Formerly Shark Girl (15 page)

At home

I work on the painting

I plan to enter into the competition.

It’s a bright scene:

a sliver of scenery

from Santa Barbara,

painted from memory.

The pier stretches out into the water,

waves roll gently onto the beach,

mountains range across the horizon,

and orange California poppies glitter

from fields far behind rocky outcroppings.

Families play along the pier

and lean over the railings.

It’s the most ambitious thing I’ve ever tried to paint,

and if not for Mr. Musker’s help and patience

I would have scrapped it long ago.

Tonight I work on the palm trees,

stubbing layers of light

into the green fronds,

trying to give depth to the shadows beneath.

When I’m done,

I stand back and take stock.

Parts are working; parts are not.

But as I told Justin,

practice makes perfect.

Thankfully,

there’s plenty of time

and plenty of paint

to go

before the competition deadline.

Max has my phone number.

Mine,
riding around on a scrap of paper in his pocket.

He’s supposed to call to confirm our first session.

I am wrapping Mabel’s front paw in bandages,

practicing my skills on her willing four legs,

when the phone rings.

I bash both shins stumbling into a chair,

and Mabel leaps out of the way,

bandages trailing in a stream.

I snatch up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi. Jane? This is Max.”

“Hello, Max.”

“What are you doing?”

Waiting for you to call me.

Even though you probably have a girlfriend.

Even though it’s all totally ridiculous.

That’s what I’m doing.

“Um, nothing much.”

“I was calling about the tutoring.

Did you talk to your mom?”

Goodness, the sound of his voice in my ear

makes me need to sit down. “Yes.

She said it was fine. We’re all set.”

“Great. Tomorrow still work for you?”

“Okay. I mean, yes. Yes, tomorrow is fine.”

“I can come right after swim practice.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“We have our first meet coming up soon.”

Did he pause, just for a moment?

Is there room to jump in, ask him why

he didn’t go away to college out east

like I heard he had planned, and if

he is dating anyone? Sarah, perhaps?

“Well . . . see you then,” he says.

“Bye, Max.”

If there
was
a pause,

if there was a chance to talk,

I blew it.

We both hang up,

and after a minute, I catch my breath.

Then I call Rachel.

I relay the conversation for her

word for word.

Rachel sighs. “Jane . . . you should

have asked him about his swim stuff.”

I bite my lip. “Oh?”

“
Jane.
Why do you think he even mentioned it?

And saying he has a meet coming up?

He was
hinting.
I bet he wanted you to come to it!”

“You think?”

“
Yes.
Jane. We have
got

to get you in dating shape.

You are like . . .

way
behind on how to talk to boys.”

As if I don’t know this?

I’m an
idiot
when it comes to boys.

“Rub it in, why don’t you,” I say.

“I’m a little behind on things, okay?

I was sidelined for a
whole year,

remember?”

There’s a small silence.

“What do you mean?” Rachel asks.

“Did something happen to you last year?”

We both giggle.

It’s a joke we use often now,

when the mood needs lightening.

Humor helps. And next time?

Next time I talk to Max,

I won’t blow it.

Next time

I’ll do better.

M: Working late tonight. Will you be okay?

J: Yes.

M: I’ll be home around ten. Lock up. OK?

J: Ok. CU later.

M: Love you.

J: Love U, too.

Mom. Working late.

The third time this month.

Not that I’m counting.

This morning,

when she put on her best sweater

and wafted by

in a cloud of perfume,

I knew something was up.

I wonder when I’ll meet him.

So today I took

a little extra time

fixing my hair.

So I straightened up

the living room

before leaving for school.

So I even brushed Mabel

and dusted the furniture.

So what?

It does
not
mean

I did that because Max

is coming here tonight.

It just means —

Well,

you
figure it out.

Rachel calls:

“This is the night, right?”

Angie, too: “Wear your black sweater.

He won’t be able to resist!”

Even Trina and Elizabeth send texts:

Call me after Max leaves. Want details. :) — T

Call me later. Tell me everything. — E

Then Mom sends a text:

Working late again tonight.

Sorry for the short notice.

Call if you need me.

See you about 10.

She must have forgotten

Max was coming over tonight

because there’s
no way

she’d leave us alone otherwise.

I don’t see any reason to remind her.

Besides, it’s kind of nice to have the quiet.

Though that very quiet shatters

to a billion pieces

the moment

the doorbell

rings.

Shocking. Seeing Max walk around in my home,

leaving a faint trail of chlorine-scented air.

He squats to pet Mabel, who sniffs his shoes.

“What a cute dog,” he says. “So fluffy.”

She licks him on the nose, and he grins.

Great. My dog has scored a kiss with Max

two seconds after he’s walked in.

And what am I doing? Standing around staring,

his coat over my arm.

“You want something to eat or drink?” I ask.

Max stands and shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

His tall, broad-shouldered body

seems to deprive the room of oxygen.

“We’ll work in here.” I lead the way

into the small room off the kitchen.

Max puts his backpack down

and pulls up a chair.

He nods toward the desk by the window.

“Are those your weights?”

I glance over at the pink dumbbells

lying on the desk. “How’d you guess?”

Max says with a smile,

“The pink sort of gave it away.

Though they could have been your mom’s.

Or your brother’s, for all I know.”

We both laugh, and I set books on the table.

“Michael using pink weights. Or pink anything.

That would be the day.”

“Hey, I competed in a pink swimsuit once,”