Swim to Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

carts behind them on the Grand Concourse; nothing like Marlo Thomas. This had to be Thelma Foote’s secretary. The woman rose from her desk and extended her freckled unadornedhand. “Hey, sugar, I’ve already heard so much about you.” She scrutinized Delores up and down. “You are a tall drink of water, aren’t you? So far, I’d say the reports have not been exaggerated. How do you do? I’m Thelma Foote.”
    Delores shook her hand firmly. “So nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Delores.”
    Thelma Foote offered Delores a chair across from her desk. “So,” she said, “tell me everything about yourself.”
    â€œI’m from New York City,” she began. “My parents are entertainers, though my mother keeps her hand in the fashion business. They travel quite a bit. My mother is part French. We came here two years ago. I saw the mermaids and knew that, someday, I wanted to be one of them. We always take our vacations at the seashore; I practice my mermaid routines there. One time, the recreation director at the hotel we were staying at saw me. He asked me if I would be in a show they were putting on at the pool. I said yes, and every day for a week, I swam for the guests. At the end of the week he offered me a job for a lot of money. My parents said I should finish high school. High school was such a gas, you know, with all the parties and stuff.” Delores giggled. “And I have a little brother. His name is West, but I call him Westie.”
    Delores could feel her face flush as the words poured out of her. This was the person she would have been had those two people in the bus been her parents: pretty, popular, well-dressed, slightly stuck-up Delores Taurus. She thought about the blonde woman on the bus, and how snuggly her bell-bottoms had fit her. That’s how well the name Delores Taurus suited her. She wondered if Thelma Foote believed what she was saying. The whole time Delores was talking, Thelma Foote was running the zipper of her windbreaker up and down. One of the teeth was broken, and the zipper was jammed. She glowered at the impaired zipper as she gave it one finaltug. Nothing happened. “Goddam piece of crap,” she muttered under her breath. Then she looked up at Delores with a taut smile. “Well, sweetie cakes, you certainly have quite a story. Let’s take a walk over to the bell, shall we?”
    Thelma had been doing this job for enough years that she’d heard it all before. She could recognize the fakes, the liars, the girls who came from nowhere and would end up in the same place. It was something about the timbre in their voices, or how they never looked directly at her. She could winnow out the ones who wouldn’t have the staying power to make it, and the ones who didn’t take being a mermaid seriously. This one was nervy, thought Thelma, had the cut of determination. If she came from such a fancy family though, why hadn’t they done anything about her teeth? Never mind. Even if her story was made up and she’d come from nowhere, somewhere would definitely be her next stop.
    Thelma and Delores headed across the lawn toward the girls’ dormitory. Thelma was short, and whatever else she was, was hidden behind the lopsided jacket and baggy pants. Delores was tall, close to six feet in the platforms. When Thelma put her arm around her, she practically had to leap in the air to do so.
    â€œDid you ever dance ballet?” she asked Delores.
    â€œOf course I’ve taken lessons,” Delores lied. She remembered a story she once read in
Teen Girl
about Karen Carpenter, or someone like that. Karen had such a natural singing voice, the article said, that her parents worried how formal training might ruin its uniqueness. “But my parents always felt that I was a natural and that lessons would only mess up my personal style.” She turned toward Thelma to see if she was