Shark Girl (15 page)

I skip breakfast,

but throw up anyway.

On the ride over,

I have to pee so bad.

Oh, God, I can’t do this.

What if I fall down?

Will I make people sick?

I don’t think I can stand up.

My legs have turned to Jell-O.

But —

Here we are, pulling up,

Mom is waving good-bye,

and here I go, stepping out

into the current of beautiful,

two-armed classmates,

streaming into the building.

And now they are noticing me,

and now they are looking,

and now

the day begins.

Eyes stare,

dart away,

flit back again.

Rigid backs from those pretending

not to see.

Walking through the halls,

I am Moses,

parting the Red Sea.

I am a leper,

come to town.

I have the plague.

That girl that got bitten by a . . .

Jane Arrowood. That girl who . . .

The one that . . .

. . . her arm off?

Partly off.

They had to amputate it, though.

My mother cried when she heard.

We barely know Jane.

We sent a card.

We sent flowers.

. . . and then the shark just . . . ?

Yeah.

I wanted to call her or visit or something.

But I never did.

I don’t know what to say.

I’m never going to the beach again.

Angie and Trina find me at my locker.

“Oh, my God. You cut your hair?”

Angie asks.

Trina hugs me. “You look nice.”

No one comments on my long sleeves

among their short ones.

“This cut — it’s so different.”

Angie is still on about my hair.

“I wish you’d taken
me
with you.

I could have given you a couple of tips.”

My classmates pass, staring. Not

at my hair.

Or my sweater.

It’s time for homeroom.

Their heads lean toward each other.

Their whispers reach my ears.

The two girls over there

fingering their notebooks,

staring.

If they would lift their tinted eyelashes

they would notice I’m staring back.

But they don’t.

So I turn in my chair,

placing my shoulder out of their sight.

Students stream in,

pull iron stools up to the tall tables.

Mr. Musker puts a hand

on my shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, Jane.

How are you feeling?”

His tired face,

his hound dog eyes,

so familiar.

This room, too,

with its blend of odors: turpentine,

fixative, clay, and dust.

I shouldn’t be here. It’s like showing

a dead person her lost life,

and all

she missed.

It’s cruel.

Pounding, thumping, rolling.

Everyone’s hands pull,

like the surf.

Pottery wheels spin.

Clay becomes form.

I crumble pastels across

black paper,

listening to the slap slap of hands.

“Does this count a lot toward our final grade?”

Michele Lomer asks,

lobbing a wad of gum

inside her lower jaw

as she surveys her crooked urn.

Mr. Musker hurries over,

works with Michele’s limp hands

upon the dusty clay,

but it’s like trying to revive a corpse.

When the class ends, Mr. Musker beckons.

“Jane, how are you
really
doing?”

I want to tell him,

but it’s too melodramatic.

Can’t he see?

I’m like the pots

lined up by the kiln.

Half-finished.

Max Shannon rolls through the halls,

his hair still wet from senior swim team practice.

Frankenstein

slips from my hand.

Max Shannon stops,

rescues the book with slender fingers.

“You’re that . . . uh, you’re Jane, right?”

His tan cheeks turn pink.

“How’s it going?”

His lips are perfect.

My face gets hot.

“You need help with that?”

He jerks his chin toward my backpack.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

His eyes seem magnetic.

“It’s great you’re okay.

My cousin lost her leg.

She switched to home school.

She was too embarrassed to leave the house.”

“Oh.”

Max’s chin has a dimple.

“You’re probably sick of questions.

Does anybody ask you about anything
else
?”

Angie and Rachel appear. They stare.

“What a stupid question!” Max smacks his forehead.

“Sorry, I’m an idiot.

Forget I bothered you.”

He folds himself into the passing crowds.

Rachel raises her eyebrows. “Well!”

I laugh, but

Max wouldn’t talk to me

if I was just me.

I shouldn’t feel flattered, then.

Or happy.

Definitely not jelly-legged.

Angie doesn’t smile like Rachel.

She just says, “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“I heard she got tons of mail while she was in the hospital.”

“I heard the president wrote to her.”

“I heard they wanted to make a movie for television out of it, and her mom asked for too much money, so they didn’t do it.”

“I feel sorry for her.”

“She was such a good artist.”

“
Really
good.”

“What do you think she’ll do now? What would you do?”

“Probably kill myself.”

“Shut up. You would not.”

“Well, no. But God. What a nightmare. I would, like, have nightmares every night for the rest of my life.”

“Did you see the video?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty sick.”

“I want to talk to her, you know? Say something. But I don’t know what.”

“She would probably rather be left alone, anyway.”

“Yeah. Probably.”