Shark Girl (14 page)

“Get out here, we’ve got lots to do.”

Michael has the lawn mower

and clippers.

“Bring the trash can,” he tells me.

I roll it over to the edge of the lawn.

Awkwardly, as with anything else.

I am not wearing Chuck for this;

Chuck is driving me insane with his clumsiness,

and besides, it is too damn hot to wear that thing.

“It’s too damn hot,” I say, trying Michael.

Maybe he’ll be nice again.

Mr. Martinez is in his driveway,

washing his car. He waves. He watches.

But Michael is not nice; he is Michael.

“Stop whining,” he says. “Now.

Welcome to the Arrowood school of gardening.

Today, we are going to learn how to

Mow the Lawn.”

He spreads the words out like a proclamation:

Mow    the    Lawn.

“Michael, I don’t want —”

“You don’t have to thank me. First step,

start the mower.”

He makes me turn the key and pump the red button,

press the black knob. The mower roars to life.

Mr. Martinez still watches.

Michael spreads his hands. “Begin.”

I hate him. I hate Mr. Martinez for being in his driveway,

I hate the grass for growing, and the sun for being so hot.

I hate the mower, straining to the right like a live animal.

“Put your weight to the right,” Michael calls.

My hand is cramped,

my legs rubberizing,

grass bits spatter my shorts,

sweat pours down into my underwear.

“I can’t do this,” I yell above the mower.

But Michael isn’t even watching,

he’s too busy clipping the edges,

calm as a fat cat.

I push the stupid mower around,

pretending the grass is Michael’s face,

his smirk being chewed off bit by bit.

Mr. Martinez goes back to his car washing,

smiling with white teeth.

Later,

Michael says, “See? You can do this.

Next week, I’m off to college.

Time for you to make this your job.”

Aching legs, aching back,

I shower the sweat away,

thinking he’s right.

It sucked to mow the lawn.

But it would have sucked more

to see Mom pushing that mower each week.

And maybe,

it’s kind of nice

for Michael to treat me

like old plain Jane.

Days skirting the issue.

The tangles in the comb,

that heavy dryer,

Mom’s pinchy fingers trying to help.

Shouts of impatience,

bitten back. Walking around

looking like I just rolled out of bed.

Enough.

Rachel and I slip into the bookstore,

snatch up every hair magazine made,

which is about three too many.

We see Angie with her dad

in the checkout line.

“Jane? Rache? What are you guys doing?”

Great. It all comes out.

“You’re not cutting off your hair,”

Angie states flatly.

She touches my ponytail.

“You’ve got the prettiest hair out of all of us;

you CAN’T cut it off. I forbid it.”

She’s joking, but not so much.

“Call me when you get home — we’ll discuss this!”

She’s off.

Rachel looks guilty.

Later,

I shake off the store clerk’s stare,

pore over the magazine.

Lana, the hairdresser I get at the salon,

approves the torn-out picture I’ve brought.

“That’ll bring out your eyes,” she says,

“and it’s easy to take care of.”

I am grateful when she drops

the giant smock around me, hiding everything.

She starts cutting away as she talks.

“A dab of gel, run your fingers through each side,

bam, you’re out the door. Love it.”

Locks fall to the linoleum floor,

a litter of feathered casualties.

Emerging from beneath Lana’s scissors

is a face. My face?

Too pale. Too serious. But there I am,

and I can’t help but wonder

what Angie will say at school,

what
her
face will look like

when she sees

I defied her orders.

“Be good,” my brother says. His voice

rumbles in my ear as he hugs me.

“When you go back to school,

you’ll be fine. Really.”

His chin scratches across my cheek.

“Okay,” I say, meaning to speak

loudly, but whispering instead.

I’m losing something.

Something more than Michael.

“Please call me when you get there,”

Mom says. Her knuckles are white

when she grips Michael’s shirt.

“It’s only UCLA, Mom,” he says,

but Michael doesn’t break the hug.

“I’ll be coming home a lot.”

Mom stands next to me, sniffling,

watching Michael climb into his truck.

I want to hug her,

but her shoulders say “stay away.”

As Michael drives off, we both wave,

and though we’re standing side by side,

we might as well be

on opposite sides of the world.

Found a jar of buttons

in Mom’s craft cabinet today.

I ask if I can have them.

Tiptoe into Michael’s room,

breathe in the scent;

dirty sneakers,

cologne, and empty closet.

Underneath the “fast cars” calendar,

I sit, the buttons spread out on the dark carpet.

They clatter in miniature

when my hand stirs the plastic pile.

It grows dark while I

arrange and rearrange.

Funny how you can make a picture

without really thinking about it.

Everything shifts

with the removal of just one black button

or the two blues,

or the square white one

with the small red rose.

It’s almost like sketching.

Hey, Rache.

Hi. Hang on, let me put the phone by the bed. Okay. How are you?

Oh, you know.

Nervous?

Uh, yeah. Just a little.

(Nervous laughter from both.) That was a dumb question.

Why don’t you ride in with me tomorrow? Mom’s driving me.

I can’t; I have a dentist appointment at seven. Dad’s driving me straight to school after.

Oh.

But I can meet you. By your locker. Or . . .

Yeah, okay.

Want to meet outside? By the bike rack?

Well . . . whatever.

Jane, I’m sorry. I can’t get out of the appointment, though; my dad would kill me.

I know. (Long pause.)

Too bad Michael isn’t there.

My
brother
Michael? What could he do?

I don’t know. Beat up anybody who says anything. (More nervous laughter from both.)

Rachel, what are you going to wear?

My red top with the stripe. And my black pants. You?

I don’t know. I was thinking about the top with . . . oh, who cares? Does it matter?

Of course it does. We might run into someone gorgeous. Like Max Shannon!

Yeah, well, no one is going to even see what I’m wearing. They’ll be too busy checking out my nice fake arm. I could wear a bag over my head and no one would notice.

Oh, Jane! I feel so bad. I wish you wouldn’t say that.

But it’s true — you know it is. I’m going to wear my cosmetic arm all week. I can’t wear the hook. Not right away. It’s too . . .

Tomorrow will be the hardest. It’ll be all downhill after that.

Maybe.

You should call Angie or Trina. They’d ride over with you.

Yeah, maybe I will.

Do it. Promise?

No.

(Loud sigh.) Come on, you don’t have to do this alone.

I know. I have to go. Mom needs the phone.

Oh. Okay. Well . . . call Angie, all right?

Okay.

Jane?

What?

You can do this.

The clock reads

midnight,

then one,

two,

three

a.m.

I’d rather go back

to that beach

and dip my toes

in the cold gray water,

than step into school

in just a few hours.