Shark Girl (19 page)

Progress? Yes. I think.

I mean, that thing

there definitely resembles a paw.

That, a fish.

And the horse,

well, at least its legs are connected

with the ground line.

But the faces? Skewed, shifty;

lifeless eyes.

When I sketch

the lumpy, bumpy things that are animals,

I can feel love —

joy,

hovering, dangling,

over my cup.

If only I could create a pair of eyes

to look back into mine.

Then maybe,

the cup

would fill up.

This is how it could go.

Max will ask me out.

Somewhere quaint,

like the aquarium perhaps.

We’ll eat vanilla ice cream

while watching squid probe.

At the shark tank

he will suddenly realize

we shouldn’t be anywhere

near
a shark tank.

By the flounder, our hands touch.

In the jellyfish room,

our shoulders brush,

a manta ray drifts past

and we turn to each other —

he’ll kiss me

while giant red crabs

scale pink coral behind thick glass,

and crowds of people shuffle by,

consulting guidebooks.

Maybe I’ll cry.

“I’m so different, Max.

Can this work?”

He’ll take my face in his hands,

his skin blue from the fish lights,

and say,

“Don’t you get it? I love you

because of who you are
inside.
”

Tears.

Embrace.

I discover I always wanted

to be a ballerina;

Max wins a swim scholarship

to Harvard.

“We’ll always have the kelp forest, Max.”

Happy ending, roll credits,

pick our way out, over

crushed pieces of popcorn,

to emerge

into the glaring light of day.

At lunch one day,

I tell them about the phone call

a few weeks ago, the one

from the TV station.

Rachel is horrified.

Trina repulsed.

Elizabeth stares.

Angie speaks up.

“
Why
did you say no?”

She waves her sandwich

around as she talks.

“You could have had a free trip

to New York.

They would have given you

a makeover, maybe.

New clothes or something.

You could have seen a play.

You could have had a lot of fun!”

“By being on display?”

Rachel demands.

Angie rolls her eyes.

“Jane. Did you ever think

that maybe you would do someone

some good

by talking about your story?”

Elizabeth jumps in.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

She shrugs apologetically.

“There may be a lot of other kids out there

like you. Or that boy

you talk about, Justin.

Maybe if they could see you,

they’d feel better.”

“Why? Because I’m doing so great?”

I ask, sounding totally old and sour.

I try again.

“I mean, what can I say

that is so inspirational? It’s because

of doctors I survived. Now I just . . .

I don’t know. I just go on.”

“Yeah, but you’re high profile,”

Trina adds. She shrugs, too.

“Not that I’m saying you should do it.

I’m just saying.”

We wait.

“Saying what?” I ask.

Trina digs into a bag of chips.

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

Rachel gives me a look,

a
Don’t listen to them,

you did the right thing

look.

That is why Rachel

is my best friend.

Angie: “Jane, you might want to try mascara.

Why don’t you wear mascara?

Mascara would help your eyes stand out.

You should wear your makeup . . .”

Different.

Angie: “You need something with a V-neck.

Turtlenecks make your chin look big.”

Different.

Angie: “You could use a shoe with a heel, too.

And have you thought about wearing more silver?

It might make you look less pale. You’d look . . .”

Different.

In her eyes,

everything about me that has always been me

isn’t good enough —

anymore.

Justin and I hook up again,

which is not easy,

because every time I call

he’s going over to a friend’s house.

But today, we’re here.

Side by side,

we walk two blocks from his house

to a playground. It reminds me

of walking the hospital halls with

Justin in his wheelchair, beside me.

He’s come a long way.

Justin steps along steadily

on his leg,

only swaying slightly,

but he is careful

when we pass over uneven

breaks in the sidewalk.

“Sometimes I still fall down,”

he explains. “But not much.”

At the park, rocking on swings,

a spring breeze whispering,

Justin tells me that he is

playing softball with his friends,

in a league, even.

“They give me extra time to run the bases,”

he says. He sighs. “But I still

get out sometimes.” He leans back,

pulling his weight against the chains

of the swing. “But that’s okay.

I’m getting really good at hitting.”

I can’t bear the image.

What kind of idiot kid

tags out someone who

can barely run? Don’t they care?

Justin breezes on. “I want to play

soccer again. With my friends.

My dad and I

are working on it.

He may take me to the World Cup

for my birthday.”

Good job, Justin’s dad. Way to go.

I drag my toes through the wood chips

beneath us. Spot, tethered to a tree,

rolls on her back.

“By the way. When is that?” I ask.

“The cup?”

“No, your birthday.”

“May 28. Are you

going to buy me a present?”

“Of course. What would you like?

More LEGOs?”

“No. I have lots of those.

Let me think. Hmm.”

I wait. Then I wait some more.

Justin, swinging, with half his

leg gone forever,

a prosthesis that still causes him to trip,

and soccer just out of reach,

can’t think of one thing

he wants for his birthday.

Which is why I love you, Justin.

So much.

Physical therapy followed by

icy cold lattes at Starbucks,

a hot cinnamon scone to share,

Mom’s lipstick left on the rim of her cup.

Her wrist flicks

as she checks the time.

“Got a date?” I joke,

but she just shakes her head at me,

with a wistful smile. “Seems only yesterday

I walked you to kindergarten.”

We come home,

Mabel barking in the dark,

and there

in the corner, a massive lump,

impossibly shaped.

“Surprise!”

Rachel, Angie, Trina, Elizabeth

explode from behind the sofa,

leap from the kitchen doorway;

my knees buckle,

a flash goes off.

“You should have seen your face!”

“Were you surprised?”

“Happy Birthday!”