Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham Page B

“fast cars” calendar,
    I sit, the buttons spread out on the dark carpet.
    They clatter in miniature
    when my hand stirs the plastic pile.
    It grows dark while I
    arrange and rearrange.
    Funny how you can make a picture
    without really thinking about it.
    Everything shifts
    with the removal of just one black button
    or the two blues,
    or the square white one
    with the small red rose.
    It’s almost like sketching.
     

    Hey, Rache.
    Hi. Hang on, let me put the phone by the bed. Okay. How are you?
    Oh, you know.
    Nervous?
    Uh, yeah. Just a little.
    (Nervous laughter from both.) That was a dumb question.
    Why don’t you ride in with me tomorrow? Mom’s driving me.
    I can’t; I have a dentist appointment at seven. Dad’s driving me straight to school after.
    Oh.
    But I can meet you. By your locker. Or . . .
    Yeah, okay.
    Want to meet outside? By the bike rack?
    Well . . . whatever.
    Jane, I’m sorry. I can’t get out of the appointment, though; my dad would kill me.
    I know. (Long pause.)
    Too bad Michael isn’t there.
    My
brother
Michael? What could he do?
    I don’t know. Beat up anybody who says anything. (More nervous laughter from both.)
    Rachel, what are you going to wear?
    My red top with the stripe. And my black pants. You?
    I don’t know. I was thinking about the top with . . . oh, who cares? Does it matter?
    Of course it does. We might run into someone gorgeous. Like Max Shannon!
    Yeah, well, no one is going to even see what I’m wearing. They’ll be too busy checking out my nice fake arm. I could wear a bag over my head and no one would notice.
    Oh, Jane! I feel so bad. I wish you wouldn’t say that.
    But it’s true — you know it is. I’m going to wear my cosmetic arm all week. I can’t wear the hook. Not right away. It’s too . . .
    Tomorrow will be the hardest. It’ll be all downhill after that.
    Maybe.
    You should call Angie or Trina. They’d ride over with you.
    Yeah, maybe I will.
    Do it. Promise?
    No.
    (Loud sigh.) Come on, you don’t have to do this alone.
    I know. I have to go. Mom needs the phone.
    Oh. Okay. Well . . . call Angie, all right?
    Okay.
    Jane?
    What?
    You can do this.
     

    The clock reads
    midnight,
    then one,
    two,
    three
    a.m.
    I’d rather go back
    to that beach
    and dip my toes
    in the cold gray water,
    than step into school
    in just a few hours.
     

    I skip breakfast,
    but throw up anyway.
    On the ride over,
    I have to pee so bad.
    Oh, God, I can’t do this.
    What if I fall down?
    Will I make people sick?
    I don’t think I can stand up.
    My legs have turned to Jell-O.
    But —
    Here we are, pulling up,
    Mom is waving good-bye,
    and here I go, stepping out
    into the current of beautiful,
    two-armed classmates,
    streaming into the building.
    And now they are noticing me,
    and now they are looking,
    and now
    the day begins.
     

    Eyes stare,
    dart away,
    flit back again.
    Rigid backs from those pretending
    not to see.
    Walking through the halls,
    I am Moses,
    parting the Red Sea.
    I am a leper,
    come to town.
    I have the plague.
     

    That girl that got bitten by a . . .
    Jane Arrowood. That girl who . . .
    The one that . . .
    . . . her arm off?
    Partly off.
    They had to amputate it, though.
    My mother cried when she heard.
    We barely know Jane.
    We sent a card.
    We sent flowers.
    . . . and then the shark just . . . ?
    Yeah.
    I wanted to call her or visit or something.
    But I never did.
    I don’t know what to say.
    I’m never going to the beach again.
     

    Angie and Trina find me at my locker.
    “Oh, my God. You cut your hair?”
    Angie asks.
    Trina hugs me. “You look nice.”
    No one comments on my long sleeves
    among their short ones.
    “This cut — it’s so different.”
    Angie is still on about my hair.
    “I wish you’d taken
me
with you.
    I could have given you a couple of tips.”
    My classmates pass, staring. Not
    at my hair.
    Or my sweater.
    It’s time for homeroom.
     

    Their heads lean toward each other.
    Their