Formerly Shark Girl (18 page)

Not that I’d
ever
ask him in a zillion years.

Can you
imagine
?

“Let us know if you change your mind,” says Angie.

“And miracles happen — you may still get asked!”

She sounds like we’re holding out hope

for a rescue mission on a snowy mountaintop

where I might perish without aid.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, to keep the peace.

And, the reality is, “go to prom”

is
on my bucket list for a reason.

It’s silly, but . . .

who doesn’t want that one magical night,

the beautiful gown,

the delicate flower corsage,

the music, friends, dancing, laughing?

When we leave school,

we’ll go on to college, or jobs,

or both. Marriage . . . families . . .

it’s all coming. But for now?

For now there’s prom.

Is it so wrong

to want that?

Dear Jane,

I am doing a report for school about challenges and handicapped people. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been to have been attacked by a shark! I am glad you are okay now, though. Would you answer some questions for me for my report?

Also, I just read about a man who is a quadruple amputee, and he swam the English Channel. He says that if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything. Do you agree? Have you accomplished the things you want to?

Best wishes,

Lucy

In science class, I am once again lost.

“Jane? Do you want to answer that one?”

Mr. Veckio asks.

Yes I do, Mr. Veckio.

But I have no clue.

“Um . . . particles of light?”

Mr. Veckio shakes his head.

“No. Anyone else?”

I take notes. I highlight things

in the textbook.

I effortlessly visualize a big fat F

hovering over my report card.

And I count the hours

until Tuesday.

“Hey, wait a minute.

Weren’t you supposed

to have your first tutoring session

last week?”

I glance up from my desk,

where I’m shading the shadows

under Max’s jawline in a charcoal sketch.

Mom stands in the doorway

in her nightgown, a magazine in one hand.

“Um . . . yes.” I casually hide the drawing

under a blank piece of paper.

She thinks a minute.

“One of the nights I worked late.

Was that the day?”

“Yes.”

Mom sighs. “If I ever forget again,

remind me. Understand?

I don’t want you here alone

with some strange boy.”

“He’s not strange.”

I say it without thinking,

and by the expression on her face,

I see that’s the wrong thing.

“Okay, I will. Things went fine, Mom.

It’s going to be a real help.”

She hesitates, then smiles.

“I’m glad, sweetie.

I know this means a lot to you,

and you have your mind set on a good grade

in that class. If anyone can do it, you can.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She slips off down the hallway.

I hear the creak of her bed

as she settles in.

She hasn’t worked late in a few days.

I don’t know if this means anything

regarding her dating life

or not.

What I
do
know?

Tuesday is fast approaching,

and with it another evening with Max.

I can hardly wait.

The ultrasound lady

now has purple hair.

“I like your hair,” I tell her. Again.

“Thanks. I like yours, too,” she says.

Again.

She seems to not remember

we had this same exact conversation

last time.

And we’ve had this exact same

session. The slimy gel,

the wand rolling all over my stump,

the hot compresses at home,

and the total

lack of results.

I roll my stump in a bowl of rough, dried beans

to desensitize it, take two aspirin,

and go to bed,

my flesh and bones

crackling

with invisible

flames.

“No tricks tonight,” Max says.

Thumb up, he holds out a fist.

“Just good old-fashioned thumb wrestling.”

I laugh, then check. He’s serious. “Oh.”

He wiggles his thumb. “Come on. I need closure.”

My thumb is ridiculously small

next to his. Giggles threaten to bubble up.

I try to bite them down, but Max hears them.

“This is critical,” he says.

“One, two, ready, go!”

His thumb catches mine and pins it to his fist.

He throws his hands over his head.

“Yes! The winner!”

I shake out my thumb, laughing.

“You take
pride
in that? It’s hardly equal.”

He drops his arms. “You do have a pretty small thumb.”

“Genetics. What can I say?”

“Ah, back to science,” Max says, pulling a pen

from his shirt pocket. “Tonight

we review the periodic table. Right?”

I swallow. “Right.”

And we do. We study.

And in the process of studying science,

I also study Max.

I learn he has long dark lashes,

extremely neat handwriting,

a fondness for fruit gum,

and (because I dropped a pencil and had to get it)

shoelaces that had been broken and knotted

into submission, over and over, in a big

snarly mess.

“Should I get us a snack?” I ask when we finish.

Good grief. I sound like someone’s mother.

But Max is agreeable. “Sure.”

He marvels over the oatmeal cookies I’ve made.

“Wow. You are an excellent baker,” he says.

“My mom used to make these from scratch.

I really miss them. And believe me,

when I try to re-create them,

it’s a disaster of epic proportions.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

It takes considerable restraint

not to offer to make him cookies

every day for the rest of his life.

Max balances a pencil on the end of his finger.

“Bet you can’t do this.”

“Sure I can,” I tell him, straight-faced.

“I do it all the time.”

Soon we are having a battle of pencil balancing,

and I’m laughing harder than I have

in ages. When the hall clock chimes nine, we stop.

“Guess I better get going,” Max says.

“Good luck on your quiz. Go over our notes

a few more times. Okay?”

“Okay.” I watch him pack up. “Thanks, Max.”

He pauses at the door, his backpack over his shoulder.

His grin is dazzling. “See you soon.”

I close the door, still warm from laughing.

I push the hair off my face. Study? Yes.

Bake cookies for our next session?

You bet.

“Happy birthday!” my friends cry,

surrounding the pizza, which has

seventeen candles stuck in the cheese.

I blow them out, and laugh when they applaud.

“Dig in,” I tell them, and we grab slices.

Spring is upon us. March has come in like a lamb,

all warm weather and sunny skies.

And now here I am, another year older.

My friends pile presents at me.

I am so lucky to have them in my life.

But the next day

a black mood follows me around for hours.

I soak in the tub, read a new book,

bury myself in homework and science notes.

Nothing chases it away.

Three weeks pass.

Tutoring is fantastic. Max

makes everything understandable.

“You’re smart,” he tells me.

“So
determined.
” He grins at my eye roll.

“When you don’t understand something,

it makes you mad. You work hard to get it.

I like that.”

The room shines like a million-watt light

with those words. The rest of the week,

I practically dance on air. Michael,

home for a visit, notices.

“Uh-oh,” he says. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”

I throw a pillow at him.

“Just make sure he’s not an
ax murderer,
”