Formerly Shark Girl (23 page)

Having said that, I do hope that the rest of the article is true, and that you
are
moving on with your life and finding ways to do all the things you want to do. Anyway, just wanted to write and say, from one lefty to another, best of luck. And I hope you have a long, happy life.

Ashton

Life goes on, and deadlines arrive,

even when it seems the world should stop

out of respect for a shattered self-esteem.

Last night I did not sleep.

I pictured Max’s confused face,

growing smaller as I ran from him.

When I got up in the morning, the first thing I saw,

in my mind’s eye, was all that water at the pool.

But it’s Thursday. And it’s time to turn in

my painting for the art competition.

“Jane! I’m so glad to see you,”

Mrs. Foxe, the assistant principal, says.

She handles the art show every year;

a panel of five teachers are the judges.

Mr. Musker is not one of them.

He says he can’t be impartial.

“I’m glad to see you, too,”

I say to Mrs. Foxe, holding up my painting.

“I’m entering this in the show.”

She claps her hands like a child.

“Wonderful! I am so glad to see you

back at it. And oh, my goodness,

isn’t that
lovely
!” She sighs.

“I am so glad
I’m
not a judge this year.

I have seen a lot of fantastic pieces this morning!”

Behind me, two girls crowd close,

each carrying her own work of art.

“Wow,” says one girl. “That is so good.”

“Thanks.” I admire her watercolor,

and her friend’s mosaic. “Those are really nice.”

“Thank you,” they say,

and I make room for them,

leaving my painting in the care of Mrs. Foxe,

leaving the room filled with the familiar mix

of hope, anticipation, and nerves.

They say competition is not always healthy,

but I like it. Thinking of Mr. Musker

and the help he gave me,

the encouragement,

the support — it’s
right

to be here, and to be hopeful.

Hopeful — in spite of yesterday’s disaster.

“See you at the show next week!”

Mrs. Foxe calls after me.

I turn back and wave.

“I’ll be there.”

Justin: Hi.

Jane: Hi, Justin. What’s up?

Justin: I think I found the thing you hid in the painting.

Jane: Oh, yeah? What is it?

Justin: A chipmunk.

Jane: A chipmunk?

Justin: Yeah. By the turtle. By the river.

Jane: Hmm. Oh, wait. Yeah, I remember that. Well, you got me there.

Justin: I got it?

Jane: No.

Justin: Oh.

Jane: Yes, I did add the chipmunk on the spur of the moment, and I think I did that while you were feeding Spot that one time. But that’s not the thing I was talking about. The thing I hid in the painting is more special than that.

Justin: And you won’t tell me what it is?

Jane: What do
you
think?

Justin: I think you won’t tell me.

Jane: Bingo.

Justin:
(Heavy sigh)
All right. I’ll keep looking.

Jane: Okay. And come over soon for some brownies, okay?

Justin: I will. Bye.

Jane: Bye, Justin.

The ultrasound stuff

is not working. So today is something new.

Dr. Kim sends me to an elderly doctor

with no hair. I lie on a table

while he slides needles into my arm.

Not just my half-arm, either.

Both
arms. And legs.

And a few in my face as well.

It doesn’t hurt as much as I feared.

I resemble a porcupine, lying there,

rows of needles

shining under the lights.

Afterward Mom drives me home.

“I hope this helps,” she says.

“Me, too.” I gaze out the window

at the dry brown mountains rolling past.

I think about the chain of events that

led me to this place.

One trip to the beach.

That was all it took.

Who’d have thought?

Josh: Handsome in his tux.

Brings a corsage that is pale white, fragile;

the petals quiver when he pins it to me.

Limo: Shiny black, reflects streetlights

like winking stars, deep, lush.

Inside, it is crowded, hot, filled with the laughter

of my closest friends.

The gymnasium: Unrecognizable

as a place normally filled with sweat and shouting.

Sparkling lights, red, white, blue, green, and pink;

banners, streamers, wooden tables and chairs;

a band plays on a stage on one end.

Food lines linen-covered tables; the scent of roast beef

and garlic fills the air, mingling with

music and noise.

The dance: Fast, fun, lively, and wild.

Josh laughs, spins; we shake and jump

and laugh the night away.

Whenever a slow song plays,

we sit down, catch our breath, drink something cold.

We watch the couples on the floor

hold each other, as if for dear life,

slowly twirling in small circles.

I prefer the music to be fast and loud.

I prefer to dance and laugh.

Because when things get quiet, and I sit to rest,

I think about the pool,

about Max,

about running away,

about how foolish I felt,

how out of control.

And in bed that night,

my dress slung over the back of my chair,

I echo inside with the
beat-beat
throb of the band,

I recall the heat of the crowd on the dance floor,

I lay my hand on the wilted corsage,

and I focus on all the fun we had.

However . . .

the memory that crowds everything out?

The memory

of running away

from all that

water.

“I don’t know what’s bugging you,

but
something
is,”

Rachel says three days later.

My best friend.

Why do I think I can hide

these things from her?

“Is it your mom?”

she asks. “Has she been

‘working late’ again?

Mentioned a boyfriend?”

I shake my head.

“No, that’s not it.”

She pounces.

Figuratively, of course,

because at the moment,

we are walking

down a cracked sidewalk

in town, heading for the coffee shop.

“So there
is
something wrong.”

I want to tell her about Max.

About the fiasco at the pool.

“I’ll tell you when we get our coffees,”

I say, glancing around.

“I don’t want to talk about it

right here.”

She leans into me for a second.

“Jane, I’m going to miss you so much

when we go to college.”

My stomach lurches

at the reality of being separated

from Rachel.

Before I can respond,

the front door

to the hardware store beside us

swings open

and out walks Max.

Max stops abruptly.

“Hi,” he says.

It is then I notice

a large, scruffy man behind him.

The man glowers at Max’s back

through shaggy white eyebrows.

He pokes Max in the shoulder.

“And another thing,” he says loudly,

angrily. “They know full well

there aren’t one hundred screws in the box.

They
know
it. They gouge us that way.

It’s because of the microchips in their heads.

They’re
trained
to gouge us.

And you just
let
them?”

He throws his hands up in the air.

“You’re just like your mother.

Totally useless!”

He stalks off. I stare after him,

dumbfounded,

and after a moment

I swivel my head

back to Max.

His face is bright red.

“Sorry,” he says.

He starts to say something else,

then brushes between us

and runs up the sidewalk. “Dad!”