Free Dreamsleeves by Coleen Murtagh Paratore Page B

“It’s my best one.”
    â€œI know, honey, I’m sorry.”
    Sitting in my mother’s chair, rocking E to sleep, I think about how much I hate Sue-Ellen for saying I smelled like pee in fourth grade, but how nice it would be to go to a pool party. I close my eyes and picture myself at a fancy country club like I’ve seen on TV, climbing to the top of the diving board, sashaying across it like a model, arching into a perfect dive, slipping into the water smooth as satin, with not so much as a splash.
    When I surface, Mike Mancinello is leaning over the edge of the pool, looking down at me, smiling, with those gorgeous brown eyes. “Need a lift, A?” he says.
    I hold out my hand, pretty pink manicured nails and all. “Sure, thanks,” I say, flipping my wet hair back off my shoulder, all casual, and he pulls me out of the pool.
    Mike offers me his towel and I dry off and we go to get cheeseburgers and all the other girls are watching us, jealous because he is the cutest boy ever. And then Snoop-Melon trips in the pool and drowns — no, sorry, God, erase that — she just slips in the pool and gulps in too much chlorine and it makes her throw up and snort bubbles out of her nose. I walk over to her, all make-believe concerned, hand in hand with Mike, and then I lean down and I sniff, sniff, sniff around her face.
    â€œOh my gosh, everybody,” I shout, “she smells like puke!”

Nothing happens unless first a dream.
    â€” C ARL S ANDBURG
    I decide to test out my Dreamsleeves idea with a small but important wish. I take one of the Hello labels from my father’s desk. Last year my dad won “most humorous” speech at one of his meetings. People say my dad is such a funny guy. There’s a picture of him on the wall. He looks maybe seventeen. He’s lying on his back on the roof of a car, his arms making a pillow behind his neck, gazing up at the sky. It’s summer, just before dark. My dad is smiling. He looks happy.
    In my room I cut the HELLO MY NAME IS part off the label. I print New Bathing Suit on the white space, peel off the backing, and stick my dream on my T-shirt sleeve, up top, facing out.
    When my mother gets home from work, she slumps down on a kitchen chair. Her ankles are swollen and her face is flushed and sweaty from the heat.
    â€œGet me a Tab and some chips, will you, A?” she says.
    â€œSure, Mom.”
    She takes a long drink of soda and eats some potato chips. I get the portable fan from the living room and plug it in so it faces her.
    â€œThanks, honey,” she says, “you’re so thoughtful.”
    She closes her eyes and I stand there in front of her watching the breeze blow wisps of damp brown hair from her face.
    Finally, after a while, she opens her eyes. She sees the dream on my sleeve. “What’s that?” she says.
    â€œI need a new bathing suit, Mom. Last year’s is way too small for me.”
    â€œOkay. We can go pick out a pattern at Woolworth’s Saturday.”
    I sigh, no. That’s not what I had in mind.
    My mother makes a lot of our clothes on her Singer sewing machine in the dining room. When I was younger it was fun going to Woolworth’s with her and picking out patterns for a sundress or a Halloween costume. But I’m a teenager now! I don’t want some babyish bathing suit with strawberries and a big poofy ruffle across the chest like last year. I would die of mortification wearing a bathing suit like that to Sue-Ellen’s country club party. I’m sure Sue-Ellen orders her clothes from Sears.
    Mom and I turn our heads at the sound of footsteps on the porch. The knob turns, the kitchen door opens. Dad’s home. He’s dressed in a light blue jacket, white shirt, striped tie, and gray pants. My dad always dresses like a million bucks. His fake Coppertone tan is looking a bit orange, and he’s got a potbelly and is losing hair on the top of his