Formerly Shark Girl (22 page)

her brow knitted in concern.

“Does he have any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

Mom sighs again. “Poor kid.

I bet he’s all alone with that man,

trying to take care of him.”

I think back

to the vague murmurs at school

last year, of Max winning a swim scholarship

to a college back east. I think about the day

we met at the cafeteria, when I asked him,

“Do you go to school here?”

And the expression on his face

when he answered,

“Yeah. I go here.”

Regret? Resentment?

Did he give up his scholarship

to a better school to stay with his dad?

I don’t know.

That’s not something

you just ask somebody —

details about their senile father

and whether or not they live at home

because they need to,

not because they want to.

“Tell you what,” Mom says abruptly.

“I’ll drive you to swimming tomorrow.

I’ll have breakfast in the cafeteria

while you’re doing that.

When you’re done, I’ll take you to school

and go on to work. I don’t have to be there

until ten anyway.”

Oh! She said yes,

and I am
so happy

that I don’t dare to negotiate.

I just say, “Thanks, Mom,”

and leave quickly, before she changes her mind.

Back in my room,

as I change for bed,

I think about Max,

cheerful, positive,

humorous Max,

and his ailing father

who is not nice to him.

I wish I could help.

Later that night,

Mom pauses by my bedroom door.

“Jane, there’s something

I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

I put down my colored pencil,

alarmed. That tone of voice.

Oh, dear. This is it.

This is where she tells me

she has found someone

and that he’s coming over for dinner

and they’re getting married

and everything is going to change.

Right?

“I . . .” Mom begins,

and then

mercifully,

wonderfully,

her phone rings.

She pulls it from her pocket,

frowns, and says,

“Have to answer this, honey. It’s work.”

She leaves, and

like a coward,

I put on my pajamas

and dive under the covers.

When she returns

several minutes later,

I am a lump in the dark,

pretending to sleep.

Soon

her footsteps fade away.

J: Am going to meet Max tomorrow for his morning swim at the college! :)

R: OMG. You took my advice, right? You picked up on a hint?

J: Yes. I did better this time.

R: Great! Will you swim too? Wear your blue suit.

J: No swim. Don’t want wet hair before school. We are meeting at 6 a.m.

R: Wow. That’s early! Can’t wait for details. Have fun!

J: I will!

I thread my way past people leaving the building.

I can hardly wait to see Max.

And, yes, it has crossed my mind that I will be seeing him

in a Speedo.

Hurrying along, my flip-flops flapping,

I breeze up to the heavy doors

of the pool house.

Stepping through the doorway,

I enter another world.

Everything

is so . . . large.

The curved ceiling is so high, so far out of reach;

blinding white lights dangle like diamonds from dark

metal beams.

Air is the biggest thing in this room,

heavy, damp air that

hangs over rows of bleachers

and rolls across the pool itself.

In marked-off lanes,

people swim laps,

their bodies churning up wakes of white foam.

The sound of splashing

engulfs me.

As I watch, two sleek-bodied swimmers

dive from blocks into the water

and disappear into it

as though swallowed.

So much water.

It stretches out

like a vast desert,

a desert with a wet and rippling

surface.

The sight of it is like a smack in the face;

I have not stood this
close
to so much water

since that day

nearly two years ago,

when I walked into the ocean a normal girl

and came out forever changed.

Icy terror washes over my insides,

and my heart begins to thud.

Sweat breaks out along the small of my back.

I stare at the bobbing heads,

thrashing bodies,

and I see

fins —

fins, everywhere.

I see people drowning.

I see myself

drowning

and clawing

and spouting blood

into the red water.

I see myself dying.

Run.

I have to get out of here.

I have to see sunlight

and dirt and pavement

and nothing wet,

nothing at all.

“Jane?”

Dimly I am aware I have just run past Max,

who I think is holding a towel or something.

“I have to go!”

I call it over my shoulder

because I can’t look back.

I don’t stop

until I am outside

in the blinding California sunshine.

Only then,

leaning over from a wave of dizziness,

do I catch my breath.

“Hey, Jane? Are you all right?”

I swivel my head and peer up at Max.

He is sideways and definitely holding a towel.

I straighten, slowly,

and, slowly, the world stops spinning.

“I’m sorry,” I croak.

All I can think of is it’s so early.

It’s so damn
early,
and I told Max

that I would meet him here,

that I would put my feet in the water

and time his laps.

Imagine what he’s thinking right now?

“Max, this is the first time I’ve set foot

near water

since . . .”

His face slips from confused

to shocked.

He reaches for my arm,

the arm that would be closest to him,

if it were still attached to my body.

He puts his hand on my back instead.

“Jane, I had no idea.

I never even thought . . .”

He rubs his other hand over his eyes.

“How could I have not even thought . . . ?”

I don’t need Max

blaming himself

for my hang-ups. “It’s okay.

I didn’t know that I’d — I’m sorry.

I have to go.”

I put my head down and start walking.

Good, Jane. Walk away from the amazing guy

you had a date with this morning.

Because sitting next to a pool is too big a price to pay

for time with Max.

“Wait. I’ll get my car,” Max calls.

I shake my head.

“It’s okay. My mom is here.”

I am cold all over,

and hot at the same time,

and I think I may never get over

embarrassing myself this way.

I am the stupidest person

ever.

I thought I had moved on.

Turns out I haven’t.

Mom doesn’t say anything

about my aborted swim date this morning.

You know why?

Because halfway to the cafeteria,

I took a detour.

I went and sat in our car

for an hour, grateful that it was unlocked.

Then, at seven, I went and got Mom.

And, yes, I acted like

I did meet Max and that all went fine,

and that I did not

freak out

and nearly climb the walls.

In other words,

I lied.

I didn’t want Mom to worry.

I didn’t want her thinking

that it was time for me

to go back to therapy or something.

I don’t want her to think

she has to keep on fixing me.

Forever.

You know what I mean?

Well. Okay.

The truth is . . .

I really,
really

didn’t want to talk about it.

So . . . honestly?

I lied for my own benefit.

And when I got to school,

and my friends were giggling

and asking for details?

I lied to them, too.

I told them my morning with Max was fine,

it was fun, and it was no big deal.

Yep.

Guess lying is one thing

that is getting

easier

and easier.

Dear Jane;

My name is Ashton. I am forty years old. I was born without one of my hands. I don’t remember ever having two hands, of course, so I don’t know what it’s like to actually lose one. I do remember going through a period when I was young where I felt left out and wondered why I had to be different from everyone else.

I know I’m not supposed to say that; mostly when you hear about people like me you hear about how they never pity themselves, and they never have any regrets, and they never have any troubles. Well, sorry to say it, but back then, there were times I
did
feel sorry for myself. I love basketball, and the reality is, I never could play as well as my friends, though I was extremely good. At times I felt self-conscious around girls because of my arm. To say I never wished I’d just been born with two hands like everyone else would be stretching it. My point is, the article made it sound like you were doing fine, but I wanted to write and say, if you ever have a day where you are angry or unhappy with the way things are, that’s okay. It’s understandable. Not everyone has to be sunshine all the time.