Formerly Shark Girl (19 page)

Michael quips before ducking into his room.

Three weeks pass, and my paintings

get tighter, crisper. With Mr. Musker’s guidance,

all
of my work steadily climbs

the rungs of my expectations.

The exultation is like a drug;

I want more and more and more.

I work into the early hours of the mornings,

sketch pads piling up on the floor.

Three weeks pass, and

the flare-ups

of excruciating arm-twisting pain

go on and on and on.

“They’re coming more frequently,”

Mom says one night

as I clutch my arm in agony.

Thanks for pointing that out, Mom.

Really helpful.

“Honey, maybe we should

consider that surgery,” she says.

“We?”
I sound harsh,

but I don’t care.

Pain makes you do harsh things;

it makes you mean.

“There is no
we
in surgery.

Just me. Under the knife.

I’m not doing it.

I don’t want any more of that stuff.

Ever.”

Mom presses her lips in that thin line

she’s been wearing lately.

I don’t care.

And the next night,

when she has to work late

again,
I almost blurt out,

“So what’s his name, Mom?

Why on earth don’t you just come clean?

Are you ashamed of me?

Is that why you haven’t brought him over?”

Naturally, I don’t.

I don’t want to open any

cans of worms right now.

But it’s funny

how I can feel so good

one minute and so bad

the next. And how I can’t

reason, control, or talk myself

out of my feelings.
Any
of them,

even the irrational ones.

Is this all part of growing up?

Because if it is,

I can’t wait

to get it over with.

March is nearly over.

I’ve spent every day of it

checking my in-box a million times a day.

Nothing.

But today, suddenly,

there they are,

responses from all four of the schools I applied to.

I click on one, two, three, and,

with growing amazement, four.

Michael, reading over my shoulder, whoops.

“You made it!” He snatches me up in a hug and spins

me around the room. “Congratulations!”

“What school?” Mom asks, trotting into the room.

“Which one?”

I feel my eyes wet with tears of excitement,

of relief.
“All of them.”

“All four?”
Mom shrieks. She punches her fists

into the air.
“Yes!”
She piles into us,

and we clench in a group hug.

First things first,
I remember telling Justin,

back when we began that mural.

I chose my schools. I applied to them.

I made it in. To
all
of them.

The next step? Choosing the one I want to commit to.

The thought of making that decision

nips at this happy feeling.

But then the elation returns,

and I nod
yes
to Mom’s offer

of a celebratory dinner out.

This could have turned out differently.

I could be feeling limited in my choices right now.

Let’s face it. Given what happened to me

I could be
dead
right now.

Instead, at the moment, it feels like

the sky is my limit.

Decisions are hard, yes.

But oh, how grateful I am

to have decisions

to make.

The slight lift of a girl’s hair, indicating a breeze.

The captivating pattern on a butterfly’s back.

Two dogs (that both look like Spot) frolicking over a hill.

A miniature world of ladybugs,

inchworms, a friendly garter snake,

and a turtle, hidden among leafy clover

along the edge of the river.

Today, finally, after many hours and many breaks,

our mural, in all its sunshiny

glory, is done.

Justin and I stand before it,

the April air light through the window,

and contemplate our work.

“What do you think?” I ask him.

“Did it come out just like the sketch?

The way we imagined it would?”

His eyes shine. He shakes his head.

“No. It came out
better.
”

We fist-bump. Then we begin

putting lids on the paint. After

everything dries, Justin’s parents

can finally move all this out of here —

the drop cloths, the ladder, the supplies.

In time, the room will stop smelling like paint.

And for as long as he lives here,

Justin will have a park at his side,

a park that is always sunny and inviting,

his own private place to slip away to

while he lies in bed.

“I’m a little jealous,” I tell Justin as we clean up.

“Maybe you should paint one on
your
wall,”

he says. “I’d help you.”

I laugh. “That’s an idea. Maybe.

If I end up staying close to home for college,

maybe I will.”

He grows quiet at the mention, and

I’m sorry I brought it up. We spend a minute

placing paint cans in a box. After we finish our work,

I look at him. “I put something special in the mural.

Something small that I didn’t tell you about.

I did it while you were on the phone with your grandma.

I bet you can’t find it.”

Justin’s smile is big enough to light the room.

He hurries to the wall and stands close.

“What is it? Is it another Spot? Another soccer ball?

An extra butterfly?” He stretches his neck to look high.

“That orange bird? No, wait. We already had that bird.

Is it . . . ? Um, is it—?” he breaks off, silently looking.

Finally he huffs and turns to me. “I don’t see it.”

I grin at him. “I know. But you will.”

His eyes grow wide as I pick up my jacket and purse.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what it is?”

I slip on the jacket. “No.”

“But I want to know!”

“Then you better look. Believe me, Justin.

You’ll see it. Nothing gets by you.”

He zeroes in on the clumps of tiny people

we have painted, walking a path far at the edge of the park.

“Is it someone in here? Give me a hint.”

I waggle my five fingers at him. “Bye!”

He runs over. “Bye.”

Then he gives me a tight hug.

I lean my chin against the top of his head,

touched and honored.

Justin is getting older now,

and he normally squirms away from hugs.

“Thank you,” he says into my shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Justin. I’m glad you like it.”

He pulls away, still grinning. “I
love
it.”

I survey the mural once more,

with fresh eyes this time.

Wow. You know what?

It really
did
come out nice.

Very
nice.

Not bad for two kids

who never painted something so huge before.

Not bad at all.

Mom calls to me from downstairs.

“Phone call for you.”

I hurry from my room.
Is it Max?

Is he cancelling our next session?

“Hello?”

“Hi, Jane? This is Josh.”

A moment of silence follows as I churn

the contents of my brain, trying to locate Josh.

“From your triage class.”

“Oh!”

Laughing Boy.

What is he doing calling me?

How did he even get my number?

“I got your number from my aunt.

Lindsey? From the hospital?”

I sit down. “Lindsey is your
aunt
?”

“Yeah. She asked me about the class,

and I mentioned you, and she knew who you were.

I guess you volunteer at the hospital.”

“Yes . . . she’s great. I had no idea you were related.”

“I just moved here a few months ago.

I go to the same school as you.”

“Oh. How do you like it?”

“I like it. I really like Mr. Musker.

He’s my favorite teacher.”

“Mine, too.”

“Hey. Would you like to go to prom with me?”

“Prom?” I repeat it as though the word were unclear.

But I heard him.
Prom.

Prom — which is rapidly approaching.

“I should clear one thing up,” Josh says quickly.

“I already have a girlfriend.

She lives back in Modesto, where I just moved from.

She can’t come out for the prom. So . . . I’m asking you.

But I’m only asking as a friend. You know what I mean?”

Do I ever.

“And your girlfriend is okay with that?” I ask.

Josh laughs. “Yeah. She told me it was fine,

as long as we don’t do any slow dances together.”

I inhale deep, my mind whirling.

“I would love to go to prom with you, Josh.”

I can hear him exhale. “Good. Wow. I’m so glad.

We’ll have a blast.”

“I’ll introduce you to my friends,” I say.

He sounds like he’s smiling. “Great. I’d like that.”

I get his phone number, tucking the phone under my ear

and writing it down. I make a promise to look for him

at school. We agree to split the cost of the tickets.

“And my friends are going in a limo,” I tell him.

“Want me to check and see if we can join them?”

“Sure,” he says. “That would be great.”

We chat a minute more, with Josh laughing

freely and easily like he did back in triage class.

I like his sense of humor.

“If you get a head injury while we’re there,”

he says, “I’ll know just what to do.” He pauses.

“I’ll ask you who’s the president.”

We laugh about that one.

When I hang up, I stand there,

mixed emotions swirling

in my chest. I’m going to prom.

With a nice guy. Who just wants to be friends.