Formerly Shark Girl (3 page)

he says. “My work hardly compares. Besides,

I doubt Rembrandt ever taught anyone about pottery

or string art or mosaics.”

Student artwork hangs on the walls around us.

And some of Mr. Musker’s paintings and drawings, too.

Trees, landscapes, a busy and joyous sketch of his young

daughter,

and a painting that is haunting . . .

a white house on a dark night,

with trees and a sliver of a moon,

shadows deep under the porch,

and something oppressive about it,

like a coming storm.

“I think your work is fantastic,” I say.

Mr. Musker pats me on the back.

“Thank you, Jane. And right back at you.”

He closes the book.

“Take it home for a while.”

“Thank you.” I unzip my book bag.

Without being asked, Mr. Musker

pushes the book into the bag for me,

followed by my sketchbook and notes.

“I’m so pleased with the progress in your art,” he says.

“Your determination is paying off. Do you see it?”

“Not really,” I say, hating to disappoint him,

which I do, because he droops a little.

“Well, you are a perfectionist, Jane,

and it’s understandable that you’re not satisfied yet.

I don’t have to tell you,

but I’ll tell you anyway:

keep working on it.”

“Okay.”

“And I do like the piece you are planning to enter

in the contest.”

“Me, too. I like it . . . for now.

But I can do better. I hope.”

“All right, then. See you later.”

For a minute, I see this wonderful art teacher

who has taught me so much over the last four years

as a dad —

a friendly dad who scoops up his small daughter

when he comes home at night,

tickles her, hugs her,

and shows her how to color with crayons.

He wouldn’t mind

if her small hands snatched at his glasses.

I want to say something to him,

some words of gratitude

for all he has taught me over the last four years.

For his encouragement and patience.

I want to tell him how much it means.

But all I can come up with is:

“See you, Mr. Musker.

And thank you.”

Words that are too small

because there are no words

big enough.

At the hospital, I help Candy,

a little girl recovering from an appendectomy,

color a giant poster.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?”

I ask her again. “It’s your poster, after all.”

Her tongue sticks out sideways

as she colors the green bucket

in the beach scene before us.

“I’m sure,” she says in her tiny voice.

“I want this done by the time Mom

gets here. I need you to help me.”

I choose a pink crayon. “For the starfish?”

She shakes her head. “Use orange instead.”

I switch crayons. “I like the colors you’ve chosen.”

She smiles. “Thank you.” Then she gets stern.

“Stay in the lines, okay? Or at least try to.”

I nod seriously. “Okay.”

She starts to hum,

a small happy sound that fills the air.

When we finish the poster just in time,

Candy’s radiant smile

gives me one of my own.

I fetch her an extra pillow

and close the door to the room

as she and her mother cuddle in a big chair.

It’s a good thing this job is volunteer.

I can’t imagine accepting one single cent

for spending time

coloring

with Candy.

In science class on Monday,

Mr. Veckio hands back our quizzes.

Let’s just say I didn’t do well. At all.

A black cloud settles over my head.

Have I mentioned that science

is my absolute worst subject? I barely passed last year.

And the year before that.

When Mr. Veckio drones on and I remain confused,

my mood only gets worse.

This spring, I’ll apply for financial aid

for college. I’ll apply for scholarships.

How many scholarships will be awarded

to someone with horrendous grades in science?

Particularly for nursing school, which looks
heavily

at that stuff?

When the bell rings,

I can’t wait to get out of there.

If I could, I would walk out of my skin

and leave it lying in a puddle on the floor.

Maybe then, some of this weight

would roll off my shoulders

taking that black cloud with it,

and let me breathe again.

“College,” Mrs. Guiano says cheerfully,

placing her glasses on the end of her nose.

“A big decision.” She peers at the page.

The guidance counselor’s office

is crammed with posters and books.

Four brochures are spread out across

Mrs. Guiano’s desk. I point to them.

“I’ve got it narrowed down

to these four. Two nursing schools

and two art schools. My applications are ready.”

Mrs. G. raises her eyebrows. “Already? It’s only October.

Good for you. Most people wait until the last minute.”

“I’m ready now,” I lie. Who’s ever ready for this?

“Everyone wants them by Thanksgiving anyway.

I’ll send them all in next month.

Then I can just sit back and wait to hear.”

“And when you hear?” Mrs. Guiano asks kindly.

“Then what?”

I blow out my breath. “Easy —

if only one school takes me, then I go
there.
”

She laughs, reaches across the desk, and squeezes my hand.

“And if all four schools accept you. Then what?”

I find myself stuck in a shrug.

I straighten up. “I don’t know,” I admit.

“Nursing or art? I can’t decide.”

Mrs. Guiano folds up the brochures.

“I think you’d be outstanding at both.

You’re smart. You’re caring. You’re creative.

I haven’t seen you in action at your hospital job,

but I sure have seen your artwork. You’re fantastic.”

Even with my new limitations?
I almost ask.

But I don’t. What do I expect Mrs. G.

to say to
that
? But still.

The question circles my mind,

as constant as time.

Before that shark took my arm,

I
was
a fantastic artist. I admit it. Now?

Because I’m
still
adjusting to drawing with my left

hand,

I’m only good. Not
fantastic.

And maybe not even good enough

to get into art school,

let alone make a living at it.

As for nursing?

If I do that, it’s because I want

to give back. To help.

To be there for someone in need.

But — can I do that with only one arm?

Seems that both careers call to me,

yet both might be just out of reach.

“So the question remains,” Mrs. Guiano says,

offering me her candy jar. “Which will you choose?”

I select a bright lump. “Lemon. Definitely.”

She laughs. “I’ll take that as another

‘I don’t know.’” She hands back the brochures.

“Lucky for you, you have plenty of time to decide.”

We stand up as the bell rings.

She’s right. It’s only September.

I won’t even hear back from these schools until March.

Seven months is
plenty
of time to decide

what you want to do with the rest of your forever.

Right?

Wrong. But either way, the wheels are in motion.

Now all I have to do is keep moving.

“You know I’m always here,”

Mrs. Guiano says. “Literally.

I may as well have my mail sent here.

Come see me anytime you want.”

I can’t help grinning back at her.

“Thanks.” I turn to leave, my unmade decision

settling back into its worn groove in my psyche.

Which path, Jane? Which path?

The worry and wonder are like terriers,

nipping at my heels. This decision — it feels so huge.

It feels so
important.
You know
why
it feels like that?

Because it
is.

“Hey, Jane,” Mrs. Guiano calls from her doorway.

I turn back. “Yes?”

She points at me as she backs into her office.

“I’m jealous of you, you know.”

I laugh in disbelief. “Why?”

She leans against the doorjamb.

“Oh, honey. To have those choices to make.

Baby, the world is at your doorstep.

And you don’t even know it.

But believe me. It is. I’d give anything

to be able to start all over and make the choices

you get to make this year.”

I consider this as the halls fill with kids

rushing off to classrooms right and left.

It just goes to show. As much as you may think

your life is a mess, well —

your mess might be someone else’s envy.

“Mrs. Guiano?” I ask.

“If you
could
go back and make those choices

all over again, would you do anything different?”

Her smile and her reply are immediate.

“Nope. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Mulling that over, I head to class.

I hope that years from now,

I can look back

and say the same thing

that she just did.