Formerly Shark Girl (5 page)

I just wanted to share that and to remind you that the door is always open here at
Valley Magazine
should you decide you’
d like to be heard. We would be glad to do an interview with you at any time.

Thank you, and best of luck!

Wendy Stewart

The graph stretches across the expanse

of Justin’s bedroom wall. Michelangelo

did not work harder on the Sistine Chapel

than I did on making that graph.

Justin and I fill in the squares one by one.

“Little squares to big squares,” I tell him.

“But it’s just like I told you.

One square at a time. That’s all.

Try to look at it one square at a time.”

We work a few minutes. Then:

“I can’t do this,” Justin says,

putting down his pencil.

I stare down at him from my ladder,

shocked. This is the first time

I’ve
ever
heard Justin say such a thing.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

He gestures. “I’m messing it up.

My drawings are all crooked.”

I climb down the ladder, well aware

of the frustration in seeing your drawings

come out crooked. It
is
maddening.

But this “can’t” stuff? From Justin?
No way.

“The only part that is not right

is this line here,” I tell him,

pointing to the top part of a dog,

where he’s inverted one long line.

“This part is upside down,” I tell him.

“It makes it look like the entire drawing is a mess,

but it really isn’t. It’s fixable. Just one adjustment.

Like this. See?” I erase the line and draw it properly.

Magically, the dog’s form emerges

from the previously lumped-up mess.

Justin blinks. “Oh.” He picks up his pencil again.

I see pep returning to that face that I know so well.

“And the ear goes here?” He tentatively scratches

at the wall. I put my hand over his and guide

his pencil strokes. “Yes. But more triangular.

Like that. Get it?”

He nods and begins drawing more boldly.

I watch and encourage, and when we reach

the patch of sunflowers in the corner,

Justin falters again.

“I’m not sure how to draw that,”

he says. So once again, I take his hand

and guide him through it. Together,

we draw long stems, giant blossoms,

and sunny centers. Justin listens to my advice,

and by the time the last flower is done,

he’s drawing the petals all by himself,

exactly to scale.

“Excellent!” I tell him, and he beams.

I pick up my pencil and climb the ladder again.

“Time for clouds in the sky.”

“I want to do one,” Justin says eagerly.

I laugh and climb back down. “Okay,

but I’m going to hold on to you, just to be safe.”

He climbs the few steps of the ladder,

and I grip the base of it, keeping it steady.

While he sketches

I look up at him

and feel a flush of happiness.

Justin

is reaching for the clouds.

As darkness falls, I sit down to the computer.

I want to study Rembrandt’s earliest self-portrait

and look for more medical classes in town.

That’s when I find it.

Totally by accident.

It just
pops up,

already in the browser window.

I guess Mom left it there by mistake.

It’s a site — a
dating
site —

where “mature singles gather

to meet, greet, talk and . . . ?”

It promises
“complete compatibility,”

“no pressure, no gimmicks,”

and
“people just like you, looking for romance.”

In the photos, women Mom’s age laugh.

They wear bright, silky clothes and

have clean, shiny hair, and the men

they lean upon gaze at them adoringly.

Everyone is discovering their
“soul mate”
and
“best friend.”

A quick click or two, and there’s Mom’s in-box —

full

of messages

with headings like,
“Hello there!”

and
“Fred Watson has sent you a WAVE!”

and
“Dinner on Friday?”

There’s even one that says

“NEED A FOOT MASSAGE?”

Good grief.

What has Mom

gotten herself into?

Okay, maybe I know
why.

Mom is single.

Maybe she’s lonely.

However. This dating site?

So tacky.

I mean . . .
a foot massage
?

My hand hovers over the mouse,

poised to click on her in-box,

to further invade her privacy, and I don’t care —

I’m going to see if she answered any of these men.

Did she mention that she has two children?

Did she mention that one of them is the Shark Girl?

Then

the front door bangs open.

Mom calls, “Jane?

Can you help me carry in the groceries?”

In a panic, I nearly knock over my glass of water.

Pressing buttons, trying to cover my tracks,

I somehow turn the entire computer off.

I hurry out to greet her

and pick up a sack bulging with food.

“How are you, sweetie?” she asks.

Her shoulders sag. She’s tired,

she’s had a long day at work,

and she moves like her feet hurt,

sliding the bags of groceries to the floor.

“I’m fine, Mom. Sit down.

I already have dinner in the oven.

Spinach lasagna.”

She kisses my cheek.

“You’re my best daughter,” she tells me.

Swallowing guilt,

I head into the kitchen,

put away carrots, potatoes,

cereal, and bread —

her words,

her face,

and her secret

heavy

in my heart.

I take out pen and notebook and fix my eyes

on the prize: peptides and their formations.

That’s today’s science lesson.

But minutes into class,

pain rips through my half-arm.

A pain so intense,

I can’t breathe.

The pain dulls, swells, and throbs wildly.

It’s like someone is twisting

a white-hot corkscrew

straight into the end of my stump.

One, two, three, breathe in, hold,

I say to myself,

doing the deep-breathing exercises

I was taught for pain management.

Management for the phenomenon

called phantom limb pain.

That’s when you experience agony like this,

like someone is torturing the part of your arm

that you don’t even have anymore.

But this is different from phantom limb pain.

The burning ratchets up a notch,

then dulls into a steady crackle.

Three, two, one, breath out.

I pant, in a private abyss of agony,

as Mr. Veckio drones on, sketching formulas

on the blackboard. He says something,

and kids turn pages in their textbooks.

Sweat trickles down my back.

After a while,

the pain dies down.

Then it’s gone.

Relief

does not even begin to describe the result.

Dabbing sweat from my forehead,

I blow out my breath and join the living.

The lesson is over.

The bell rings,

and I’ve missed it all.

Frustration

does not begin to describe that sensation, either.

Gathering my things,

I hope

it doesn’t happen again.

In today’s after-school art session

with Mr. Musker, I can’t get anything right.

And believe me, I’m not being modest.

Even Mr. Musker finally expresses frustration

in the form of a brisk sigh.

“Let’s back up a minute,” he says.

He removes the canvas from my desk

and replaces it with a pad of heavy paper.

He hands me a Conté crayon, smooth and fat-tipped.

“The basics,” he says. “Sometimes you have to

start back at the beginning in order to get unstuck.”

He instructs me to draw circles and ovals for ten minutes.

“Seriously?” I look up at him, unsure. Is this punishment?

He must have read my mind, because he laughs.

“This is not a bad thing. This is an exercise, Jane.

I do it all the time when I’m stuck. Go back to square one

and you’ll see. Concentrating on simple things can free

your mind to take on the more complicated things later.

Take a deep breath and draw.”

And so I do. And as I draw,

the crayon leaving a trail of black

across the white paper,

the circles grow more solid.

The ovals become more fluid.

Something in my hand begins to loosen,

and that looseness slowly spreads

up my arm, all the way to both shoulders,

and into my brain.

Hmm. Isn’t this kind of like what I told Justin?