Shark Girl (21 page)

“I still need to learn to drive.”

“I know, honey.”

“I’m going to start saving for a car soon.

A used one. You know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Neither of us mentions

we can’t imagine what I’ll do for employment

to save for this imaginary car.

The issue is independence.

“Michael bought a car.”

“Yes, he did.”

“If you’re not going to teach me, can I ask him to do it?”

“Jane. Do we have to rush it?

You’re still getting used to your new hand . . .”

“An electric hand has nothing to do

with me learning to drive.

I might as well learn to drive without it,

don’t you think?”

Mom nods, but remains sitting,

plucking at a hole in the couch.

“I guess we could go out this weekend.”

“Why not now?”

“Because it’s dark.”

“So?”

Sigh. “Jane, I don’t want to.”

In my room, I hear her call,

“You don’t need to slam your door,

you know. I said we’d go

this weekend.”

I need to know how to do this

now
.

My friends

are practicing parallel parking already.

They know

they are days from freedom.

I need to know that, too.

Tonight,

the face of a fox

emerges beneath my hand.

Without warning

his slanted eyes

lock onto mine.

A face, there all along,

coming sharply into focus.

Real eyes.

Eyes!

Alive.

My heart beats faster.

I want to shout,

wake up the entire house,

the neighborhood, everyone.

Instead, I only wake up Mabel,

who blinks sleepily from the bed

as I dance around the room.

I missed the bus,

because I was talking to Mrs. Guiano

about nursing school

and didn’t want the conversation to end.

I start walking home

with all my books

in the crook of my arm.

Halfway down Raymond Avenue, the wind picks up.

Bits of dead leaves skip around my ankles;

this reminds me of children dancing,

and I wonder

if I could plan some kind of party

for the kids at the hospital.

I don’t know what kind,

but those kids could use some fun.

A red car passes, slows down,

then reverses.

I put my head down and walk fast,

grateful that there’s a woman across the street,

sweeping out her garage.

She’ll be the witness in case I am assaulted.

The guy in the car sticks his head out.

“Jane? Can I give you a ride?”

Max Shannon himself.

“You thought I might assault you?”

Max throws back his head and laughs.

“Not
really,
” I say, and I’m laughing, too.

“I mean, I’m alone, this car stops and backs up . . .”

“Right. What else could it possibly mean

but that I’m a psychotic animal?”

There’s a tiny nick under his jaw,

maybe from shaving.

Max stops at a red light,

reaches over and plucks a book from the stack in my lap.

“The Call of the Wild?”
he says.

“I liked
White Fang
better.”

He places the book back on the stack

with care. “I can bring it in for you, if you want.”

Though I’ve read it, I say, “That would be great.”

Max drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“I just realized.

This would go a lot better if you tell me where you live.”

I give him directions,

wishing I could send him on some long, winding route

that would take a couple of days to complete.

But we’re almost home.

“Are you ever going to come to a swim meet?” he asks.

“We don’t get a lot of fans. The team could really use the

    cheering.”

“I’ll come to the next one,” I blurt.

Could I sound any more eager?

“Great.” He smiles. “Hey, how come you’re not on the bus?”

He listens as I tell him about Mrs. Guiano and

medical school.

“That is totally cool,” he says. “You’d make a great nurse.

Or a doctor.”

“I’ve also been looking at occupational therapy,” I tell him.

“There’s so much that’s looks interesting.”

As he smiles and nods, I realize what I just said.

So
much
that looks interesting?

Wow.

Just a few months ago,

my radar was EMPTY.

So it’s true, then?

Time makes a difference?

Who knows.

Time is still passing.

“Mom was driving me and Angie to the mall

and we passed you in Max’s car!”

Rachel sounds gleeful.

“Gimme the scoop.”

I tell her about the nick under Max’s jaw,

about
White Fang,

the way his car smelled like oranges,

everything.

Angie calls.

She gushes, she fusses,

she says:

“But,

I heard

he’s with Megan Dalloway now.”

Soaking in the bathtub later that night,

I wonder how Angie can call to tell me that,

and still call

herself

a friend.

Emily Morrison says:

“He only talks to her because he feels sorry for her.

It’s not like she’s pretty or anything.”

Behind my locker, I watch

Emily’s enormous feet pass, and

the girl she’s with, someone new,

says,

“Can you imagine getting your arm bitten off

by a
shark
?”

As though getting your arm bitten off by a lion

would be easier to live with.

They’re both idiots.

So why am I the one

feeling stupid?

I got it.

I know just what to get

Justin for his birthday.

I think,

I hope,

he’ll love it.

Max. I want his arms, around me.

That smile, that shine in his eyes,

when he looks at Megan,

I want that for me. Us. Together.

Rachel states:

“You don’t even know him. You’re creating fantasy.”

Trina adds:

“He is probably an excessive nose picker,

or kicks his dog around when he goes home.”

But Elizabeth says:

“Maybe not. Maybe he’s every bit

as wonderful as he seems.

Sexy, cute, smart, athletic . . .

maybe I’m in love with him, too, Jane.

Can we share him?”

We laugh, and bump shoulders.

But I wish there was a grain

of hope, a toehold somewhere with Max.

When I think of his hands

and I think of his eyes,

it’s like watching a boat sail away,

white sails growing ever smaller,

leaving me

on an empty shore.