by Sylvia Liu
“What’s for dinner?” Mom doesn’t cook much, but when she does, it’s something yummy like my Grandma Popo’s Chinese ribs. I’m guessing it won’t be stir-fry tonight because the rice cooker isn’t on.
“Dad’s bringing home takeout,” Mom says. “This is for tomorrow. We’re having the Carlsons and Grandma over for an afternoon barbecue. Why don’t you help me with this teriyaki steak marinade?”
At the mention of Amelia’s parents coming over, a queasy feeling comes over me. At her house, I was so uncomfortable hearing her parents fight. I can’t picture spending a whole afternoon with them. Back at the kitchen, I wash my hands and gather the cooking wine and garlic from the fridge and the soy sauce and the sugar from the pantry.
“You and Amelia seem to be getting along nicely.” Mom scoops the scallions into a ziplock bag. She adds some chopped garlic from the jar and reaches for the sugar. “What did I tell you? All you need to do to make some friends is be your wonderful self and not worry so much. Get out of your head, you know?”
I don’t know what to say. I hate it when Mom and Dad act like everything will be fine if I only try harder or don’t worry or try being myself. It’s not that easy. I would get out of my head if I could. It’s not all that fun in there. I don’t even know what this supposed wonderful self is.
As I feel my face about to crumple, Mom’s expression softens. She reaches over and gives me a forearm hug, holding out her marinade-y hands. “Becca bug, I know it’s hard for you to make new friends. I’m really proud you’re making the effort with Amelia and Deion.”
A rush of gratitude washes over me. Mom isn’t perfect, but she’s trying too. I vow to suck it up and get through tomorrow’s barbecue.
“Help me with the rest of this,” she says.
I take the soy sauce and white wine, shake some into the bag, and mush the whole thing around. This is my favorite part of marinating things.
“Mom,” I say, “remember our deal?”
“What deal?”
“You said I could use your paints to make signs if I met the neighbors. I think I’ve done way more than that.”
Mom laughs. “You’re right. Put this in the fridge, and I’ll help you with the signs. You’ll probably want to use something sturdier than poster board.”
After we clean up, we head to her studio. I know we can’t make signs for our science project, but I have to do something to make a difference. I remember the homework demerit and my stomach scrunches in on itself. “Mom, I got a yellow homework slip.”
She gives me a sharp look. “That’s unlike you. What happened?”
“We were supposed to come up with our specific project by today, but it didn’t happen.” I quickly add, “Ms. Amato said we won’t get a zero on this part if we come up with an idea by Monday.”
“Dad and I can help you think of a project.” Mom frowns. “But you need a consequence if you don’t keep up your grade in science. You have to take these projects seriously. I’ll talk about it with Dad.”
I do take this project seriously. I need to do well not just for my grade but for Missy and Sunny too. I have to do everything I can to help my manatee friends, and both the project and making signs are ways to help them. Mom and I pull out the corrugated plastic and paints for the signs. Maybe I’ll draw a dolphin on the sign too.
I push away my nagging thoughts about what kind of consequences Mom and Dad will come up with. I don’t want to be grounded or lose my phone, especially with so much to do to help the manatees.
* * *
It’s Saturday afternoon and Amelia and I are setting the patio table on the deck. Amelia’s parents are chatting with Mom, while Dad ferries the teriyaki steak from the grill. Grandma walks up from her truck parked out front, holding a casserole dish.
“What’s happening, Becca?” She smiles at me with Dad’s eyes, her short brown hair ruffling in the breeze.
“You’re happening, Grandma.” I grin and help her with the dish, peeking at the bean salad. Grandma’s in her late sixties, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she bustles around, does yard work, and hikes and kayaks with her friends.
After Dad introduces her to the Carlsons, they talk while Amelia and I chase after a green tree frog. I sneak a peek at her as we stalk a giant iguana. She smiles and copies my exaggerated tiptoeing, and we break into giggles. I can’t believe I’m making a friend. I can’t stop my giddy grin.
When we sit and eat, Mom gushes, “This salad is delicious, Marcie. I wouldn’t have thought to put strawberries in a green salad.”
Amelia’s mom laughs. “It’s my philosophy on most things. Pair unusual things together, and you get something magical.” Mrs. Carlson is one of those moms who look like they always have it together and are never frazzled. Her hair is soft and pretty, and she looks ready for an Insta shoot, completely different from what I imagined when I only heard her angry voice at Amelia’s. She’s very different from Mom in her casual shorts and T-shirt, but they seem to get along great.
“That’s my creative aesthetic too,” Mom says. She and Mrs. Carlson talk about the latest decorating color trends while I dig into my steak.
“Tell me about your projects upriver,” Dad says to Mr. Carlson.
Amelia’s dad leans back. “We bought four old houses that sit along the river and are renovating them. While we’re working on a couple of them, we’re renting the others as Airbnbs.”
“That’ll be great for the festival I’m planning,” Dad says. “Upscale Airbnbs will be a draw for tourists.”
“What’s the festival about?” Mrs. Carlson asks.
“We’re trying to get younger, more active visitors to come to the area, so I proposed a festival of water sports, like wakeboarding, tubing, and flyboarding—like the X Games of boating.”
This is the first time I’ve heard this part of the plan. When he said a boating festival, I didn’t imagine people zooming around on the water, possibly ramming into Missy and her friends.
“That sounds great,” Mr. Carlson says. “That’s just the kind of thing that would appeal to younger people here. I’d love to do more than just develop a few Airbnbs. Did you hear about the new toll road the state’s approved from Tampa? That’ll create infrastructure for larger projects like condos.”
“Which I don’t agree with,” Amelia’s mom interjects. “We don’t need huge levels of development in this area.”
Her dad cuts her mom a sharp look. “I wouldn’t say condos are huge levels of development.”
Mrs. Carlson narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t say a lot of things.”
Grandma chimes in. “I can see what Marcie’s saying. This area is truly unique—it’s part of an old Florida that’s disappearing.” A wistful look flits across her face. “I remember when it was more wild and not a bunch of streets dotted with strip malls.”
Mom glances at Dad. “I agree we want development, but it’s a matter of what kind.” She offers up a plate. “Would you like some corn?”
“Anyone want another drink?” Dad stands up and heads to the cooler.
My insides are queasy with this talk about festivals, boats, and new roads. I want to push my chair from the table and yell, What about the manatees? I look to Amelia—she’s not scared to speak up like I am, and she’s got to be outraged too—but she’s playing with her napkin, shredding it to bits.
Amelia’s mom gives a small shake of her head. “Thanks, everything is delicious. Allison, will you show me your studio? I got a glimpse of those darling chairs you’re refurbishing. I would love it if you’d help us decorate our Airbnbs.”
“Sure.” Mom stands up. “We can clean up later.”
I sneak another glance at Amelia, now drumming the table with her fingers. “Want to go down to the water to see if we can find Missy and Sunny?” I offer.
“Yeah, sure.” Amelia pushes herself from the table and practically runs from it.
We head to the river, ducking under the prickly Spanish moss draped on the t
rees and winding between the giant old leather ferns. Amelia’s kicking every other root she comes across. I try to think of something to say to cheer her up, but nothing comes to mind. I’ve never been in a position like this before.
I look out at the water, and a feeling of pressure, like I’m about to burst, builds up. I want to see the dolphin again, but I’m not sure how I feel about sharing that moment with Amelia. But then again, this might be the thing to change her mood. Plus, it’s not fair to keep such a wonderful thing to myself.
My words tumble out. “Guess what I saw yesterday? A dolphin was playing with the manatees.”
Amelia eyes grow wide. “Does that happen a lot?”
“No. I searched online last night and I couldn’t find anything like it.”
A slow smile slides across Amelia’s face. “That’s amazing. In the first week I’ve been here, I’ve seen a manatee mom and baby, and now maybe a dolphin?”
My smile widens, and my heart blooms. I hurry to the dock. “Maybe we can see it again.”
We squat on our heels as we peer into the water. It’s very clear today, so we can see the eelgrass, mixed with black stringy Lyngbya algae and the occasional small fish.
Amelia squeezes my arm and points urgently about twenty yards away. “Look! Is that it?” I follow her finger.
It’s the dolphin, zooming along the bottom of the river.
“Yes!” This time I remember to pull out my phone and film it. I’m not comfortable doing my spiel in front of Amelia, so I think it in my head. Becca Wong Walker here. We have a dolphin sighting in the upper reaches of the river, far from the Gulf of Mexico. She’s a beauty—so sleek and fast.
The dolphin holds something in its beak, which it leaves on the sandy bottom. It swims away, and I zoom in, but I can’t tell what it is.
Amelia taps me excitedly on the shoulder and points. Missy and Sunny are here too! They move sedately toward us. I turn the camera to them.
Now the dolphin swims back into view, picks up the thing on the bottom of the river, and drops it next to the manatees. It’s a conch shell. The dolphin darts away.
Amelia and I grip each other, both of us grinning wildly and bouncing up and down. I turn off the video, because at this point, it’s a big shaking mess.
“I’m going to hyperventilate,” Amelia whispers. “It left them a present.”
“It’s amazing. They’re really friends.” Missy doesn’t seem to notice, but Sunny nudges the shell with his snout. He slowly turns in the direction the dolphin went and flaps his flippers, like he wants to follow. After venturing out a bit, he returns and sticks close to his mama.
In the middle of the river, the dolphin’s fin breaks the surface. Moments later, the dolphin leaps into the air and spins, droplets of water arcing through the air, leaving a rainbow spray.
The water quiets, and the dolphin’s gone.
Missy and Sunny slowly swim away from our dock.
Amelia and I hug each other. All traces of sadness have left her face. I’m sure my grin mirrors her ear-to-ear smile. “I can’t believe how close that dolphin got, and how it was trying to be friends with Missy and Sunny. What a show-off.” She continues on in a long breathless speech, which I slowly tune out, enjoying the music of her voice and the bubbly vibes she sends out to the universe.
It’s Monday at lunch, twenty-five minutes before science, and Amelia, Deion, and I hold a panic-pick-our-project meeting. I’m thrilled to be sitting at a table with them and taking part in the conversation, instead of lurking at the edge of a group of kids who ignore me. But it’s hard to concentrate with the others’ shouts and laughter and the clinking and clanking of plates, trays, forks, and cups.
“I really can’t get a zero,” Amelia says. “My parents are on my case. And if I do badly, that’s another reason for them to get mad and fight.”
“Me too. If I don’t fix my grade, I can’t go to the next swim meet,” Deion says glumly.
“My parents too,” I say. “They’re going to take away my phone if I mess up again on this project.” I need my phone to take videos of Missy and Sunny. It’s one of the only things that calms me down.
Amelia gives us a hard look. “So you got any ideas?”
I’m not sure why she thinks it’s on us when she was the one who told me not to worry about it. But of course, I don’t bring it up.
“Don’t look at me.” Deion holds up his arms like he’s fending off a horde of beasts, which, come to think of it, is sort of Amelia’s general energy. “I gave y’all my ideas.”
“That weren’t very helpful,” Amelia replies. “Becca, a manatee project was your idea. What do you think we should do?”
I blink. I’m about to burst with pent-up frustration, but of course, I keep it all in. Like I always do. Up until now, I didn’t know how to get Amelia and Deion to take the project seriously. Now that I’ve got their attention, I have no idea what to do. I’ve never had to be a leader in a group before.
I feel helpless and overwhelmed and need to get away. I push myself up from the table.
“Where’re you going?” Deion says.
“I’m sorry, I can’t—” I mumble, and take my tray to bus it.
We still have fifteen minutes until class, and I hate that I’m running away, but I can’t help it. I head to Ms. Amato’s class. I don’t know if she’ll be in the room, but I figure I can hang out there before class starts and sulk a bit. Or at least watch the sugar glider that lives in her classroom. It’s a nocturnal animal, sleeping away most of the day, but seeing him hanging upside down, all tucked in, will make me feel better. To be a sugar glider, whose only job in life is to eat fruit, sleep, and look cute, sounds good about now.
I peek into Ms. Amato’s room. She’s sitting at her desk, eating a sandwich and typing on her laptop. I turn to go, but she must’ve heard me, because she turns around. “Becca, come in. What’s up?”
My mouth suddenly goes dry. Running away would be too embarrassing now, so I walk into her room instead, sitting down at a desk near hers. I blink a few times and sigh. I don’t want to admit we haven’t come up with our topic yet, but her face is so kind and concerned.
She must have some secret magical power, because I find myself saying, “Our team is still trying to figure out our project.”
“Do you have a general idea of what you want to work on?”
“We want to do something with manatees. Maybe something educational.”
Ms. Amato leans back in her chair and gives me a considering look. I squirm in my seat. One of the things I hate most is being the center of attention, and I’m pinned by her stare, like a helpless moth caught by a collector. “Do you have any primary sources to develop educational materials?”
I shake my head. “We don’t know any scientists studying manatees.”
Ms. Amato smiles. “Well, it’s your lucky day. Before teaching, I studied marine biology in graduate school and interned with the FWC. That’s the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.” She chuckles. “Don’t ask me why that gets abbreviated to FWC.”
I laugh nervously.
“I can try to put you in touch with someone there working on manatees. Have you done any research online?”
“I found a nonprofit group, Save the Manatee Club, that has a lot of information online.”
“Check out their staff. I bet they have scientists working for them,” Ms. Amato says. “You could interview someone there or at a manatee rehab center.”
I nod, but my heart starts doing its pattering thing. I will not call or contact real live scientists, because it’s impossible. They’re adults, and strangers, two insurmountable hurdles.
Maybe Ms. Amato sees the panic in my face, because she smiles gently and says, “How did you get interested in manatees?”
I look up. “A manatee comes by my house a lot. I take videos of her, and now she has a baby.”
Ms. Amato tilts her head, reminding me of a flamingo inspecting its shrimp dinner. “Vide
os can be primary sources too. May I see them?”
I’m about to pull out my phone to show her, but then remember they’re of me in reporter mode. Even though Ms. Amato seems like she’d be understanding, I’m afraid of being seen that way. What if she thinks I’m too silly or wonders who I am to be talking about manatees? The room suddenly spins, and I need to put my head down.
“Are you okay, Becca?”
I take a deep breath. “Excuse me, I’m going to the restroom.”
She gives me an awfully familiar look, like the one I see on Mom’s and Dad’s faces when they worry about me. “See you in class.”
I give her my most lighthearted wave. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, Ms. Amato.” I leave the room and lean against the wall in the hallway, gulping for air.
After a few minutes, I feel better.
What she said sparks an idea. I straighten and quickly head back to the cafeteria. We have about five minutes left of lunch, and I know what to do.
I head to the table where Amelia and Deion are seated. Deion is eating a plastic cup like a goat, and the rest of the kids are laughing. I’m almost distracted by this sight, but I press forward. This is so unlike me. I would never barge in and interrupt a group of people, especially people in the middle of having fun, but Missy and Sunny and their new dolphin friend need me. And I have to do well on this project. I can’t lose my phone now.
Amelia scoots over for me.
Instead of sitting, I say, “Can I talk to you two?”
Deion smiles, shrugs, and stands up with his tray. Amelia follows, and we all walk to the door.
“What’s up?” Amelia asks. “Looks like your butt is on fire.”
Deion snickers.
I feel my face warm up, but I’m no longer scared. “I’ve got an idea for our project.”
“What is it? Because we need one real soon,” Deion says.
“Ms. Amato said videos count as primary sources. You know how we saw the dolphin playing with the manatees?”