Formerly Shark Girl (21 page)

Mom says, “I’ll get it,”

and I let her, hanging back for a second

to put away the last of the silverware.

I listen to them talk to each other,

my pulse picking up speed

at the sound of Max’s voice.

They exchange small talk

as they walk into the kitchen.

“I hope you two have a good session,

Mom says. “I’ll be in the living room

if you need me.”

She gives me a look I can’t quite read.

Then she takes the newspaper

and is gone.

I fix my eyes on Max,

his sweatshirt hugging

his big shoulders,

his hair curling at his neck.

Max doesn’t move.

He stares at the painting,

his eyes wide.

“Wow.” His voice is quiet.

“Did someone in your family make that?”

I come closer. “Yeah. I did.”

He stares at me. “No way.”

He drags his eyes back to the painting.

“I knew you liked art — I remember

you mentioning it last year.

But I had no idea . . .”

He shakes his head.

“Wow.”

“We’ll work in here tonight,”

I tell Max as I pull the place mats from the table.

He helps me, carefully moving

the salt and pepper shakers.

“How’d you do on the quiz?”

“Great,” I tell him. “But since then . . .”

“Back on a different planet?” Max asks.

“Where they speak a different language

and you have no clue what they’re talking about?”

“That’s it! How did you know?”

“That’s how I am with social studies,” Max says.

“I never could get it right.”

I realize I have no idea what Max is studying at school.

“Psychology,” he says

when I ask.

That is exactly not what I expected. “Why?”

Max pulls a chair up to the table.

“Oh, lots of reasons. It’s fascinating.

And it’s a great way to help people with their lives.

People who really need it. You know?

Adults. Kids. Families.”

Suddenly he says,

“Hey, remind me of something.”

I look up, and his long-lashed eyes are so close,

his gaze so intense.

“Why do you want to be a nurse

instead of an artist?”

He points to the painting.

“I mean, being a nurse is fantastic.

But if I could paint like that,

I’d . . . I think I’d have to do
that.
”

“Oh, well, that’s nice of you to say, but . . .”

“I’m not trying to be nice,”

Max says earnestly. “That is
really good.

You’re not someone who just likes to draw.

You’re very talented.

I’m surprised you’re even
considering

not going to art school.”

“Me, too,”

I hear myself say.

In the gap of air

and time

and space

that follows,

I am silent

with surprise.

Max just nods, as though what I said

makes any sense at all,

when here we are working hard

so I can pass science

and maybe go to nursing school.

He looks at me and says,

“I understand.”

Well.

That makes

one of us.

“I don’t mean to pry, I’m just wondering,”

Max continues. “You seem to love art,

and you’re obviously really good at it.

So why . . . ?”

“Nursing matters,” I hear myself say.

What is this?

I’m removed from my own vocal cords?

I clear my throat, clear my head.

“It’s a chance to do so much
good,

you know? Besides, I doubt I . . .”

I stop myself in time.

Good grief. I almost said it out loud.

I almost said:

I doubt I was spared from death

just so I could go back to painting,

as though nothing happened.

And thinking about this,

the voice goes on, in my head,

a string unraveling:

I doubt I was put through this ordeal

so I could hide behind a canvas

instead of helping others get through their own ordeals.

I doubt I lived

so I could work in a lonely sunny studio

surrounded by paints and pastels,

rather than on the front line

with trauma, heartbeats, and need.

I doubt I could call the decision

to be an artist

unselfish.

Not now,

not after all that’s happened.

Think of the letters, after all.

Think of the people.

Think of what they say.

What would they say if I changed paths?

I snap out of it. I regard Max.

“You know what? I think I’ll get us

some drinks.”

Max nods.

I wonder if his studies in psychology

give him magical powers,

an insight into what I’m really saying

or not saying.

I wonder if he thinks I’m insane.

Stop that, Jane,
I think

as I pour iced tea into glasses.

Stop being so weird.

I take a deep breath.

I decide we’re starting this evening over.

Free of discomfort

and awkward questions

and bumbling non-answers.

I put the glasses on a tray,

pick it up with my left hand,

and leave the kitchen.

I leave the lingering questions

behind.

We’ve finished our studying;

now we’re lingering, sharing stories and jokes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl

who likes the Three Stooges,”

Max says. “Fascinating.”

“I love the one with the haunted house,”

I tell him, “don’t you?”

“It’s a classic!” Max stretches.

“Well, I have to get going.

I have to swim early in the morning.”

He begins gathering his things.

Rachel’s words leap to mind.

Next time.

Show an interest.

“Are you practicing with the team tomorrow?”

“No, I’m just getting my laps in

before classes.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah. I have to get there at six a.m.

to get my workout in before class.”

“Wow, six o’clock in the morning. That’s early.”

“
Too
early?” he asks. “Because I was wondering

if you wanted to come out, swim with me.

We could get something to eat in the cafeteria after,

and I could run you to school.

I’ll have you there before the first bell, I promise.”

My lips turn dry.
Don’t lick them, Jane.

You’ll look like a salivating wolf.

“That would be fun,” I tell him.

“But I’m not much of a swimmer.”

Truth is I was a
great
swimmer.

But I haven’t swum since that gruesome day,

the day I met the shark.

I’m not much in a hurry to get back into the water.

In fact, I haven’t even set a toe in a pool

since the attack. So who knows?

Maybe I’ve forgotten how to swim.

And do I really want to find out what it’s like

to swim with half an arm?

Do I want to make that discovery in front of Max?

No.

Max seems disappointed.

“Oh. Well, that’s okay.”

“I could come watch,” I tell him.

I could watch all day.

He looks surprised.

“Really? You’d want to do that?

I mean, it’s early. It’s just swimming.”

And it’s you,
I think.

“Swimming and
breakfast,
remember?”

He laughs.

“I forgot. Yeah, breakfast.

No sausage or bacon, right?

We’ll find you some nice eggs

and lettuce leaves or something.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment.

His eyes are so
bright.

“All right, then. See you at the pool at six a.m.”

“I’ll ride my bike over.”

“Great. I can throw it in the car

and take you to school.”

And just like that, the plans are made.

A sort-of date.

A sort-of swimming date.

Even though I don’t plan to swim.

Six a.m. has never sounded better.

I ask Mom about tomorrow.

My fingers are mentally crossed.

If she says no, then I have to call Max and back out.

“I’m not sure about this,”

Mom says reluctantly.

“He’s a college boy, Jane.”

“I know.”

“He seems like a nice kid,” Mom says,

as though confessing.

Something about her expression

makes me ask, “Have you met him before?”

She folds up the newspaper

and begins tidying the living room.

“It took me a while to place him.

Tonight I realized that I’ve seen him

several times in the past at the drugstore.

With his dad.”

She pauses.

“Has he mentioned his dad?”

I shake my head.

Mom sighs. “His dad is —

well, I guess he’s got Alzheimer’s or is mentally ill.

He’s not altogether
there,

and he’s not a nice man.

The few times I’ve run into them,

Max has been picking up prescriptions

for his dad, and the dad is just —

well,
awful
to him. And everyone else.

And Max is so
patient.
And kind.

That’s why I recognized him.

He really stayed in my mind.

I don’t know a thing about them,

but it seems like the father

should be in a home by now.

A few years ago, I saw him with his wife.

He treated her the same way.

I wonder what she thinks of all this.”

I sit down. A mental image of

Max’s home life is coming to mind.

“His mom is dead,” I say.

“She died of cancer a couple of years ago.”

“Oh.” Mom sits down, too,