Formerly Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham Read Free Book Online

horizontal.
    Now her head shape is divided into fourths.
    “Show me where those lines intersect,” I say.
    Justin puts his finger on the spot. “Good,” I tell him.
    “That is the exact center of Spot’s face.
    When you start to add details to it, like her eyes,
    you can attach them to the places
    they are supposed to be,
    because now you have a framework to guide you.
    Her features won’t be randomly floating on her face.
    For instance, her muzzle would be centered there,
    wouldn’t it?” I sketch a little rectangle.
    Justin picks up his pencil and does the same, carefully.
    “And her nose goes . . . ?” I ask.
    Justin puts a black blob on the end of the muzzle.
    He cocks his head. “That looks pretty good!”
    He glances at mine. “But not as good as yours.”
    I nudge him. “Don’t compare your work to others’.
    You’ll always find someone who you think is better
    than you. If you get wrapped up in that,
    you’ll never create anything.”
    He sighs, examines his blocked-in head shapes, and then
    places two dots on the horizontal line, on either side
    of the muzzle. “That’s where her eyes go. Right?”
    I wait for him to answer his question, and he does.
    “That looks better!” He colors in the eyes
    boldly, bringing Spot to life right there on that paper.
    “That actually looks like her!”
    “Of course it does, silly,” I tell him. Together,
    we continue sketching, placing body parts, smoothing
    out a paw here, a tail there. I show Justin how to make
    a vanishing point on his paper for reference, and how
    all lines flow toward that point, giving his drawing
    dimension.
    “That is so cool,” he says, eyes wide. His brow furrows
    as he works. “Thanks for showing me this.”
    I don’t know how much time trickles away
    while we lie on our stomachs, drawing and coloring
    and drawing some more. And I don’t care.
    Because an afternoon like this, with a good friend
    and fellow artist, can’t be measured in hours.
    It can only be received with quiet gratitude,
    which it is.

It’s just the three of us this year,
    Mom and Michael and me.
    With Mom dating,
    will this be our last year like this?
    The table is laden with a banquet,
    and we savor every bite.
    There is a groan when I bring out the desserts.
    Pecan pie and a two-tiered cake
    decorated in basket-weave icing.
    “Jane, that is a gorgeous cake,” Mom says.
    After dessert, none of us moves to clean up.
    We are too full. Later we’ll watch football on TV.
    I have a new book to read.
    Mom will pick up her knitting.
    Michael will make a fire in the fireplace,
    and Mabel will stretch out in front of it.
    At some point, we’ll all fall asleep.
    There are some things
    you like being able to count on.
    Traditions like this
    are one of them.

“Today we will talk about prioritizing.”
    Mr. Stork projects images onto the screen.
    “When you are called on to help
    in an emergency,” he says, “the reality is
    that not every person is in the exact same level
    of emergency. Some people need to be seen
    immediately. Some people can wait a little,
    to make room for those who can’t.
    And, frankly, some people can’t be saved.
    Or they may be dead.” He holds up a black tag.
    “That is what this is for.” He proceeds
    to talk about the other colored tags.
    They each stand for something.
Minor.
    Significant. Immediate. Deceased.
    “In triage, you determine which tag
    to put on everyone,” he says.
    “It will help medical staff know
    where to start when they arrive.”
    After lecturing a bit longer, he once again
    asks us to form groups of four.
    In silent agreement, our same little group
    gravitates together, a ragged band of sheep
    facing a wolf. Sweater Lady is wearing a dress today.
    Laughing Boy grins.
    “I don’t have to be on the floor this time. Cool.”
    Mr. Stork deposits a swath of tags
    in my hand. He gives Sweater Lady
    a sheet of paper. “Here is your injury. Everyone?
    Decide what tag to put on her.”
    He moves off as