Formerly Shark Girl

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about the people we saw down in the parking lot

Over a year ago,

I went into the ocean

with my whole life

planned out, expected,

casually tucked between pages

of a sketchbook.

That all changed in a heartbeat.

A shark

took my arm

and nearly took my life.

“You could have died.

Instead, you are here. You have time to find out why.

You have your whole life to discover

and rebuild.”

That’s what Mel,

my therapist back in the hospital,

once told me.

When news shows played that awful video

that somebody happened to take

the moment I was torn apart in the water,

everyone said it was a miracle,

a miracle I came out of that coma

and only lost an arm.

“You were spared for a reason,”

many people told me,

strangers who sent letters, cards,

and teddy bears.

“It was not your fate

to die that day,”
some speculated.

Others said,
“God has plans for you.”

Okay, God.

Or Fate.

Or the Miracle Worker of Hapless Swimmers.

What is your plan for me?

What am I meant to do?

Please.

Tell me.

I’m all ears,

though as you can see,

half-armed.

Mom drops me off in front of school.

“This year is going to go by
way
too fast,”

she predicts glumly.

I walk up the steps into school,

the sounds of my classmates

like old, familiar music.

Inside, I say hello to people I pass

and search for my friends.

A new backpack is light on my back,

and my spirits?

Well, let’s just say that compared to last year,

my spirits are high.

Last year, the first day of school

was the stuff of nightmares. Filled

with stares and whispers from everyone

laying eyes on my amputated arm

for the first time since that awful video

hit the air. Last year,

I was so nervous about the first day of school

that I puked before I even left the house.

Today? Today I am filled with gratitude

that
that
day is behind me. Forever.

“Jane!” Angie squeals, her arms wide. “Hey!”

Though I’ve seen my friends over the summer,

it’s always a big deal to see them
here,

our first day. And this year is an even bigger deal.

This year, we are seniors.

“Hi, Angie.” I hug her one-armed,

as Trina, Elizabeth, and Rachel

emerge from the crowd. “Hey, everyone!”

Among hugs, chatter, our slamming locker doors,

the countdown of our last year together begins.

Next year the first day of school will be

in a college somewhere. With unfamiliar faces,

new hallways, and big spaces.

My friends will be scattered to the wind,

each on her own path, her own dream, and all of us

separated for the first time since third grade.

It’s too scary to even
think
about.

So for now?

For now, I don’t.

The tweezers slip from my fingers,

clatter to the scuffed floor.

Matthew, my lab partner,

picks them up and lays them on the table.

I whoosh a tight breath,

resisting the urge to scream.

This is one of those cases

where my left hand can’t do the delicate work

I want it to. “You do it,” I tell Matthew,

amazed that I sound cheerful.

Matthew pauses. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I gesture

toward the lifeless frog, stretched

before us, belly up on a small plank.

“We don’t have much time left.”

Matthew, nice guy that he is,

hesitates again, so I assure him,

“It’s fine. I’ll watch.”

And I do.

I watch Matthew poke tentatively

at the gray innards of the frog

as around us, our classmates do the same,

some of them groaning in disgust.

This is the part of having one arm

that I never get used to.

Having to be the watcher sometimes

instead of the doer.

Later,

in art class,

I wait.

I wait as everyone

stretches canvases over wooden frames

and nails them into place.

I wait until my favorite teacher of all time,

Mr. Musker, has a free moment

and can nail my canvas for me

while I hold it in place,

because I can’t hammer nails

in a precise manner with my left hand.

And believe me, I’ve tried.

I never
wanted
to nail things before

that shark attack.

But now? Now I do.

When Mr. Musker finishes my canvas,

everyone else is well under way, painting.

As is often the case, I am last.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

I tell myself it could be worse.

I tell myself that I will get there.

I will.

Dipping my brush into the red paint,

I wonder

how much longer

I will tell myself these things

before

I believe them.

“It’s September, guys,” Angie reminds us.

“We have to get our college applications in
soon.
”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Not till November, Angie.”

“Plenty of time,” Trina adds. She shivers.

“It’s kind of scary.”

We nod as though this is the first time she’s said this.

The fact is, we
all
said this a hundred times this summer.

“I’ve decided to apply to Cal State,” Angie says.

“But I don’t know what I want to study yet.”

Elizabeth stares. “Then why apply
there
?

It’s so expensive.”

Angie gives her a pitying look. “Because

that’s where
Scott
is going.”

We groan. Scott is Angie’s boyfriend.

“Sounds like a solid plan,” Rachel says drily.

“My first choice is San Diego. To study business.

But I’m applying to other schools, too,

in case they don’t take me.”

Elizabeth sips at her milk. “Pharmacology,”

she reminds us. “But I’m going to wait a semester.”

I pick at my salad.

No one asks me about school.

I’ve already told them my plan,

if you can call it that.

Since I can’t decide between a future in nursing

or art, I plan to apply to both kinds of schools.

And go from there.

I know. I get it. At some point

a decision will have to be made.

But I’m not ready to make that decision.

And at the rate I’m going,

feeling devoted to one thing one day,

and the other thing the next,

I’m starting to wonder