Shark Girl (16 page)

When I come home,

I can’t wait to get Chuck

off of me, toss him onto the couch.

The whole day

is hot and heavy in my ears,

and I keep seeing faces in the hallways.

Walking to the kitchen,

I notice

flowers on the table. Sunflowers.

My favorite. A small square note

against the rippled glass vase:

I’m proud of you, Jane.

Love, Mom.

An e-mail from Michael:

UCLA has an awesome football team,

but even the fullbacks

aren’t as tough as you are.

Hang in there. You can do it.

Exhaling, I realize

I can

    breathe

        again.

Dear Jane,

I am thirteen years old. I am a paraplegic. I had a skiing accident two years ago and now I have to be in a wheelchair. I intend to walk again someday, even though my doctors tell me I won’t.

I know how it is to feel different. I just wanted to tell you that it does get easier, and if your friends are good friends, they’ll stick by you and not make a big deal out of the way you look or whatever. I hope you have good friends. I hope things are going okay for you. It helped me to talk about it to my friends, but after a while, I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I just wanted to get back to doing normal things, which isn’t always easy, but I think if you are willing to work hard, you can find a way to do anything.

Good luck with everything,

Riley

I wake up, crying.

Again.

The smell of the sea,

the roar of water in my ears,

screaming. Cold, black rush,

a gray blur of flesh,

a single black eye.

My legs barely carry me

to the bathroom,

where I vomit.

Back in bed,

I wait,

watching for pink sky.

Angie spies me standing,

backpack skewed,

staring at the bulletin board.

First prize, one hundred dollars,

blue ribbon, and modest fame.

Angie walks up.

Alongside me,

she reads the notice.

“Oh, yeah, the art contest

is coming up.” She pauses.

“You’ve won three years

in a row, right?”

“Yes.”

She sighs. “Well. I wonder

who will win this year?”

The simple question

holds me at knifepoint,

breathless.

Angie puts an arm around me.

“Don’t feel bad, Jane.

Besides, if you work hard,

I’m sure you will get it all back.

Right? You can enter next year,

as a senior.”

No.

It’s
my
contest.

It’s
my
win.

Art is
my
thing. Now,

someone new

will climb the peak,

cast their shadow on

That Girl Who Got Bit by a Shark,

lying like so much flab; useless,

foolish.

Whoever she is,

she will be surrounded,

she will be in light,

she will be carried on a wave

of love and goodwill.

She will not know what it’s like

to take up

unjustified space

in the universe.

Justin and I

have hooked up for a playdate.

At his house, his parents

give me hugs, the dog

Spot licks my face,

my hand, my knee;

Spot is eager to be friends.

She presses close, tail thumping

when we sit at the table

and Justin shows me his LEGOs.

“I built this castle once.”

He shows me the picture

in the “ideas” booklet.

“And this tower thing?

My dad and I made that last week.”

He slides the booklet aside.

“We can’t keep them, though;

otherwise we don’t have enough LEGOs

to build anything else.

We
always
take them apart.”

He states this firmly as

he digs out red rectangles,

black squares, and offers them

to me. “Let’s build something.”

If Justin were my brother,

I would buy him all the LEGOs

in the world, so he would never,

ever

have to destroy his creations.

I want to tell him this.

Instead I say,

“I’m not good at LEGOs.”

Justin replies, “Sure you are.”

We click and snap the pieces together,

discovering as we go

what it is we are making.

“How is school?” I ask.

“Fine.”

“Do the kids . . . you know.

Do the kids . . .”

He looks up at me. “Make fun of me?”

“Yes.” I study his face

while Spot sniffs my shoe.

“No. Well, one did.

But I don’t care. Everyone else

treats me the same as usual.”

“Good.”

He hands me a blue LEGO.

“Do the kids make fun of
you
?”

I shake my head.

“Not really,” I say, wanting to add

but of course, they stare
.

Justin would understand staring.

He understands a lot of things my friends

don’t, can’t, never will.

“Do you like your new leg?” I ask.

He is not wearing it today.

“Yeah, it lets me do stuff.

Sometimes it kind of hurts, though.”

He examines the LEGO creature

we hold between us. “Needs more black.”

I blurt,

“I don’t like my new arm.”

“Is that why you’re not wearing it?”

he asks.

I nod, and finger my pinned-up sleeve.

I can be armless with him,

natural and comfortable.

Justin scrabbles in the LEGO bucket.

He says,

“Have you drawn me a picture yet?”

“Um, no.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just not going well.”

He looks into my eyes, kindly.

“It’s okay. Keep trying.”

Then he grabs the LEGO monster,

which is multicolored, tall and jutting,

and he makes a growling sound.

“ROAAARRRR.”

We laugh.

“Let’s play some computer games,”

Justin says.

Grabbing his crutches, he leads the way.

I follow,

wondering why

he seems like the big kid

and I

the small one.

In biology, Mr. DeLandro says,

“Next week we will be dissecting —

or in the case of some of you guys —
hacking up
— goldfish.”

He winks at me. “Sorry, Jane, I couldn’t get hold of a shark.”

I could kick him. But I wait until after class,

swallow my thumping heart,

and step up to his desk.

“That remark you made —”

“Oh, I was just kidding around, you know that, right?”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“I apologize, Jane.

I was trying not to pussyfoot around your condition.

I thought it would make things easier on you.”

“It didn’t. I don’t need help

and I
don’t
need to be laughed at.”

The price of confrontation? All day,

all that hot, restless night,

I try to forget the coldness in Mr. DeLandro’s eyes,

the anger, white,

around his lips.

Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart!

Hi, Aunt Karen! Happy Thanksgiving to you.

I sure wish we were together.

Me, too.

We have a houseful, though. Your grandparents are here and Margie and her husband and my cousin’s family. There’s seventeen of us! We sure have a lot to be thankful for
this
year.

We do?

Well,
yes,
honey, we’re all going to say a special prayer of thanks that you are with us today, alive and well!

Oh.

Do you know I made a vegetarian stuffing in your honor? I found the recipe when I was out there, in one of your cookbooks!

That’s great.

Hold on, your uncle Ben wants to get on the phone.