Formerly Shark Girl (13 page)

I can barely focus on what he’s saying

or what I’m saying

because that shooting pain in my stump,

the pain that comes and goes at will,

has decided to come.

In full, demanding presence.

Stabbing, throbbing, pillaging,

and burning. It’s all I can do

not to take off my prosthesis

and claw at the spot that

hurts.

I hate it.

Hate it

hate it

hate it.

The pain dies down.

Max walks me to the bike rack.

“So you need a tutor in science, huh?”

he asks, resuming our conversation.

“Yes, I do,” I answer.

Max sees me reaching for my bike,

and he grabs it for me,

yanks it out of its spot, and holds it

while I slide my purse into the basket.

“That’s right. You’re interested in medicine, aren’t you?

Physical therapy or nursing?” he asks.

I bend my head to my purse.
He remembers.
“Yes.”

Something buzzes, and he uses one hand

to pull his phone from his sweatshirt pocket.

“Mind if I answer this? It’ll be quick.”

I give him a nod, like a queen or something,

and busy myself with my purse

while he speaks into the phone.

“Hi, Sarah. Yes. I got the number you wanted.

Ready?”

I am suddenly very busy with my jacket zipper.

Sarah.

A girlfriend, no doubt.

What am I doing? Why do I kid myself?

Max is being kind — that’s all there is to this.

“His name is Rick and it just says ‘math tutor,’”

Max says into the phone.

Then he reads Sarah the number from the tab

he pulled off the bulletin board.

Of course. Max does not need a math tutor for himself.

Max doesn’t need anything.

He’s just fine the way he is.

Unlike me — needy, ignorant Jane.

Max snaps the phone shut.

“Sorry about that. I told her I’d get the number for her.”

I force a smile. “No problem.”

I need to leave before things get worse,

but Max is still holding the handlebars of my bike.

“How about me?” he says. “Would you consider that?”

I blink a couple of times. “Uh . . . for what?”

“Tutoring. I got A’s all last year in science.

You have Mr. Veckio, right? That’s who I had.”

Seriously?

“Oh. Are you sure?”

I must be doing a good acting job,

because my voice sounds normal.

Max says, “Yeah. It’s a great idea.

I could use the money, and I can help you out.”

Well. This day has taken a turn

I never would have imagined.

What about Sarah?

What
about
her?

She may be his girlfriend.

And she may
not
be.

Besides, this is not engaging in infidelity.

This is not a marriage proposal.

This is science tutoring.

With
Max.

“When can we start?” I ask.

He considers. “A week from Tuesday? About seven?”

“Great.”

“I’ll come to your house.”

“Okay.”

“I remember where it is.”

“Good.”

He suggests a price for his time.

I tell him I’ll check with Mom.

My whole body is heating up;

I can’t believe we’re making plans to meet.

He asks for my phone number,

and I try not to stutter when I give it to him.

“See you next Tuesday,” he says.

Then we part ways, Max returning to his world,

me returning to mine,

my heart thudding, my palm sweating.

Max is coming to my house.
Mine.

As I pedal,

wind blowing through my hair,

I think that

at this moment

I   could     fly

all the way

home.

Max, the senior, the swim-team captain,

the only guy who did not stare

at me that first day back to school,

gave me a ride home

from school

three different times.

We laughed and talked

each time,

and each time

I found out something new about him.

First ride:

He likes
White Fang
better than

Call of the Wild.

He’s a reader, like me.

Second ride:

He started swimming when he was five.

He had asthma.

His mom got advice somewhere

that swimming would help his asthma get better.

It didn’t.

But he fell in love

with swimming, and now

he could never give it up. Ever.

Third ride:

His old brown car coughed and sputtered

and nearly died

three blocks from my house.

He brought it back to life

by pumping the gas pedal

and flipping the ignition off and on.

When I joked,

“Maybe it’s time for a new car,”

he told me that the car

had belonged to his mother,

who died two years earlier of cancer,

and even though the car has seen better days,

Max won’t let it go.

“It would be like letting
her
go,” he said.

“Does that sound weird?”

“Of course not,” I told him.

I longed, at that moment,

to tell him that my dad died of cancer, too,

and that I have a coat of his

I keep in my closet,

and sometimes I breathe deeply into it,

trying to smell the aftershave

of a man I don’t remember.

“I still miss her sometimes, you know?”

Max said. Then he shrugged

and fiddled with the radio.

I wanted to ask Max

to tell me more about his mom,

to brush the curl off his forehead,

and even though it was like wishing for a star,

I longed to kiss him,

just once.

Most of all,

I longed to have both arms again,

for just a moment,

so I could wrap him

in a hug.

J: That pain came back today. Please make dr app for me asap.

M: I’m sorry that happened. Already made appt for Wed at 4. R U OK now?

J: Yes.

M: Need me to come home?

J: No. I’m fine.

M: OK. In class now. Need to run. Text if U need me. Love you.

J: Love U 2.

Rachel calls, says,

“Did you go to the college

and look for a tutor?”

And just like that, I hear myself say,

“No. Not yet.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you find someone,”

Rachel says. She yawns.

“Gotta go. Have to finish up homework.”

“Okay, see you.”

I hang up, walk into the kitchen,

and pull out ingredients to make brownies.

I’m even humming.

A girl who just lied to her best friend,

baking and humming.

What on earth am I doing?

I don’t understand why I just lied to Rachel.

Or why I’m acting like I didn’t.

Still. Here I am,

lying to my best friend.

Here I am,

baking brownies,

and humming.

“This is what’s happening:

the nerve endings at the end of your arm

have bundled up and grown into a snarl,”

Dr. Kim explains, examining the X-rays.

He adds that the snarl

is rubbing against my prosthetic arm

and generally wiggling itself

into a ball of tight, sharp agony.

“How often does this flare up, Jane?” he asks.

“Uh . . . a few times a week?” I say.

Why do I sound like I’m asking
him
a question?

He kneads my stump with gentle fingers.

“Mm-hmm. When it does flare up,

how would you rate the pain,

on a scale of one to ten?”

“I’d say it’s about an eight point three.”

Dr. Kim says, “That is very specific.

I am sorry to hear this. I had hoped

to avoid this, but with amputation,

it is always a possibility.”

“What can we do about it?” I ask,