Teenagers.
“Love ya,” she calls right before the screen door slams.
“Love ya back,” I reply.
I’m planning on catching up on this week’s most-read articles from the New York Times when Mom and Dad call me into the living room. They’re sprawled out on the couch, but push themselves up to seated position when I arrive. The couch is too small for our new house, but I’m glad they brought it anyway. Lots of memories on that guy. A muted college football game is playing on the TV.
“Your dad got a new gig,” Mom informs me. That’s what they always call his electrician jobs.
“That’s cool, I guess. Where?”
Mom and Dad look at each other before answering.
“Dolphina Cove,” Dad says finally. “Apparently your mom and that sunburned lady at the front desk—”
“Annie,” Mom and I say at the same time.
“Right. Annie. Well, your sweet momma and her got to talking, and Mom spilled the beans that I’m an electrical wizard.”
Mom rolls her eyes and gives him a playful swat. They’re in love. They’ve been a couple since college and they’re still, as Mr. Jake always commented, “sweet on each other.”
They go on to explain that Dolphina hired Dad to fix the panel for their backup generator. Since it’s hurricane season, they don’t want to take any chances by waiting until it’s in further disrepair. Because he works during the day, and they’d rather go to him directly than through a company, they’ve arranged for him to come after his other job.
“So you have a choice,” Mom says. “On the days when Dad goes to Dolphina, you can go to the after-school program at Fernbank. I spoke with Principal Lim and they have a really exciting art and creative writing program.”
I remember how Socks described it. An “abomination” of sorts. No, thank you.
“Or just meet Lucy here after school?” I ask.
We used to do that back in Iowa City. Usually Mom or Dad was home after school, but last year there was a phase where Dad worked late and Mom couldn’t get home until five. Lucy and I had two hours of parent-free sister time. That’s actually when our Sister Secrets started.
“That works for me.” I’d have to take the bus, which comes with its own challenges, but the after-school program sounds way worse.
“Well,” Mom starts, “Lucy is playing volleyball and has some computer programming club thing. I’m not sure when it starts, but I want to let her have some freedom.”
I work really hard not to roll my eyes. Okay. Freedom. Whatever that means. Like hanging out with me is prison.
“Okay, so what’s the other option?” I ask again.
Dad says, “You can come with me to Dolphina Cove. Annie says it’s cool if you want to do your homework in the office or on a picnic table if it’s nice outside. It’ll just be a few afternoons for a week or two. Temporary.”
My mom adds, “There’s been a lot of change recently for you girls, and we want to be sensitive to that.”
“Then we probably should have stayed in Iowa.” I regret it the second the words come out of my mouth. That was dumb. And mean. I see my comment land on my parents’ faces like tiny razor cuts. “Sorry.”
Mom reaches forward and pats my hand. “It’s okay. I know this has been hard.” Mom has ninja forgiveness skills. Or, to put it in psychology professor terms, empathy.
I take a balloon breath. It doesn’t calm me down, but it does give me another moment to think.
I remember nights in IC when Mom and Dad thought
I was asleep and I heard them whispering about bills and getting approved for more credit cards. I also remember how mopey Dad was between gigs. He’s the type who needs to stay busy. We both are. It’s good that Dad has the extra work.
Plus, the after-school program sounds like just another version of actual school—another scenario to adjust to.
Dolphina Cove, on the other hand, is familiar. Tara, Jolie, Natalia, and even Annie will be there. Those picnic benches are the most scenic place ever to do math homework. I’ll roll Sprinkle carefully over the gravel in the parking lot and wind up early to get over the sidewalk canyon on the path to the dock. I can watch Cola splash around from a safe distance. Most important, I don’t have to get in—or even go within falling-in-the-water-accidentally range of—the lagoon. At the end of the day, I still love dolphins.
The choice is obvious.
“Let’s Dolphina Cove it up,” I say, raising my hand for a high five. Dad’s palm meets mine for a crisp slap.
“Are you sure?” Mom asks.
“Don’t worry, Mom. You’re not putting me back in the scene of a trauma, and I won’t be at all triggered.” Sometimes it’s best to speak her psychology language to get through to her.
Though I will admit that the idea of getting in that lagoon again gives me goose bumps all down my neck.
On my first afternoon at Dolphina Cove, I park Sprinkle at the end of the picnic bench closest to the lagoon. Annie offered to escort me down, but I told her I had the situation under control. Dad’s somewhere behind the trainers’ office checking out whatever he’s been hired to fix. No one’s in session and no dolphins are in sight. It’s one of those days where the sky is thick with clouds, but it’s muggy as ever. The hair at the base of my ponytail is damp with sweat.
Swimming With Dolphins Page 7