Formerly Shark Girl (25 page)

I have mentally rehearsed

addressing these issues

twenty times today.

Why am I frozen now?

How do I even begin?

Then Max clears his throat.

“Jane? We need to talk.”

I pick up a plate and offer it to him. “Cookie?”

Max shakes his head. “No. We need to —”

He breaks off, and his eyes sharpen.

“Are those oatmeal? Man.

I was
hoping
you’d make those again.”

He grabs two cookies. I join him.

We eat in friendly silence. When we’re done,

Max gets serious again. “So. Let’s talk.”

I take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I ran out on you at the pool.

I’m sure you wondered what was wrong.”

He shakes his head. “I did — then you said —

I’m sorry it freaked you out like that.”

He folds his hands.

“But I’m glad about something, too.”

I trace a crack on the tabletop. “Oh?”

He suddenly puts a hand over mine.

“I’m glad you tried.”

My stomach flips.

“It was courageous,” Max adds.

An ugly snort escapes my lips.

“Hardly,” I mutter,

pulling my hand away.

Is he just being nice?

Because surely he doesn’t mean it.

“Hey,” Max says, and he sounds stern.

“Stop it. I’m not just
saying
that.

I
mean
it. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

I try to believe him.

“Facing the water again

was
courageous,
” Max repeats.

“So you weren’t ready. So what?

The important thing is

you made that first step.

Next time, it will be easier.”

His words sound so confident and simple.

And they conjure up the time

Rachel and I went out for coffee

just after I’d lost my arm.

It was so hard.

But we did it.

Together, we did it.

And I told myself then

that the next time would be easier.

And the next time, and the next.

So . . . could Max be right?

Is there even going to
be
a next time?

“That’s up to you,” he says.

I jump, then realize in dismay

that I said the words out loud.

I clear my throat.

“I don’t know. I just . . .

I’m not sure. It was pretty . . . awful . . .

when I saw all that . . . water.”

Well said, Jane. Well said.

He nods as though what I’m saying

is not disjointed and stupid.

Maybe because he’s used to living with

a crazy person

who says crazy things.

Jane, what an awful thought.

“Anyway. I apologize for freaking out on you.”

“No problem. But I have a question.

I guess I already know the answer, but —

have you been back to the beach

since the accident?”

I shake my head again.

“No. I’ve thought about it.

A lot of times. I always thought I would.

Just — just because.

I figured I’d go back there

and prove to myself I was fine

and that it was all over

and I can live a normal life

and go to the beach if I want.

But after what happened at the pool,

I’m not ready for that.”

I swallow. “I’m not sure if I ever will be.”

I am shocked

hearing myself say this.

Until just now,

I guess I didn’t know

I felt that way.

I guess I believed I could handle

anything that came my way.

Guess I was wrong.

And maybe this fear

will define parts of me, after all.

So much

for taking up an oar

and paddling.

We sit for a moment,

deep in our own thoughts.

Then I jump in with the next thing.

“About running into you in town . . .”

Max sighs miserably. “About that.

I am sorry my dad was being a . . .

well, a lunatic. He gets like that sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m just sorry that . . .”

I break off as he gives me a sharp frown.

That you have to
live
with him

is what I’d been about to say.

Good grief, Jane. You can’t say that.

“I’m sorry about everything.”

“My dad has been mentally ill a long time,

but we had it under control,” Max says.

“It was okay. Over the last few years,

he’s started slipping.

He won’t take his medicine sometimes.

He gets worked up and angry. And when he does . . .

he’s not himself.” He shrugs, dejected.

“He’s going to have to go to a home soon.

I just can’t bear to do that to him.”

Sitting there at the table,

Max, despite his broad shoulders

and strong swimmer’s arms,

looks so much like a small, helpless boy

that I almost reach out and hug him.

“Is that why you live at home

and went to school here in town?”

I ask him gently.

He looks at me sharply again.

“Yeah, it is. I guess pretty much everyone

knows that I passed up scholarships

to better schools.” He pauses.

“That was
my
choice. I
wanted
to stay with Dad.

I did it for me as much as for him.

So you don’t have to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re sorry for me.

Don’t, okay?”

He sounds annoyed now.

Mortified, I stare at my fingers.

I
am
sorry for you,

I want to say.
How could I not be?

Then I think about what he said.

Haven’t I thought the same thing

a million times?

I wonder, does Max feel sorry for
me
?

I
don’t want that from him. From
anyone.

And here I sit, feeling sorry for Max

when he doesn’t want me to.

“Okay. I won’t,” I say.

And though it might not happen overnight,

I
will
try. Max doesn’t need my pity.

He needs a friend.

Max nods. “Good.”

He clears his throat.

“And now I have one more question for you.”

I take out my pen and get ready to work.

“Yes?”

He folds his arms and leans on the table.

He is close to me.

Very close.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

The room grows small

and still as I answer, “No.”

We sit a minute.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“You’d be surprised how many girls

are not interested in a guy

who still lives at home

and has no money

and drives a beat-up car

and can’t have anyone over

because his dad will go ballistic.”

“What about Brittany?

And Sarah?” I ask.

He frowns, scratching his chin.

“Brittany? She’s my cousin.

She’s a retired nurse.

She lives nearby and takes care of Dad

when I can’t be at home.

And Sarah is just a friend.

She’s dating a guy I’m friends with.

How did you even . . . ?”

He trails off. “
Oh.
The day we met.

At the cafeteria? With the tutor?”

“Yes. I thought . . .”

He sighs. “No. She’s not.

And here I thought . . . well.

I’m still friends with guys at the high school.

They mentioned seeing you at prom.

With a guy.”

Josh.

“Josh is just a friend,” I tell him quickly.

“He already has a girlfriend, but she couldn’t go to prom.”

Oh, dear. Here he thought . . .

and I thought . . .

“I am not dating anyone,” I say.

“Me, either,” Max says.

We stare at each other,

the silence loud in the room.

I think, for the first time,

I am seeing Max as a person.

Not as
Max
the dazzling swim star

or
Max
the person I made him up to be.

I see him as a guy — not much older than me —

working his way through college,

doing the best he can

with what he’s got

and what he’s lost.

He lost his mother,

he gained the full-time care of his father,

he’s good at math, he loves to laugh,

he likes to read, he’s a good listener,

and he wants to be a psychologist.

He’s patient and smart.

And right now,

he looks at me in a way

that makes me question

everything I ever thought I knew

about boys

and love

and life.

“I want to know if you’ll do something for me,”

Max asks.

My mouth goes dry. “What is it?”

“I want you to come back to the pool,”

Max says. “One more time.

Come early on Saturday.

Before it’s open to everyone else.

It will be just you and me.

Promise.”

Schools of small fish flip their tails

inside my stomach. “What for?”

“Because you can do this,” Max says.

He places his hand over mine.

“And because I’m asking.

I’m asking you on a date, Jane.

Will you come?”

Would I be the first girl in the universe

to do something crazy

for a boy just because he asks?

Probably not.

But . . . do I
want
to go?

Back to
that
?

To the shame? The terror?

And all that
water
?

Looking into Max’s eyes,

I’m shocked to discover:

the answer is

yes.

And then I tell Max

something I haven’t told anyone.

Not even, really, myself.

“I don’t want to be a nurse anymore.”

There.

I said it. And the universe

does not react,

does not scream;