Formerly Shark Girl (10 page)

Soft and warm.

That’s what his kiss was.

Soft

and

warm.

Mark it off the bucket list.

Shouldn’t I be happy?

My first kiss.

My first

one

ever.

But . . . kissing Matthew was like . . .

kissing a pillow, or a relative’s cheek,

or something not quite real.

Still — however it felt?

It was, undeniably,

my

first

kiss.

The paintbrushes lie on a ladder rung;

the paint sits untouched.

Today’s mural-painting session

has been derailed for a while,

all because Justin made one remark.

Wistfully, he said, “I wish I could draw.”

Well. You can bet I don’t let a remark

like that go unanswered. And not with a

Oh, I’m sure you can draw beautifully

pat on the head, either. Justin deserves

more than that. Justin deserves an art lesson.

“Her nose doesn’t look right,” he tells me

from where we are spread out on the floor,

paper before us, pencils in hand. Spot models

obligingly, lolling in a window-square of sunlight.

“And her eyes are weird. See? I told you.”

I look over his shoulder. “You skipped

an important step. Before you place the eyes and nose

on her head, you have to divide that head into quadrants.

Like this.” On my own paper, I make an oval

for Spot’s head. Then I run the pencil back and forth,

finding the curving, dividing lines that separate

Spot’s face. One is vertical, one is horizontal.

Now her head shape is divided into fourths.

“Show me where those lines intersect,” I say.

Justin puts his finger on the spot. “Good,” I tell him.

“That is the exact center of Spot’s face.

When you start to add details to it, like her eyes,

you can attach them to the places

they are supposed to be,

because now you have a framework to guide you.

Her features won’t be randomly floating on her face.

For instance, her muzzle would be centered there,

wouldn’t it?” I sketch a little rectangle.

Justin picks up his pencil and does the same, carefully.

“And her nose goes . . . ?” I ask.

Justin puts a black blob on the end of the muzzle.

He cocks his head. “That looks pretty good!”

He glances at mine. “But not as good as yours.”

I nudge him. “Don’t compare your work to others’.

You’ll always find someone who you think is better

than you. If you get wrapped up in that,

you’ll never create anything.”

He sighs, examines his blocked-in head shapes, and then

places two dots on the horizontal line, on either side

of the muzzle. “That’s where her eyes go. Right?”

I wait for him to answer his question, and he does.

“That looks better!” He colors in the eyes

boldly, bringing Spot to life right there on that paper.

“That actually looks like her!”

“Of course it does, silly,” I tell him. Together,

we continue sketching, placing body parts, smoothing

out a paw here, a tail there. I show Justin how to make

a vanishing point on his paper for reference, and how

all lines flow toward that point, giving his drawing

dimension.

“That is so cool,” he says, eyes wide. His brow furrows

as he works. “Thanks for showing me this.”

I don’t know how much time trickles away

while we lie on our stomachs, drawing and coloring

and drawing some more. And I don’t care.

Because an afternoon like this, with a good friend

and fellow artist, can’t be measured in hours.

It can only be received with quiet gratitude,

which it is.

It’s just the three of us this year,

Mom and Michael and me.

With Mom dating,

will this be our last year like this?

The table is laden with a banquet,

and we savor every bite.

There is a groan when I bring out the desserts.

Pecan pie and a two-tiered cake

decorated in basket-weave icing.

“Jane, that is a gorgeous cake,” Mom says.

After dessert, none of us moves to clean up.

We are too full. Later we’ll watch football on TV.

I have a new book to read.

Mom will pick up her knitting.

Michael will make a fire in the fireplace,

and Mabel will stretch out in front of it.

At some point, we’ll all fall asleep.

There are some things

you like being able to count on.

Traditions like this

are one of them.

“Today we will talk about prioritizing.”

Mr. Stork projects images onto the screen.

“When you are called on to help

in an emergency,” he says, “the reality is

that not every person is in the exact same level

of emergency. Some people need to be seen

immediately. Some people can wait a little,

to make room for those who can’t.

And, frankly, some people can’t be saved.

Or they may be dead.” He holds up a black tag.

“That is what this is for.” He proceeds

to talk about the other colored tags.

They each stand for something.
Minor.

Significant. Immediate. Deceased.

“In triage, you determine which tag

to put on everyone,” he says.

“It will help medical staff know

where to start when they arrive.”

After lecturing a bit longer, he once again

asks us to form groups of four.

In silent agreement, our same little group

gravitates together, a ragged band of sheep

facing a wolf. Sweater Lady is wearing a dress today.

Laughing Boy grins.

“I don’t have to be on the floor this time. Cool.”

Mr. Stork deposits a swath of tags

in my hand. He gives Sweater Lady

a sheet of paper. “Here is your injury. Everyone?

Decide what tag to put on her.”

He moves off as Sweater Lady reads,

“Burns on legs and arms. Facial contusions.

Possible head injury.” She puts the paper down

abruptly. “Can I just sit in a chair for this?

I really don’t want to lie on the floor.”

We all murmur agreement, muttering

over the sheet of paper.

“First thing we do is evaluate her,” I say.

Gray-Haired Man says, “I know.”

“We should start with skin color, temperature,

pulse,” I say, consulting my notes.

Gray-Haired Man says, “I
know.
”

He glares fiercely at his notepad.

Laughing Boy snaps his fingers. “Ooh, ooh.

Head injury. We need to see if she has a concussion.”

“We ask her questions,” Gray-Haired Man says quickly.

“Test her mental alertness.” He turns to the woman.

“What is your name? What day is it?

Who’s the president?”

“Who’s the
president
?” the woman repeats, flustered.

I flap my hand. “You don’t have to answer.

We just write down that we assessed your memory.”

We scribble.

“Now we assess her burns,” Gray-Haired Man says.

We do. We assess the contusions, too.

Then we decide how to label her.

In the end, we reach a unanimous decision.

Significant.

“Cool,” says the boy. “I like that tag.”

I touch the tag.
Significant.

It does have a tone of insistence.

Of demand.

Of declaration.

Aren’t we all significant, after all?

It was significant that I encountered a shark,

nearly died, and lost my arm. Why did that happen?

And I’m not
deceased.
I survived.

Luck? Or a reason?

The need to figure that out

seems
immediate.

We place the tag in Sweater Lady’s lap.

And I wonder,

what would it be like if we all wore tags

declaring the state of our injuries?

Because we all have them — call them

what you will. We all walk around

with thorns on our shoulders,

in our heads, our hearts, our past,

our present.

Significant. Minor. Immediate.

A tag would speed things up, wouldn’t it?

And maybe even help

everyone know

just how kind they need to be.

Every day.

The class concludes with everyone

sharing their results. “I was beyond saving,”

a woman says in disgust.

“My arms were severed.”

In the silence, I am aware of the pull

of every pair of eyes in the room,

straining not to look at me

and my severed arm.

At home I put away my notes

and slide into bed.

Red,
that’s what my tag would have been

in that moment, when the lady

mentioned severed arms.

Red cheeks, on every face in the room.

Immediate

would have been the classification.

Immediate

is the need

to tell everyone,

“It’s okay, really. Let’s just move on.

No need to be embarrassed.

I’ve seen and heard it all before.”

And the other thing?

Tonight, when Mom brought me home,

I walked into the kitchen

and saw two plates

still on the table, covered in crumbs,

and two wineglasses.

I pretended not to notice

when she quickly snatched them up

and clattered them into the sink.

Someone shared dinner

at home

with my mother

while I was gone.

Label that one

SIGNIFICANT
.