Shark Girl (22 page)

Maybe if you were normal-looking, Max would actually like you, instead of feel sorry for you.

He doesn’t feel sorry for me.

Everyone
feels sorry for you
.

They do not.

If only this hadn’t happened. None of this crap would be going on. You’d feel normal. Remember normal?

I think so.

Maybe you’ll never feel that way again.

Stop.

If only that shark had been swimming anywhere else that day. Anywhere.

Anywhere else.

Anywhere.

Angie and I walk through the halls;

I’m going to art,

she’s going to English.

“Anyway,” she is saying, “I have

to tell you. I think Matthew

has a crush on you.”

“Matthew from science class?”

Angie nods, glowing.

“Uh-huh. Have you noticed the way

he finds reasons to talk to you lately?

About homework and stuff?”

“Yeah, but that’s about homework.”

“I don’t think so. I saw him
looking
at you

a couple of times this week. I think

he may ask you out.”

We reach art class and pause

at the doorway.

“I doubt it.”

Angie sighs. “Jane, you can’t

hold out for Max, you know.”

Stung, I fall back on pretense.

“Huh? Who says I am?”

Angie leans against the doorjamb,

lowering her voice as students

squeeze past us.

“Come on. I know you’re, like,

in love with him. But he’s with Megan.

And he’s kind of out your league.”

“Thanks a ton.”

“
My
league, too,” Angie says,

hurt, confused.

“I’m not saying it has anything to do

with your arm, so don’t go there.

I just meant, he’s, you know.

Max.
He’s got girls his own age

all over him, and he’s got Megan.

I’m just saying, you need to open

yourself up to other possibilities.”

“Got it, Mother.”

Angie huffs. “You are so pissy sometimes,

you know that?”

She stalks off.

I rip into class,

ready to plunge my hand into some clay,

pretend it’s Angie’s mouth,

and I am mashing it, mashing it shut.

But today,

we are doing string art.

Maybe I could make a noose

and hang her.

Waiting for the bus,

Angie picks at a scab on her elbow.

“God, look at this.

It’s disgusting.

I’m never going Rollerblading again.”

“Hey, what are you guys doing Saturday?”

Rachel asks,

trying to ignore the tension

that sits like an elephant between Angie and me.

I know I should say something,

make a joke,

something witty like,

“Yeah, scabby elbows suck.

That’s why I got rid of my arm.”

But I don’t feel like being the glue.

To hell with being glue, as a matter of fact.

Angie should be more aware.

She doesn’t look at me

as we board the bus.

She knows I’m right.

Dear Ms. Arrowood:

I am shocked and saddened by what has happened to you, and I send my deepest sympathy for your loss.

I am sure your recovery will be long, but I wonder if you will find this all makes you stronger in a way. It is my personal experience that sharing your story with others can help in the healing process. Which is why I am writing today. Ms. Arrowood, we would so love to interview you for our series, “American Inspirations.” In case you haven’t seen it, this is a weekly feature in our magazine about Americans who have overcome huge obstacles in their lives and gone on to triumph. I am sure your story would be inspirational and powerful, and who knows? You may very well help someone else who is suffering, too.

Please contact me at your earliest convenience. I sincerely hope you will say yes.

Best wishes,

Barry Epson

Mom could have

tucked away

my pencils,

my bottles of nail polish,

the ball of half-knit yarn

before I came home from the hospital.

Did she stand in my room,

and wonder if she should?

I think

she must have.

She’s that kind of wonderer.

But she left it as it was.

I look over at her on the couch,

watching TV.

I’d like to thank her,

but I’m not sure how.

Emily bumps her tray into mine

as we negotiate the

cafeteria line.

She gives me a look

that could wilt lettuce.

Eating, listening to Angie

give me mascara advice,

I think about Emily and the girls

around here,

the popular ones. Boys, too.

They want to flatten everyone

all the time.

Anyone who challenges

their own feelings of self-worth.

“When someone is jealous of you,

they make themselves your enemy.”

That’s what Uncle Ben told me once.

But I’m Shark Girl.

Why would anyone be jealous

of
me
?

He glances over,

but he’s too busy talking

to Megan Dalloway

to really see me.

I stand there,

ridiculous in the wake of

Megan’s long, sleek hair, perky nose,

and slim, perfect body.

You know the part in Cinderella

when everyone goes to the ball

and she sits at home, crying?

It wasn’t because her gown was ripped.

It was because she knew

she was an idiot

for thinking

she could grab a prince.

I know how she feels.

“Jane, I have to tell you,

red is not your color.

You wear too much of it.”

In the cafeteria,

chewing around a stick of celery,

Angie announces this in front of my friends.

“It makes you look kind of,

I don’t know. Pale.”

“Since when are you my fashion consultant?”

I say. I’ve had it. “Who asked you?

Who the hell do you think you are?

Stop picking on me, Angie! Just STOP!”

Tears burst out, run down my cheeks.

I run out of there like a baby.

Crying in the restroom.

Trying to erase Angie’s stunned face,

Rachel’s stricken stare,

the jeering “Tell the bitch,”

from Emily Morrison

as I ran past.

Angie knows she’s hurting me

when she talks like that,

and she doesn’t care.

We’re through.