Formerly Shark Girl (6 page)

Little to big? One square at a time?

Guess I need to slow down and listen to my own advice.

Sometimes looking too far ahead
can
be overwhelming.

Even for someone who thinks she can handle it.

Mr. Musker returns to my desk and says,

“Squares and rectangles now.”

I create a crooked square.

We’re wasting time,
some part of me screams.

We should be working on a piece I can actually use
—

for the art show or a college portfolio.

Go away,
I murmur inwardly.

Amazingly, the fretting stops.

Drawing squares and rectangles,

I put my mind to the task at hand.

And I put my faith

in Mr. Musker’s methods.

Dear Jane,

Recently I read an update on your story. I’
m so glad to hear that your life has resumed being normal and that you have fully recovered from that shark attack.

I am amazed and awed by your experience. Most people can’
t imagine going through such a terrible thing. And you have overcome it and moved on. I admire that so much. It makes me think even my worst days are nothing to complain about, because, after all, I still have both arms and my good health. Your story has made me appreciate what I have.

I wonder if you feel God has pulled you through this. Clearly He meant for you to live. He must not be done with you here on earth . . . which means He has a purpose for you. Have you found out what that purpose is? Perhaps it was to be an inspiration to people like me. Perhaps it was to be a nurse, as you have chosen to be. What an incredible way to find your calling to help others. I wish you well and thank you for being someone I can look up to.

Your friend,

Marlo

That evening, I’m in the kitchen with Justin.

We’re dicing onions for some soup.

The phone rings, and I pick it up. “Hello?”

“Hi. Jane? This is Matthew.”

I pause. “Matthew?”

“Yeah. Matthew Singleton.

From science class.”

“Oh. Hi, Matthew.” I glance at Justin, who

picks up a carrot and nibbles on it.

“What are you doing?” Matthew asks.

I tuck the phone under my chin.

“Um, nothing much.”

“I’m studying for the vocabulary quiz tomorrow,”

he says. “I just finished memorizing
momentous.

We have a long list this week. Have you started?”

I push the onions aside. “No. I’ll do it later.”

What does he want? Why would he call me?

Matthew clears his throat.

“Do you want to go to the movies this weekend?”

“The movies?” I repeat.

I sound incredulous, even to my own ears.

Justin perks up and puts down his carrot.

Matthew rushes his words. “Not just with me.

A group of us. We’re all going on Saturday,

and I wondered if you would like to go.

We might get pizza afterward . . . or ice cream. . . .”

He trails off. Horrified, I realize

he is waiting for me to rescue him.

“Um . . . yes. Yeah! That would be great.”

Within minutes, there I am,

hanging up the phone, a group movie date

for Saturday night with Matthew Singleton

on my agenda. Wow. Didn’t see that coming.

“You’re going to the movies?” Justin asks.

“What are you going to see?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

Returning to my knife and board,

I notice I begin chopping quite briskly.

A date? I haven’t been on a date in . . .

well, I’ve
never
been on a date, okay?

Yes, I am sixteen. But last year

was the first year I was allowed to date,

and that year turned out to be consumed by

something other than boys and movies.

“Are we almost done?” Justin asks.

“These onions are smelly.”

I agree. “You take a break.

Maybe watch some TV? You pick the show.”

Justin heads for the living room.

I chop wildly, recklessly.

I never thought of Matthew like that.

Should I? Do I?

It wasn’t all that long ago

that I was convinced that no boy

would ever want to be seen with me.

Funny how things change

in ways you never expect.

I slam the knife down

and snatch up the phone again.

A moment like this requires a phone call

to one’s best friend.

A moment like this?

You might even call it

momentous.

Rachel: I
love
Matthew! I’m so glad you’re going out with him!

Jane: It’s a
group
thing, not a date.

Rachel: Okay, Jane. I didn’t say you were getting
married.
What are you going to wear? Who’s driving? How many people are going?

Jane: Um. I don’t . . . know?

Rachel: Is that a question? How can you not know?

Jane: I didn’t ask?

Rachel: Hello? Is this the
real Jane Arrowood
? What did you do — hang up the instant he asked, without getting any details? That’s not like you. You’re normally more . . . bulldoggish.

Jane: Thanks so much. I did hang up kind of fast. I was . . . flustered.

Rachel: Don’t worry about it. I bet he was, too. The main thing is you’re going.

Jane: I don’t know what time. I don’t know anything except that it’s Saturday. I’m an idiot. How can I have not asked for more details?

Rachel: Well, won’t this give you two something to chat about in science class tomorrow?

Jane: Apparently.

Rachel: Ms. Jane Singleton . . .

Jane: This is
Matthew.
I never even thought of him that way. Actually, I haven’t thought of
anyone
that way lately.

Rachel: That’s because you spent all last year thinking about Max Shannon, the heartthrob who got away.

Jane: Max? I didn’t really . . . I mean, I
did,
but . . .

Rachel: Jane, I wasn’t crazy about Max like you were, and even
I
still think about him sometimes. This would be a whole other conversation if
he
was the one who asked you out. Wouldn’t it?

Jane: Can we get back to the subject?

Rachel: I heard Max went to college in New York. I heard his girlfriend broke up with him because she went to school in Utah and didn’t want to try the long-distance thing. Did you hear any of that?

Jane: No.

Rachel: How do I know this stuff and you don’t?

Jane:
Rachel.
Back to the date. Do I pay my own way? Does he pay? How does that all work?

Rachel: Well . . .

Jane: Wait. We’ll have to talk about this later. Justin is here, and I’m ignoring him. I’ll call you after dinner.

Rachel: I’ll be here.

Jane: Bye!

Okay. Yes, last year I was a little bit in love

with the school’s swim-team star,

Max Shannon.

Silly. It was the crush kind of love,

based on not knowing anything

about someone other than

they are gorgeous and funny and kind

and the one person in the entire school

who did not stare, gawk, or

develop sudden blindness

that awful, awful

first day of junior year,

when I started school with only one arm,

a mountain of news stories,

and one gory, jarring video

piled upon my head, shoulders,

and reputation.

And yeah . . . I still think about him once in a while.

But Max was kind to me —

that’s all. He drove me home a few times.

We never exchanged more

than a few minutes of conversation.

He was there, in the same school,

orbiting in a different universe from mine,

then he graduated and disappeared,

and that was that.

But Matthew? Matthew is
real.

And Matthew wants to take me out.

I can’t wait

to see

where this goes.

Stab
— as though a knife

slips under my skin, savagely slicing.

I gasp and grab my half-arm.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asks,

putting her fork down.

I get up from the table,

sweat breaking out across my forehead.

“Just some limb pain,” I tell her.

Mom fetches ice.

The cold helps. I lie on the couch,

the ice pack pressed against my stump.

Please don’t tell me I’m having a setback,

I think, addressing . . . whom?

I did all this already, okay?

I don’t want to do it again.

And the fact is, I’m sort of a baby

when it comes to hurting.

Usually,

like now,

I cry.