Formerly Shark Girl (17 page)

“I like your hair,” I tell her.

She beams. “I like yours, too.”

At home, I apply heat

in the form of our old heating pad,

which has seen this family

through many backaches,

sprains, and chills.

“Can you feel a difference?”

Dr. Kim asks in a follow-up phone call.

“Not yet,” I answer.

I can almost hear him nodding.

“Let’s give it more time.

Acupuncture will be our next move

if we don’t see improvement.”

Oh, boy.
Needles? In my stump?

The image makes me nauseous.

That night, as usual,

I clean my stump carefully

before going to bed.

Any small wound, even a scrape,

can lead to a major infection, fast.

That’s one of the many perils that come

with losing a limb.

The wrenching pain

that catches me off-guard

the next morning?

That’s another.

Fumbling for a bag of ice,

I wonder when this process

of “moving on”

will ever end.

“Good job, Jane.”

Mr. Veckio hands back

the pop quiz.

I stare in disbelief

at the B+

at the top of the paper.

The highest grade

I have ever made

in this class.

Wow.

So it’s official.

Tutoring with Max is worth

the torture

I put myself through

every time I think

about

Brittany.

Today in art, Mr. Musker lets us work on anything we want to.

I begin working on the piece

for the art show. A painting needs texture

to have life. It needs texture

as much it needs depth and light.

Today I need to put grit

into the sand.

However, painting sand

to look like sand instead of liquid mush

is not so easy.

Mr. Musker brings over a scrap of canvas,

wets his own brushes, sits down, and shows me,

step by step, how to “grainify” that beach.

Soon a small cluster of kids gathers around,

watching intently, as he demonstrates.

“I’m going to try that,” Nathan says.

“Me, too,” says Emily, to everyone’s shock.

Dabbing at the painting, I see my careful attempts

to do exactly as Mr. Musker says

result in something the nature of oatmeal.

It’s all I can do not to scream.

“Use this for practice,” Mr. Musker says,

pushing another scrap of canvas my way.

He pats me on the shoulder as he rises.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

He moves off to help other students

with their projects. I keep working,

my heart sinking as time runs out

and my painting is
worse
than before.

Thank goodness for the ability

to paint over your mistakes.

And over.

And over.

Rome may not have been built in a day,

but headaches, tension, and short tempers?

They can be built in just forty-seven minutes flat.

Mom drives Rachel, Elizabeth, and me

to Trina’s party, the pink tiered cake

balanced between us in the backseat.

It’s pretty much a fabulous work of art,

if I do say so myself . . . all curls and bows

and delicate piping.

At Trina’s house,

we deliver the cake to a squealing Trina,

while her mother cries,

“Oh, my goodness. Jane, you are a wonder!

This cake is
gorgeous.
”

After thanks and photos,
lots
of photos,

we hurry downstairs to the

cool, brightly lit room in the basement.

We set to work finishing up decorations.

Music is already thumping, filling us with excitement,

and soon the party is officially under way.

Trina is beautiful as always, her hair black and shiny,

her makeup sparkly and bright.

“The red plate is all vegetarian sandwiches,”

Trina tells me. “I wanted you to have

something to choose from.”

I give her a hug, seconds before

Kevin scoops her away for a kiss.

Then I spot a group of kids awkwardly

thunking down the stairs, glancing around.

Boys. And Matthew is among them.

Matthew says to me, “Wow, you look nice.”

It’s sinking in now,

now that I’ve spent time with Max.

How you should feel

about someone you like.

I have to talk to Matthew

and end whatever it is

we have started up between us.

But not here.

You’d have to be a pig of epic proportions

to break up with someone at a party.

So I say, “Thanks. You do, too.”

Matthew motions toward the table.

“Want a soda?”

“Sure.” I follow him and notice the way

he looks at Lisa Stine and the way

she looks back at him.
Electric.

Though she turns away quick,

I am now alive with wonder.

Do they like each other?

Because that would be really great if . . .

Before I can think anymore about that,

Trina and Kevin shout,

“Dance time!” and everyone

crowds onto the floor,

a steaming jumble of elbows and legs

and thumping, bumping music.

I join in,

because it’s too late

to get out of the way.

Shadowed pockets make private corners

at the edges of tables laid out with cheese puffs,

sodas, and sandwiches.

Crowds dance, hips swaying,

laughter and shouting drowned out

by the relentless music.

Matthew beckons.

He leads me to one of these dim cocoons.

“Let’s take a break,” he says loudly.

He pulls me to a lumpy loveseat.

“Having fun?” he says.

He has to speak into my ear

because the music is the level

of crashing mirrors and exploding cars.

“Yes. Are you?” I ask.

He puts his arm along the back of the sofa.

“Jane. We have to talk.”

“What about?”

“I think we should stop seeing each other.”

I stare. “You do?”

Matthew wipes his palms on his shirt.

“I like you a
lot.
You’re really great. But —

I think you’re not really into me.

And the thing is, I like someone else, who
is
into me.

And I thought . . . I just thought . . .”

Oh,
thank goodness.

I rush to speak. “I understand.

It’s okay, really.”

He waits a second. “Am I wrong?

Do you like me? Because . . .”

“I like you a lot,” I tell him.

Even though you are dumping me at a party.

“I think you’re a great guy.

But you’re right.

I only like you as a friend.”

And I know who the “someone else” is,

and her initials are
Lisa Stine.

It’s almost funny how my ego

wants to mess this up for me,

how it wants to be hurt

and rejected and angry.

Almost funny, but not really.

Get a grip, Jane. Good grief.

The booming music stops.

Everyone on the dance floor stumbles to a halt.

“Hang on!” Trina yells. Laughing,

she fumbles with the stereo.

“So you’re okay with this?” Matthew asks.

I give him a smile. “Yeah. I am.”

He suddenly leans forward

and kisses my cheek.

“See you, Jane.”

I watch him walk into the crowd

of people on the floor.

I sigh, get up,

and search for a soda

as the music begins again.

I wonder what Max is doing

right this minute.

Angie applies lipstick at a cracked mirror.

“Too bad Matthew broke up with you.

He was your best shot for prom.”

“Angie?” I say. “Sometimes I want to smack you.”

Elizabeth calls from the bathroom stall,

“I second that.”

Angie drops the lipstick into her bag.

“I’m just saying. Prom is three months away.

You should have a date by now.

You should have a
gown
by now.”

“I’m sure you and Scott will have a lovely time,”

I tell her with a serene smile

that I know drives her nuts.

Elizabeth joins us, washes her hands,

primps her hair. “Jim and I

are thinking of getting a limo.”

“Oooh, we should go halfsies on that,”

Angie says. “Maybe get Rachel and Tom

in on it, too. And Kevin and Trina.”

“That’s not
halfsies,
” I say, sounding

irritable and left out. “That’s fourths.”

“Jane, it’s
fine
to go to prom alone,”

says Elizabeth. “You should come with us.

I know you don’t want to, but . . .”

“Too bad you can’t ask Max,”

Angie says. “
That
would be something.”

Max is not allowed to come to prom

because he’s a college student.