Formerly Shark Girl (20 page)

Nothing wrong with that.

Is there?

Drying off from the shower,

oh —

a swarm of invisible bees

buries into the end of my stump

all at once.

I have to sink to the floor

to catch my breath

and wait

for a wave of nausea

to pass.

It does, quickly,

but the trail of fire

left behind

across my skin,

inside my bones,

and threaded through tissue

will not be put out

no matter what

I try.

One thing about Angie. She doesn’t mess around.

When it comes to a fashion emergency?

You want her in your court.

“This afternoon,” she says.

“We’ll go to the same place I got my dress.”

“I don’t have a ton of money,” I warn her.

Angie is already waving me off.

“They have dresses in all price ranges,”

she says, sounding like a catalog. “And shoes.

We have to find shoes. And makeup. Tell you what.

Come to my house on prom night.
I’ll
do your makeup.”

“Okay.” I put down my peanut butter sandwich.

I’m already in over my head.

And I can’t help but worry.

Will I look silly in a gown? With half an arm?

That afternoon we stuff ourselves into a fitting room —

me, Rachel, Angie, Trina, and Elizabeth.

Everyone pushes gowns at me.

“Jane, you have to try this one.”

“Come on, Jane,

this one matches your eyes.”

“Oh, my gosh. You would
love
this one.”

Gown after gown goes on, then
off,

my hair becomes a ratted, tangled mess,

and soon I am sick of seeing myself in my underwear

in the full-length mirror between glittery dresses.

Every gown is wrong, and hope fades.

Then I grab the last dress slung over the chair.

It’s one dress that
I
picked out, a pale blue sleeveless

number, with tiny, sparkling beads

shimmering across the top and scattered along the hem.

I stroke the silky soft bodice.

“Let me try this one.”

It settles over my hips like a glove.

One look in the mirror, and I know.

“Oh, wow,” Elizabeth says.

“That is
gorgeous.
”

“Jane, you’re so beautiful,” Rachel whispers.

Angie cocks her head,

studies me up and down, then nods

her approval. “Bingo.”

I smile into the mirror.

I don’t see a girl with half an arm.

I see a
girl.

She needs a hairbrush,

but overall?

She’s not so bad-looking.

She’s flushed and smiling.

And she’s in a beautiful,

shimmery dress.

That’s all. A girl.

In a dress.

For once, I agree with Angie.

Bingo.

M: Hey, Li’l Sis. Mom says you’re going to the prom.

J: Yep.

M: She says you look “so grown-up” in your gown.

J: Ugh. You know how Mom is.

M: I just wanted to warn you. Mom cried when I got ready to go to prom. She took a million pictures of me in my tux, then she cried all over the place. I almost didn’t want to go anymore.

J: Great. Something to look forward to. That may not happen. Mom is all into her mystery boyfriend she thinks she’s hiding from me.

M: Oh, yeah. Any word on that?

J: Not much.

M: She probably wants to see if it’s going anywhere before bringing it up. Why have a big talk about a boyfriend if she just ends up breaking up with him, right?

J: Hmm. You sound like you have experience in that department. So who are you dating?

M: Don’t go there. Besides, you want to tell me about this prom date? Hmm?

J: He’s just a friend. We barely know each other.

M: Nice. The stuff dreams are made of. Well . . . enjoy your prom. I’m sure Mom will e-mail me a picture or two.

J: Thanks so much for the chat. It’s been ever so helpful.

M: Bye-bye now.

J: Bye.

Dr. Jane,

I am writing to ask if you would be willing to send me an autograph. My mom has followed your story since it happened, and she just read an update about you in a magazine. She talks about you sometimes, and how inspiring you are. She says you are going to go into nursing. She says it’s one of the most noble things she ever heard.

Her birthday is next week, and I know she’d love an autograph. So would you please send me one? For her?

Thank you!

Ryan

Mr. Musker helps me figure out

how to place shadows on the sand

and how to give dimension to the mountains

in the background of my painting.

“Jane, this is outstanding,”

he tells me, polishing his glasses.

“You really have done something here.”

I wipe the brushes on cloth

and begin putting the paint away.

“Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Our after-school sessions have really paid off.

The piece will be ready in time for the competition.

And not just ready, but
done.

When I look it over,

I don’t wish I’d done anything different.

It’s exactly how I pictured it in my head —

the water glinting with sunlight,

the clouds, heavy and white,

the people,

both harshly lit and heavily shaded

in the bright sunshine.

“Have you thought any more about art school?”

Mr. Musker asks.

Only every day.

“Yes. I have. I can’t decide yet.

Nursing school is very tempting, too.”

Mr. Musker shakes his head.

“I shouldn’t try to influence you.

But you know

which one I hope you pick, right?”

“Yes.”

Silence falls as we put away

crusted tubes of paint,

throw out crinkled wads of paper towels,

and empty glasses of black paint water.

“Let’s just say you pursue art training,” Mr. Musker

continues, setting the glasses into the classroom sink.

“What do you see yourself doing with an art degree?

Landscapes? Gallery work?”

“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “I’ve thought about

a lot of stuff. Illustration? Portraiture?”

I frown. “It all sounds good . . . but at the same time,

nothing sounds quite right.

I guess I need to give it more thought.”

“And time,” he says cheerfully.

“You’ll have that, in art school . . .

plenty of time to find what you are drawn to most.”

We grin at the pun, but I let his words

comfort me. Time. It’s a reassuring idea.

Mr. Musker laughs and helps me hitch the bag

onto my shoulder. “I’ll stop pushing now.

Nursing is a fine and noble choice as well.”

I tell him good-bye, and I head outside,

dialing Mom to tell her I’m ready to be picked up.

Noble?

So true. Doctors, nurses . . . they
are
noble.

Such a shame that someone who makes art

does not usually qualify

for such a distinction.

I
wouldn’t hesitate to call Picasso,

Rembrandt, and Vermeer

noble.

Would the rest of the world?

Would all those people who write to me,

who sing my praises for

becoming a nurse?

I’m not so sure.

After dinner

Mom and I clean up the kitchen.

“That painting is gorgeous,”

Mom says for the third time.

We both stare at it,

where it rests on the side table,

propped against the wall.

“Thanks,” I tell her.

“I have to enter it into the competition this week.

I can’t believe I finished early.”

I glance at the clock. Seven p.m.

The doorbell rings, right on cue.