Formerly Shark Girl (9 page)

Your friend,

Andrea

Okay. I am not new

to letters from strangers,

but this latest surge is getting to me.

The first few months after my accident,

I was nearly drowned in the rivers

of mail and cards that came my way —

many of them suggesting that my accident

was no accident but part of some divine plan,

that I had a purpose yet to carry out.

The letters trickled off in time.

Now, with that one little article,

here they come again. And like last time,

many of them suggest that I have a role to play,

an obligation I must figure out,

and thanks to misquoting

what I said, a lot of people assume that

obligation is the heroic

and selfless act of becoming a nurse.

Why didn’t I make it more clear

that I was undecided? Why didn’t I

stress that art was in the running, too?

Why did I even answer her at all?

See? This only reinforces my theory:

being a hermit is good for your health.

And silence

is truly golden.

I’m touched that people care enough

to write.

But honestly? Their care,

their letters — they boil down to one thing:

pressure.

Deciding what to do with my future

is hard enough.

Feeling the weight of so many opinions

crush the scale in favor of one thing

over another?

It makes the decision

even harder.

Leaving class, Matthew stops me.

“You want to go to the movies again?

Just us this time?”

He bites his lip nervously,

fidgets with the zipper on his jacket.

He looks vulnerable, and suddenly

I think how I’d feel if I were in his shoes,

doing the asking. Putting my courage out there.

“Yes,” I answer. “That would be . . . fun.”

Matthew grows a fraction taller.

“Great. Saturday night?

I’ll call you and we’ll pick what to see.”

Then we head our separate ways,

him going right, me going left.

I said I’d say no next time.

And I caved. Don’t cave, Jane.

How can I not cave? Did you see his face?

Well, either way, I’m going.

But unless my feelings change,

this
date needs to be our last.

The next afternoon, my friends gather

at my house. After mugs of hot chocolate,

we get to work.

We’re baking Halloween cupcakes

and decorating them using my newest fancy tools.

“You sure have gotten into the cake thing,”

Angie says, examining a rosette tip.

“Yeah, and you’re really
good
at it.”

Trina points to the remaining portion

of the cake I made two days ago,

decorated in roses and leaves.

“Would you be willing to make

the cake for my birthday party?
Please
?”

“Of course I will, silly,” I tell her.

“I’ll make you a three-tiered princess cake.”

“Great!” Trina says. “Whatever that is.”

Elizabeth arranges her pile of purple-frosted cupcakes.

“How did you learn all this?”

“Reading lots of books, and watching

videos on the Internet.” I pass her a towel,

and she mops up a cascade of spilled sprinkles.

“You should open a shop,” Trina says.

“She can’t do that. She’s going to be busy

with Jane’s Art Gallery,” Elizabeth says.

Angie shakes her head.

“Jane is going to be a nurse.”

“Guys,” I say, “I haven’t decided.”

“I better not eat any more,” Trina says.

“I don’t want to outgrow my prom gown.”

We stare. “You have your gown already?”

I ask. “Prom isn’t till spring!”

Next thing you know, that’s all we can talk about:
prom.

“Can’t wait to see Scott in a tux,”

Angie sighs dreamily. “Who are you taking, Trina?”

“Kevin. What about you, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth shakes her head. “I don’t know.

I don’t care who it is, as long as he buys me a limo.”

Rachel licks icing from a spoon.

“I don’t need a limo.

Just someone really special.”

“Like
Tom Mayfield
?” Angie teases,

and when Rachel’s jaw drops,

we crow with laughter.

“Is it
that
obvious?” Rachel asks.

We tease, we joke, we bake, and

before long, our decorated cupcakes

are lined up on pretty plates.

I snap a photo,

my friends and their cupcakes,

a moment frozen in time

when we are all still just “us,”

with no great distance

or great decisions

cutting us apart.

The little white arrow hovers

on the computer screen.

My palm is damp over the mouse.

“Just send it already!” Michael gripes.

He snatches the mouse, hits
SEND
,

and just like that, my first college application

is sent. “Was that so bad?” he says.

“You have
four
applications ready.

Just send them.

Besides, I need the computer.”

I try to think of something snarky to say

about his total lack of ceremony.

This is a big moment, after all. This is the moment

when hope is still alive and options feel bountiful.

But I’m with him. With three more clicks of the mouse,

the applications blink away to their destinations.

Two nursing schools, two art schools. Two local,

two far away. I can expect to hear back

in March. Right around my birthday.

Let’s hope it’s good news.

The movie theater

is downright cavernous

without the extra bodies

of a social group.

Tonight it’s just Matthew and me.

We chat, we eat, we watch the previews,

and Matthew jokes about them in such witty ways.

But the whole time,

I am so stiff. So wooden. So remote.

My entire body seems made from concrete.

Matthew is so funny.

But he is a stranger to me,

out of context outside the science lab,

and what’s more, I keep thinking

I’m in somebody else’s seat.

Or maybe Matthew is the one

in the wrong chair.

Choking with guilt

makes it hard to eat popcorn,

so I quit, and quietly, thankfully,

we fall silent once the movie starts.

I have no business being here.

Why did I even come? I thought . . .

Well, what
did
I think?

That Matthew might grow on me?

Like a fungus or something?

Is that what I think of him?

I need to get brave and end this.

But how do you break up with someone

you’re barely dating?

Later his mom picks us up.

She drives us home in the pelting rain.

“How was the movie?” she asks.

“Funny,” Matthew says.

“Really good,” I add.

His fingers wrap around mine

in the chilly backseat.

On the porch,

his mom parked a discreet distance away,

Matthew and I have a nanosecond alone.

“I had a great time,” Matthew says.

“Me, too, and thank you for taking me.”

I stare down at my shoes,

listening to the splatter of rain falling,

about to muster the courage

to walk into the house,

close the door,

and next time he calls, explain

and say
“I don’t really like you that way,

Matthew. I’m sorry.”

But when I look up,

Matthew’s face is startlingly close.

“Good night,” he says,

and before I can even blink,

his lips meet mine.

He kisses me.

Time stands still.

Cold rain spatters on our heads.

Then he hovers a moment.

“Bye, Jane,” he says, his breath warm on my face.

He takes two steps backward

before turning and melting away

into the wet darkness.