Shark Girl (18 page)

Hello, is this Jane Arrowood?

Yes.

This is Missy Howard. I am the vice president of programming for ABC. I wanted to talk to you about appearing on
Good Morning America.

What?

Jane, we are so in admiration of you here. We know what you have been going through must be rough.

And you admire that?

Sorry?

I don’t want to be on your show.

Now, Jane, hear me out. If you would be willing to come to New York, we would be glad to pay your way, and you and your family could make a vacation out of it. We could talk about —

No, thank you.

Jane, the whole nation saw your story on the news. People were shocked by what they saw. We know for a fact there are many, many people in our country who would love an update on you. How you’re doing, how you are adjusting, what life is like now. People really do care, and I’m sure they would like to see you on television.

No, I —

I mean, this is your chance to leave an impression on everyone, isn’t it? You don’t want to be remembered as how you were seen in that video, do you? You want a chance to show everyone the human side of yourself, not just the story side, right?

I —

How does next Friday sound? We’d fly you and your parents out, of course, and —

No. I said no. I don’t want to be on your show and that is final.

But —

Don’t call here ever again.

Jane? Honey, what was that all about?

That was some stupid TV show. They wanted me to come on there and talk about myself.

What show?

Good Morning America.

Really? Well, honey, that’s not some show. That’s big.

Mom! Are you going to start, too? Do you
want
me to be on it?

Of course not. Why are you so upset? Jane, you’re crying. Come here, honey.

She was so rude. She made it sound like I owed it to everyone to say I’m okay. Like people care? Everyone has forgotten about it.

The media doesn’t fool around with forgotten people, dear. I’m sure there’s a grain of truth in what she said. Don’t look at me like that — I’m not saying she’s right. I’m not saying you should be on the show. I’m just saying, you did get all those cards and letters. I mean, some of them are still coming.

I don’t want them. I never asked for any of this. I don’t owe anyone anything.

I know.

I hate this. I just want to be left alone.

Hm.

What. What are you thinking about?

Nothing.

What? Tell me.

Well. I don’t know why, but I was just thinking about you and your art. About all those contests you’re always winning. Do you remember in fourth grade when you won the blue ribbon for best artist of the year, and had to stand in front of an assembly and have your picture taken?

Yeah.

You loved that. You took a little bow and everything. They had to push you off the stage when you were done.

So?

You’ve always loved winning those things. You’ve always been the best artist in school, and you’ve been so proud of yourself in that department.

So?

It’s just funny how we can crave attention in some areas of our life, but hate it in others.

I don’t
crave
attention.

Not over this, of course not.

I don’t
crave
any attention, ever.

Honey, we all do. Especially when we’re young.

Mom! You make me sound so egotistical.

You’re not. I’m not saying that. But if I were, it would be a very shared human trait. We all have egos, dear.

Have you been seeing Mel again?

No. But Jane, when are you going to draw again?

I don’t know.

I think you are neglecting an important part of yourself.

You
have
been seeing Mel.

I don’t need to see Mel to know how important your art is to you. I
am
your mother.

What’s the point? I will never be able to make a living at it.

I don’t agree. And besides, is that what it comes down to? You only want to create things to get paid?

Mom . . . I don’t want to talk about this.

Of course not. You don’t talk to me about anything anymore.

Mom
 . . .

I know, I know. You’re a teenager. Everyone said to expect this. But I’m here, okay? If you need me?

I don’t want to be on that show.

I understand.

If anyone else calls here, or they call back, tell them NO. Okay?

Okay.

Forget the competitions.

I won’t be able to even
enter

this year, or maybe ever again.

A professional? Doubtful.

My days of “look at me”

are over.

As to why I didn’t tell Mom

Yes, I’ve been working at it,

I don’t know.

This thing is private,

very private,

and no one needs to stand witness

with a stopwatch or progress chart.

No one needs to say the wrong thing.

Door closed, I work at the drafting table.

Pen in hand,

pawing.

Something is not right in me

and won’t be

until I can do this.

Tuesday it storms. A real

spring storm, common in March.

By the evening,

the freeways are flooded.

With fevered excitement,

the newscasters discuss the flooding,

the mud slides, the road closures.

As it grows dark,

Mom calls on her cell phone.

“I’m stuck on the 405.

It’ll be another hour,

at least.”

“Be careful,” I tell her.

In the kitchen, I listen to the rain pounding the roof

and my stomach growling

as I poke through the cupboards.

I reach for the mini-wheats, then stop.

A plate of steaming scrambled eggs,

fluffy,

and buttered toast.

My favorite meal. I used to fix it all the time.

That’s what I want.

Getting out the pan is no trouble.

But cracking the eggs is a problem.

The first one shatters on the edge of the bowl,

slops everywhere,

while the bowl scoots away from the impact.

It takes a long time to wipe the glop up.

I think about quitting.

The second egg splits open and falls into the bowl,

along with several shards of shell.

I pick them out, one by one, then rinse my fingers.

Egg number three goes in better —

there’s only two fragments of shell to remove.

I add milk, which dribbles onto the counter,

then put the bowl against my stomach,

pin it against the wall with my weight,

and beat the eggs with a whisk.

Into the pan, the eggs crackle in hot butter.

I put two fat slices of cranberry bread

in the toaster. Get out a plate and a cup.

Spill the orange juice and swear.

Why is pouring stuff so weird?

I wipe it up,

hurry to stir the smoking eggs, check the toast,

stir the eggs again.

Tipping them onto a plate, half the eggs tumble

onto the counter.

A small portion falls on the floor.

Mabel snatches a piece, burns her mouth.

I try not to scream.

Buttering the toast is tricky.

I can’t get the knife to spread the way I want,

just stab holes in the bread as it cools.

Mabel sits under my chair,

watching for falling crumbs.

The eggs are overcooked.

The toast is a buttered murder victim.

But I’m proud, really proud,

like I just had a baby or something.

I turn on the radio

and light the flowered candle on the table.

A victory dinner, as rain pours down outside.

“I did it,” I tell Mabel,

who wags, ears pricked.

“I cooked dinner. Can you believe it?”

And next time will be easier,
I think.

And the next time, and the next time.

I give Mabel a chunk of toast

and eat,

humming with the radio.

Mom gets home late.

She’s carrying a bag from McDonald’s. “For us!”

“I already made myself some eggs,” I tell her.

I can see she’s thrilled,

but trying not to gush.

“That’s wonderful, honey.”

Then I remember.

I forgot to wash the dishes.

Shit.

How am I going to scrub encrusted

dried egg

off a pan

with one hand?

“I’ll wash up,” Mom calls from the kitchen.

“You sure you don’t want some fries?”

Will Mom go to college with me?

Live in my apartment,

wash the dishes for me?

I walk into the kitchen

and start the hot water.

“I said I’d get those,” Mom says.

I pick up the messy egg pan,

plunk it into the sink.

“No, I got it.” I look at her for a minute.

Mom hesitates, then takes her food

out to the living room.

I pick up the scrub brush,

and begin.