Formerly Shark Girl (12 page)

“Clamp it,” I say, and we find a clamp.

Laughing Boy takes the clamp. “I’ll do it.”

I remind Sweater Lady that we need to assess his vitals.

We take his pulse and listen to his breathing.

We check his pupil dilation with a small flashlight,

and then record his skin color and temperature.

“Now what?” Laughing Boy says,

rummaging through our kit.

“Clean the wounds,” I say, “and bind the leg.”

“I think that’s it,” Sweater Lady says.

Mr. Stork swoops in. “All done? Let me see your notes.”

I hand them over; he nods while reading them.

“Very good. But you overlooked one small thing.”

Gray-Haired Man’s eyes fly open.

“What?” he demands. “What could they

have
possibly
forgotten? They did
everything
to me.”

Mr. Stork blinks. “They did not reassess

your circulation. That is critical.

The clamp could be put on too tightly.

You have to follow up continuously when using a clamp.”

Defeat settles over us in a damp cloud.

Gray-Haired Man stands and puts his glasses back on.

“It’s okay,” he says. He claps Laughing Boy on the shoulder.

“Come on, guys. Shake it off.”

He sounds for all the world like a coach of some kind,

and I wonder suddenly about all of them.

Who are they?

“By the way,” Gray-Haired Man says, as though

reading my mind. “I’m Martin.

And I think you three might just be

as competitive as I am. Nice to meet you.”

We all shake hands then, smiling a little

at our late introductions. “I’m Penny,”

Sweater Lady says.

“And I’m Josh,” the boy says.

He looks familiar, sort of.

“Jane,” I say,

and we all nod at one another once more.

“One mistake is not bad,” Martin says.

“We’ve earned our certificate.

We should be happy about that.”

He’s right. Still. You can’t
forget
things

when a person’s life is on the line.

You just can’t.

Mr. Stork tells the class that we all passed,

that we are one of the sharpest classes

he’s ever taught. “Good luck,” he tells us.

“Nice meeting you. And let’s hope

you never need this training.”

I tape the triage certificate to the wall,

next to the CPR one.

Check this off the bucket list.

Clean or sloppy, good or bad,

I did it.

I really did it.

1. Apply to nursing school and art college.

2. Choose one or the other.

3. Become fully certified in CPR, first aid, and triage.

4. Enter the school art competition.

5. Win the school art competition.

6. Qualify for and enter the West Coast Wings art competition.

7. Win the West Coast Wings art competition.

8. Go to prom.

9. Bake a wedding cake.

10. Save a life.

I can check off number one.

I can check off number three.

And I sure am working

on perfecting my cake-making skills.

Everything else?

Everything else remains to be done.

After math, Trina pries herself

out of Kevin’s arms long enough

to snag me in the hallway.

She hands me a folded up piece of pink paper.

“You already know, but here’s an invitation.”

I shake open the paper. “A week from Friday?”

I pretend to think hard, then sigh heavily.

“I
guess
I can make it . . . I suppose.

Maybe I’ll even bring a cake.”

She slugs me on the shoulder.

“Jane, I can’t wait to see the cake.”

Then she adds, “Matthew is coming.

So you guys can go together

or just meet up there, either one.”

“I hope you didn’t invite him

just for me,” I say, horrified.

Trina rolls her eyes. “No, it’s not about
you.

He’s good friends with Kevin.”

I look at Kevin, busy burying his nose

in Trina’s neck. He and Matthew?

Studious Matthew?

Well. Just goes to show, people are surprising.

“I’ll be there, and the cake, too,” I tell her.

I leave them snuzzling each other’s necks

like drug-sniffing dogs.

What’s it like to feel that way toward someone?

So passionate? So happy?

What’s it like to not even care

that people stare while you kiss?

Sometimes I think

I may never know.

Dear Jane,

My name is Rianna, and I am in tenth grade. I am writing to ask you if you would consider letting me interview you and write an article about you for my school magazine. I think your story is amazing and that a lot of people would like to hear more about you.

It would be a huge help to me to have a story like yours for our magazine. I love being a reporter and can’t think of anyone I would like to interview more. Please contact me at my e-mail address if you are willing to do this for me.

Thanks!

Rianna

Bucket list item #2:

Choose nursing school or art school.

I put the list back in the drawer.

I can’t sit around agonizing forever.

And I can’t keep stalling, either.

If I choose nursing,

I will
have
to have good grades

in science. So this afternoon,

I put aside the etching

I’m working on and

ride my bike to the local college.

The cafeteria

is filled to the rafters

with the smell of onions, grease,

and murky mop water.

The buzz of the crowd fills my ears.

I stand there a minute, not sure where to go.

On the brick wall, I spy a bulletin board

exploding with papers

pointing every which way.

Some are pinned on top of others.

Some are pink and some are green.

I walk over and investigate.

There’s a car for sale, a lost necklace,

and lots of ads seeking roommates to share rent.

There is one note advertising tutoring.

For
math.

Well! I guess I imagined I’d walk in here,

and all my problems would be solved.

I guess I figured I’d just snap my fingers

and get what I wanted.

I guess I thought

I was someone else in some other world —

a TV show, perhaps.

I guess I was stupid.

However — maybe the math tutor

knows someone who, with a little coaxing,

will be my science tutor.

As I reach for the tab at the bottom of the sign —

those little half-cut-up tabs

you can tear off and take home

with the phone number written on it —

my fingers bump into another set of fingers,

slender fingers,

reaching for the same thing

at the same time.

I look up.

And nearly fall over.

“Sorry,” he says. “Wait . . . Jane?”

That voice,

deep and husky,

that dimple in his chin.

I am staring into the face

of Max Shannon.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,”

Max says, all dark and handsome and damp curls.

“Your hair got so long.”

“Hi, Max.”

I want to say something friendly or funny,

but all I can think of is how his eyes sparkle

and his smile

is like an answer to a question.

So I ask, “Do you go to school here?”

Oh, Lord, Jane. So mundane.

He nods, and I can’t tell

what he’s thinking,

but he’s thinking something.

Something serious.

“Yeah. I go here. Hey,

can I buy you a burger?

I was just coming in for lunch.”

Lunch? Seriously? Does he think he’s obligated?

Is this sympathy for me, the person needing a tutor?

Wait . . . He was reaching for the number, too.

So maybe he needs a tutor.

How could I say no, anyway? And why would I?

Should I?

He cocks his head and smiles.

“I forgot how you like to think things through

before you answer a question.”

I laugh, heat flooding my face. “Yep.”

“I like that about you,” he adds,

and I think maybe he means it.

I summon a deep breath.

“I’d love to have a burger.”

I make my face very grave.

“But . . . I can’t.”

He raises an eyebrow.

Do I dare hope that he looks disappointed?

“Because . . . I’m a vegetarian,” I explain.

He pretends to be horrified.

“Oh, no. You’re one of
them.
”

“Yeah.”

“So, no burger. I’ll buy you a
salad.
Okay?”

Don’t grin like that, Jane.

You look like a predator

about to lunge at his face.

“A salad sounds perfect.”