Formerly Shark Girl (16 page)

Max says.

I smile. “Seriously?”

He nods. “It was for breast cancer awareness.

The whole team wore pink Speedos.”

I busy myself with pencils and paper,

trying to get the image of Max in a Speedo

out of my mind before I start blushing.

Too late. “That’s cool.”

Max asks, “So — you work out much?”

I take a seat. “I lift weights five times a week.

I’m supposed to keep my muscles strong

in order to compensate for Chuck.”

Max squints, confused.

“Chuck? Who’s Chuck?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

That one just slipped out.

“It’s what I call my fake arm.

Kind of stupid, huh?”

He laughs again. “You named your arm Chuck?”

“My
fake
arm,” I remind him.

“That is fantastic,” he says. “I love it.”

He puts his elbow on the table

and rests his chin in his hand.

“So, if you’re working out five times a week,

I’m guessing you’ve got some serious strength.

I bet you’re like the Hulk or something.”

I like the easy way Max talks with me.

He is not timid or nervous

about saying the wrong thing,

about offending or treating me special.

He’s just having fun.

“I am so strong, you would not believe it,”

I tell him, somber-faced.

“In fact, my arm has been registered as a lethal weapon

with the state of California.”

“Really?” Max takes his chin out of his hand

and puts his palm toward me.

“Let’s arm wrestle.”

I look at him quickly.
Seriously?

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I grab his hand, and, oh, it’s warm,

and something like an electric current

shoots through my entire body.

Sparks ignite

every inch of my being.

“Ready?” Max says. “Go.”

I push hard,

and Max pushes back, steadily.

I push harder; Max barely moves.

“Any time now,” he says, grinning.

In our efforts, our heads bow,

moving closer together,

closer

and closer.

I jerk my head up. “Spider!”

Max leaps to his feet,

smacks at his shoulder, chest, and arms.

“
Where?
Did I get it? Where?”

He yanks the books up, looking underneath.

He’s so funny, all spooked, frantically searching.

I can’t help it. I laugh, long and hard.

He narrows his eyes at me.

“Ahhhh . . . the old spider trick.”

“I’m sorry,” I manage.

“Don’t be. All’s fair in arm wrestling.”

Max opens the science book, becoming studious.

“You do know the penalty for cheating, though.”

I shake my head as the giggles die.

“Extra homework.”

“I don’t even understand the homework I
have.
”

Good grief. I’m
whining.

“That’s why I’m here, remember?”

Max takes a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket

and slides them on,

and though I wouldn’t have thought it possible,

he is now more handsome than before.

“By the time the night is over,

you will understand this assignment,

and
the extra one I’ll give you.”

Max turns the page.

“Let’s get started,” he says.

And so

we do.

“Ferromagnetic substances,” I tell him.

“I
beg
you to explain this to me.”

“Ah, yes,” Max says with a heavy sigh.

“I remember all this. Kind of.”

He glances at me sideways.

“I’m kidding.” He chuckles.

“Wow. You should have seen your face.”

Max cracks his knuckles

and picks up a pen and a pencil.

He holds them so their tips are touching.

“Let’s say these two objects

are magnetically attracted to each other,”

he says. “If the pencil is a ferromagnetic substance,

it will remain magnetic even after you take away the pen.”

He does so, leaving the thin pencil in midair by itself.

“The pencil does not depend on the pen

to be magnetic.” He touches the pencil to my shoulder.

“It could just as easily stick to you.

Or the refrigerator. Or the table. See?”

I nod, slowly understanding.

Max returns the pen to the pencil,

their points touching like a kiss.

“If we apply the pen to the pencil,

we increase the magnetization.

When we increase it

to the highest value it can go

without raising it above the Curie temperature,

it is saturation magnetization.

It is as magnetic as it can get.”

He looks at me.

“Understand?”

I nod.

He says, “And the Curie temperature is . . . ?”

That one I remember.

“It depends on the substance.”

He beams. “Good. Let’s say . . . iron?”

I quickly check my notes.

“770 degrees Celsius.”

“Good. Cobalt?”

“1130.”

“Good. So . . .

is the Curie point a set number?”

I shake my head. “No?”

“
No
is not a question, Jane.

Confidence. You probably know this

better than you think.”

I try again.
“No.”

“Excellent.” Max sits back.

“Now. What’s another way of explaining

the Curie temperature?”

I think hard. But I don’t know.

Max presses the pencil against my palm.

“Picture that pencil being cooked.

It’s getting hotter and hotter and hotter,”

Max adds. He is so close, so near.

Yes, it is getting hotter. Yes, it is.

“The pencil is magnetic,” Max says.

“But as it gets hotter, it . . .”

He slowly floats the pen away.

“It loses its magnetism?”

I ask.

He beams. “Bingo!”

I look at the pencil, at the pen,

and it sinks in:

a grain of comprehension.

“So the Curie temperature

is the temperature at which

the substance loses its magnetism?”

“Yes!” Max crows.

“See? You catch on fast.

This is going to be
easy.
”

Easy?

I think about the gigantic textbook

before us.

There is
so much
inside,

and I understand about 2 percent of it.

Easy

is not the word I would choose.

But as I watch Max

patiently leafing through my notes,

hope

is the word

I find.

As I shower that night,

I think back to our session,

to the final minutes of it,

when his phone lit up,

where it lay on the table by our elbows,

how I glanced at it as it buzzed,

and saw the name

Brittany

in its lighted window.

Max silenced the phone

with a push of a button.

“Sorry, I thought I’d turned that off,”

he’d said, and resumed our lesson,

but not before he’d stared at the phone

for a heartbeat, his brow furrowed.

I could barely concentrate

after that, wondering if Brittany

is Max’s girlfriend.

When he left, I watched out the window.

I saw him put his phone to his ear

even before he climbed into his car.

He didn’t want to keep Brittany waiting,

I guess. Or perhaps

he was talking to Sarah.

Who knows?

And it’s

none of my business.

Slipping into bed,

I hear Mom unlock the front door

and close it again behind her.

She’s home from working late.

If that’s really where she was.

I don’t want to talk to her tonight.

I shut my eyes, pretending to sleep.

My arm begins to ache, and I press it

to stop the throbbing.

A long time later,

Mom tiptoes past the door,

down the hall to her bedroom.

Softly,

she hums.

The next day in science class, Mr. Veckio asks,

“What is the best way to define the Curie point?”

To everyone’s surprise,

I raise my hand.

He calls on Matthew instead,

but that’s okay. Because I know

that I
know
it.

“Good job,” Matthew whispers to me.

Turning in my homework,

with
confidence
for a change,

I find I can’t wait for our next session.

Not just because it involves seeing Max again.

But because I like the experience

of understanding.

I like knowing.

As far as

Brittany goes?

I wouldn’t mind

knowing

a bit more about that, either.

At the clinic,

I lie still while a slim woman

with shiny red hair

applies ultrasound massage

to my residual limb.

The small, buzzing wand

glides across cold, slimy gel

plastered on my stump.