Formerly Shark Girl (26 page)

there are no lightning bolts

or earthquakes,

no wails of agony.

I do not

shatter into a thousand shards.

In fact, Max

does not even let go of my hand.

He thinks a moment.

“What
do
you want to do?” he asks.

“Art.” As soon as I say it,

tears spring to my eyes.

“I want to be an artist,

just like I always wanted to be.

I thought I wanted to be a nurse.

And I like helping at the hospital.

But I don’t want to do that forever.

I want to be an artist.
Forever.
”

Max squeezes my hand.

“Then why don’t you do that?”

“Because I went and told everyone

that maybe I wanted to be a nurse.

And everyone got excited. And I feel

like I
have
to follow through.

Like I’m letting people down if I . . .

I mean, it would be so selfish if I . . .”

Max interrupts. “Slow down. First of all,

who
would you be letting down?”

The billions of people who write to me and tell me I’m inspirational.

The people who are hurt, who need someone who’s been there.

The people who saved my life.

Lindsey. Doctors. Everyone. That’s who.

But my throat tightens, and I can’t even speak.

“I’d think your family would want you

to be happy, and to do art, if that’s what you want,”

Max says. “It’s not like it’s out of the blue.

You said this is something you’ve always wanted.

So who would you disappoint?”

“I’m not sure” is all I can think to say.

“When I was in the hospital . . . everyone helped. . . .

It was so good to be helped . . . and I thought . . .”

Great.
I can’t finish a single sentence.

“I thought I could do the same. I thought I could help.

I thought maybe, in a way, I was
meant
to change paths.”

“You thought that? Or did everyone
tell
you that?”

I glance at him.

He cocks his head. “Do you think you
need
to be a nurse

in order to prove something?

Or to satisfy something? Guilt, maybe?”

Wow. That psychology training really works.

As I fumble for a response, Max says,

“Is that a good reason to go into medicine?

Because everyone
else
wants you to?

Because you think you
should
?”

His words sink in slowly, like melted lead

filling up the cracks and pores in my insides.

The people in the hospital I see every Saturday —

they are real people, not plastic dummies or volunteers

or stories or characters.
Real. People.

With real injuries. Real illness

and heartaches and real families.

Can I devote myself to their care if,

for even one second,

my heart lies somewhere else?

“I never thought of it that way.”

Max squeezes my hand again.

“You should.”

We lock eyes, and for one moment,

I think I may actually kiss him,

and then Mom calls from the hallway,

“How about some popcorn?”

We barely manage to drop hands and pull apart

before she turns the corner and asks,

“Anyone want anything?”

“No, thanks, Mom.” I sigh.

Max stands. “I was just leaving.”

I say nothing as he puts on his coat

and nods good-bye to us both.

But, oh. The words we have spoken.

They hang in the air, so ripe I could pick them,

could take a bite and savor them.

And for the rest of the night,

that is exactly what I do.

Justin takes my hand as we walk into the makeshift

gallery, already filled with students and parents,

wandering the aisles, poring over the art.

“Yours is going to
win,
” he whispers.

That’s what I like about Justin.

Without seeing the other pieces,

he
knows
I’m the best. Friends like him

don’t come along every day.

I squeeze his hand back. “I hope so.”

Michael, who has come home for the weekend

and who drove us here, pokes me in the shoulder.

“Do they have a snack booth here? A bake sale?

Candy?”

I turn and give him what I hope is a withering stare.

“It’s an art show, Michael. Not a fruit stand.”

He holds up his hands. “Touchy, touchy.

Fine. We’ll look at art. But it wouldn’t kill anyone

to have some food here. That’s all I’m saying.”

There is the usual mix of media.

Pastels, oils, acrylic, chalk, charcoal,

pencil, watercolor, pen and ink.

Subjects range from animals to landscapes,

houses, farms, and portraits.

Elizabeth and Rachel find us.

“Let’s go find your painting,” Rachel says.

My
Skies and Seas
painting hangs by the doorway,

on a wall with other landscapes. One next to mine

catches my eye — a street scene, in the rain, at dusk.

Moody, shadowy, and well lit, it’s beautiful.

Mrs. Foxe steps up onto the stage.

“Thank you for coming, and congratulations to
all
our

artists,”

she says, beaming around the room as everyone gathers.

“I know I say this every year, but honestly —

this is the
best show yet.
”

Justin nudges me. He asks in a whisper,

“Does she really say that every year?”

I nod. “She does.”

“And now for our winners,” Mrs. Foxe says,

unfolding a piece of paper. “The judges

wanted me to tell you all that they had a
very

hard time choosing this year, because everything

was just so wonderful.”

She announces the winners

for pastels, then watercolors, then charcoal.

Then she reaches my category. Acrylics.

“And for first prize in acrylics, the ribbon goes to . . .

Josh Macintosh.”

Josh? As in . . . my prom date, Josh?

He emerges from the crowd, grinning,

towing along a pretty girl.

He takes the blue ribbon from Mrs. Foxe,

with the same hand that pinned the corsage

to my dress on prom night. Well.

Didn’t see that coming.

As applause spatters from the crowd,

I experience rude shock, confusion, and paralysis.

I did not win.

My hard work, my beautiful piece —

one of the very few
true
pieces

I have to show for myself since the accident —

it
did not win.

And I was so sure it would.

Until now, I guess I didn’t realize

how much I assumed I would
win.

How arrogant can you get?

The sense of loss I have?

It comes from feeling

entitled.

And in art,

you are
not ever
entitled.

I know that. And I know

that judging art is so subjective.

It’s one of the worst things you can do to art,

actually — judge it and place a ribbon on it.

But that’s what I counted on here today.

Winning.

Good idea or not, in the past, when I won those ribbons,

they meant everything. They brought joy and pride.

And they told me that I was the best

at
something.

And the crystal-clear reality?

I thought I deserved that ribbon,

more than anyone, this year of years.

After all, didn’t I work hard?

Didn’t I come so far?

Didn’t I?

“Second prize goes to Jane Arrowood.”

It takes Michael giving me a sharp poke

to bring me back to the moment.

“Congratulations, Jane.” Mrs. Foxe

holds out a shiny red ribbon.

I propel myself toward her and

take the ribbon while everyone in the room

applauds wildly. Loudly.

Rachel leans forward as I join her.

“Jane, look.” She gestures behind me.

I turn around, and the crowd

has edged forward in a mass,

and they are still clapping. Mr. Musker

is at the front.

Someone whistles, piercing and shrill.

Someone says, “Good for you, Jane!”

Someone else yells, “Way to go, Jane!”

And in the ensuing long, long round of clapping,

in which even Michael joins in,

everyone cheers.

For me.

I’m still glowing, still smiling, still crazy

out of sync with my heartbeat,

which has skyrocketed off to the heavens

somewhere. Even now, as we walk to the exit,

parents give me a thumbs-up, a heartfelt

“So good to see you painting again, Jane.

We missed you last year.

Keep going, Jane. You’re amazing.”

Justin takes my hand once more.

“That was
awesome.

I hope someday people clap for
me

that way.”

I squeeze his hand. “Something tells me

they will.”

Before we leave, we seek out Josh

and his girlfriend. He lights up when he sees us.

“Hi, guys. This is Kathy, my girlfriend from back home.”

We all say hello. Kathy seems shy.

“Congratulations,” I tell Josh,

and everyone chimes in, too.

“I didn’t know you painted,”

I say. And the truth?

I didn’t know because I never asked.

When I talked to Max about nursing,

I reflected on the people in the hospital

and how their real needs, their real lives,

are not stories or toys to be played with.

They’re
real.

I never applied that reasoning to Josh.

Since prom, have I made one iota of an effort

to find him in the halls? Say hello? Like I
said
I would?

Nope. And that selfish attitude?

It’s going to stop.