Formerly Shark Girl (8 page)

“I’ll make you something,”

I promise. “Something really good.”

Then I tell him to ask his parents

if they’ll get us some more blue paint for our mural.

Justin runs off to ask. He returns, breathless.

“Dad says yes. We’ll get some tomorrow.

He put it on the calendar.”

I picture the busy calendar

they keep on their fridge, sprinkled

with Justin’s action-packed schedule.

“Okay. See you next week, Justin.”

“Will you have a drawing for me by then?” he asks.

Justin is nothing if not persistent.

“Yes. I will. I promise.”

If Justin wants a drawing, he shall have one.

I want Justin to know

he can
always

count on me.

Finally. It’s here.

Black turtleneck, a little makeup,

a lot of hair spray.

A small case of nerves.

Mom sends me off with a cheerful wave

and an annoying
My girl is growing up!

vibe hanging all dewy in the air.

The movie is pretty good.

The pizza afterward is, too.

The kids are nice —

Matt, Jeremy, Will, Keisha, and Annie.

Even though it’s all good, I want it to be over with.

What’s wrong with me? I was excited — and now?

Now I want to go home.

Matthew is nice. Really nice.

But . . . the whole night is like

I’m auditioning for a part I don’t even want

in some play I’ve never read.

Will, the one with a driver’s license,

drives us all home after.

The first stop is my house.

“I had fun,” Matthew says,

walking me to the door.

His hair is dark, feathery,

his eyes gray behind thin glasses.

“Me, too,” I tell him,

wondering in a panic if he’ll try to kiss me

right there on the front step.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“See you Monday,” he says,

and with a small wave, he is gone.

I let myself in, relieved.

Thank goodness. No kiss.

But . . . maybe there was no kiss

because he figured out

he didn’t want to kiss me any more than I

wanted to kiss him.

Maybe he’d sooner kiss a frog, Jane.

Either way, if I’m this relieved about a non-kiss,

then the next time Matthew asks me out —

if
he asks me out —

I need to say

no.

Coloring lightly,

then blending the pastels

with the tip of my little finger,

I carefully create Justin’s drawing.

It’s another picture of his dog, Spot —

Justin’s favorite subject.

She’s lying in the sun,

chewing on a ratty blue object

that Justin calls her sock.

The shadows are tricky,

and I find myself wanting to overdo them.

I fight off the urge, and soon

I have created something

that even I think

is beautiful.

I stare at it awhile, take a long break,

then come back and stare at it again.

Imperfections creep out at me,

but overall? This is
good.

And there it is again, that rare, quiet flush

of satisfaction. This is like I used to do —

everything has come out as I intended.

And more important,

it is a gift I can give Justin

with complete happiness,

knowing he will like it.

I breathe a sigh of relief,

because this is not the outcome

of every piece of work I take on.

Oh — how I love this result,

this contentment, this process.

How I
miss
taking this kind of thing

for granted — just
expecting
it,

creating drawings all day long

without struggle, without frustration.

I pin the drawing to the wall.

Thank you for this moment,
I think,

to whoever is listening.

For art. For color.

Thank you.

After Justin has exclaimed with joy

over the portrait of Spot,

we get to work.

Tubs, jars, and gallons of paint

litter the floor of Justin’s room.

With drop cloths spread everywhere,

and autumn sunshine drifting through the window,

Justin and I begin the electrifying process

of applying color to the white wall.

“I’m starting with this butterfly,”

Justin tells me, snatching up a purple pot of paint.

I hold out my hand. “No, no. That won’t work.”

He pauses, and I explain.

“See how small the butterfly is on that big bush?

The best thing to do is paint the bush first,

because it’s larger. That way, you can fill in those large

areas of color quickly and allow yourself to bleed over a

little, into your butterfly shape, if needed.

You don’t have to

be quite so careful in working around the butterfly,

like you would if it were already painted and perfect.

See what I mean?”

Justin cocks his head, studies the sketch on the wall,

then nods. “Yeah. I get it.” He puts the purple paint down

and searches for the green. “Good idea.”

We tackle our pieces of the mural, Justin with green

and me with a whole lot of blue for the sky.

I point out that it would also be a mistake

to paint the small birds flying in the sky,

then try to paint all that blue sky around them.

“I do the sky first, and everything else comes later,”

I say. Justin laughs. “What’s so funny?” I ask.

He applies paint. “It feels like we’re

creating a whole universe.”

He grins up at me,

and I flush warm from my toes

to my head.

I love it when Justin is happy.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he says.

“Me, too, Justin.” I smile back at him. Then

I stretch my arm up high and rake a bold

swath of blue across the wall.

A sky is born.

Each year our high school has a huge art contest.

Winners go on to compete

at a state level. Then a national level.

The first two years I entered,

I made it to state champion.

Once, I won first prize

for the entire western

United States.

Last year I was unable to enter

for obvious reasons.

Now I am ready to try again.

Granted, my art is still not the quality it was.

But it’s coming back,

shred by shred, bit by bit.

After school every other Monday,

Mr. Musker works with me

on practice pieces. Today

we work on a pastel drawing of Justin.

“A little more depth here,” Mr. M. says, pointing,

“and a little less white there.

That white is flattening out your surface.”

I work, watching the colors take shape.

I put stock in Mr. Musker’s words:

“Take heart in what progress you’ve made.

Always look ahead, not back.”

I keep working, shading, blending,

ignoring the voice in my head that screams,

It’s not perfect. Maybe it never will be.

This contest means a lot to me.

I can’t put into words exactly

what
it means to me,

because I’m not entirely sure.

Proof that I didn’t lose my ability entirely?

Evidence that I haven’t shriveled up

and fallen off the art planet,

that I do still, in fact, create,

and that my creations have merit?

Or is it strictly an ego thing?

I don’t know.

But I’m not letting another year,

my
final
year to enter,

slip by

without

trying.

Dear Jane,

I recently read your follow-up story in a magazine. I have to say, I’ve been wondering about you and was so glad to see the story, though I would have liked to have heard some direct quotes from you. The story made it sound like you’re fully recovered and back in school. I hope that’s true and that your life is back to normal and you are well.

I lost a dear friend to cancer right about the time you had your accident. I remember watching your story on the news, and seeing how young you were, and thinking about my friend, who was young also. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering why life isn’t fair. It isn’t, is it?

You really are an inspiration, and I just wanted to write and tell you that. You inspire me to avoid feeling sorry for myself. You inspire me to be grateful for my health and for all that I have. The article mentioned that you volunteer at the hospital and that you intend to be a nurse. Incredible! You inspire me to help others. Truly. I signed up and have gone through training so that I, too, can help out at my local hospital. It’s something my friend — the one I lost to cancer — always encouraged me to do, but I never got around to it. Well, now I have. Thank you so much for being such a role model of bravery, compassion, and courage. I wish you the best.