Shark Girl (24 page)

Not entirely.

Michael will be jealous.

I’ve got some for him, too. I’ll mail them out tomorrow.

Need me to drive you to the post office?

No, I can walk. I can handle it.

I know you can. It might be easier if I drive you.

You don’t have to.

I know. I want to. Okay? I still like to do things for you, you know.

Yeah, but —

Not because of your arm or anything else. Because you’re my daughter. You know? You’ll always be my little girl, to some extent.

Mom, stop. Okay, you can drive me.

Thanks. Moms need to help their kids once in a while, you know. It keeps us feeling useful.

But you can only drive if you’re feeling better.

I will be fine. I can’t take a sick day off, anyway.

Mom, you should. Take it easy for one day, okay? The world won’t fall apart.

Well, when did you get so wise? Now who’s being the mom?

I’m just saying. You’d make me stay home if I were sick. Besides, you’ll only infect everyone else if you go in.

That’s right. You’re right. You’d make a good doctor, by the way. Have I told you that?

You saw my pamphlet from the medical school.

I did. When did this happen? Are you thinking of a career in medicine now? Is that why you volunteer at the hospital?

It’s just something I think about sometimes. And being at the hospital is . . . I don’t know, good. It helps me think about what’s important, I guess. What I want.

And what is that?

For you to get well. And eat another lemon bar.

Yes, ma’am. But Jane. I haven’t seen you drawing at all. We’re coming up on a year now. Do you plan on ever taking art back up again?

Yes.

That’s it —“Yes”? What are you waiting for?

The right time. It’s hard to explain.

Oh.

You want to watch a movie or something? I can see what’s on.

Sure. And honey?

Yeah?

I’m proud of you. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re doing great.

I’m proud of you, too, Mom. Same reason.

This calls for another lemon bar.

Hey. Save one for me.

Are they fading, just a little?

In the mirror,

I study it. It’s not going anywhere.

Avoiding it

hasn’t proved useful.

I sprinkle on some baby powder,

touch the rounded, smooth flesh,

compare the differing thicknesses

of my two upper arms.

Somehow,

this thing

that was once alien

is returning to being

part of me.

This morning I opened Angie’s

makeup kit, the one she gave me,

and looked through it again.

Among the purples,

there’s a delicate blush,

sparkly on my cheeks,

subtle, smooth. Something

I may have actually

picked out myself.

Keeps me from walking up to her,

from saying,

“Sorry.”

But it doesn’t keep me from noticing

how she turns her head away,

how her eyes blink fast, how she’s

pretending with her whole body

that she doesn’t care

when I walk past her seat on the bus.

We sit at lunch,

a nation divided.

The others don’t know who to side with.

Angie and I,

by unspoken agreement,

sit at either end of the same table

so Rachel, Trina, and Elizabeth

can sit between us.

Nobody can actually eat.

Our throats are full

of words unsaid.

I corner Angie on the way to the bus stop.

Trapped between the building

and the parking lot,

there is nowhere for her to run,

no crowds to melt into.

I want to lie down in the path

of an oncoming bus.

Anything but talk to her.

But I have to make this right.

“Angie, look. I just want . . .”

I steady my voice.

“I want us to be friends again. I want you to stop

being mad at me.”

With the ball in her court,

Angie holds the power.

She looks down at the books in her arms

and shrugs. In a small voice, she says,

“You’re just so different lately.”

Yes, I AM different, I want to shout,

I want to wave my fake arm around.

Angie says, “I mean . . .

what I meant was, I
know
you’re different now,

but you just seem so MAD all the time.

What did I do?”

I could list. But I say only,

“Sometimes you just get kind of bossy.

Like with my hair,

you wanted me to get your permission to cut it.

And my makeup.

This is the way I wear it.

I don’t want to change.

I’ve changed enough.”

With each excuse, I shrink.

Smaller and smaller,

until I am a marble on the sidewalk.

Such petty crap.

God, do I really think

our problems are about hair and makeup?

We’re standing here crying.

Let’s get to the truth, and end this.

So I dig deep, and pull out

the darkest seed I find.

“The thing you said about Max.

It really hurt my feelings.”

She looks up at me.

“I need you to be on my side,”

I say.

“I am,” she starts, then wilts.

There is a long silence.

“I’m sorry.

I was trying to help,” Angie says,

still in a small voice.

“We’re
all
just trying to help.”

She shifts. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Now comes the question.

Do I believe her?

Because this would make an easy way out,

and then we could go back to pretending.

But looking at Angie’s face,

the weird thing is,

I do believe her.

In her own way,

she wanted to make me over into someone

like her,

someone who gets guys and

who doesn’t get hurt by the serious stuff

because the serious stuff

doesn’t get acknowledged.

And all of this makes it easier to say

“I’m sorry, too.”

Two inches shorter than me,

too thin, and her lipstick all smeared.

What was I afraid of?

She is my friend.

Not my final answer.

She can stop protecting me,

and I can help her do that.

Only nicely.

I’m going to start living again,

only differently.

When Angie looks up at me,

I think maybe, she is seeing what I just saw.

The two of us,

with everything changed.

“Can we just try again?” I ask,

and after a pause filled with the sounds

of rumbling bus engines and

students’ loud voices as they crowd past us,

Angie nods.

So we walk home,

trying again.

“Happy Spring,” Lindsey says,

squashing me close.

“Happy Spring, Lindsey.”

“And let me give your date a hug,” Lindsey says.

“I must say, you are a handsome fellow.”

Justin grins.

He wraps his skinny arms

around Lindsey’s waist.

“Happy Spring.”

The kids, in bathrobes and gowns, two in

party hats,

gather in the cafeteria.

The ones that are too sick to come

will be visited later by all of us,

with toys, plates of cookies,

and most important,

understanding

and compassion.

I ache for them. But I focus on the faces

before me; eager, wanting some fun.

“Who wants their face painted?”