Formerly Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham Read Free Book Online Page A

Sweater Lady reads,
    “Burns on legs and arms. Facial contusions.
    Possible head injury.” She puts the paper down
    abruptly. “Can I just sit in a chair for this?
    I really don’t want to lie on the floor.”
    We all murmur agreement, muttering
    over the sheet of paper.
    “First thing we do is evaluate her,” I say.
    Gray-Haired Man says, “I know.”
    “We should start with skin color, temperature,
    pulse,” I say, consulting my notes.
    Gray-Haired Man says, “I
know.
”
    He glares fiercely at his notepad.
    Laughing Boy snaps his fingers. “Ooh, ooh.
    Head injury. We need to see if she has a concussion.”
    “We ask her questions,” Gray-Haired Man says quickly.
    “Test her mental alertness.” He turns to the woman.
    “What is your name? What day is it?
    Who’s the president?”
    “Who’s the
president
?” the woman repeats, flustered.
    I flap my hand. “You don’t have to answer.
    We just write down that we assessed your memory.”
    We scribble.
    “Now we assess her burns,” Gray-Haired Man says.
    We do. We assess the contusions, too.
    Then we decide how to label her.
    In the end, we reach a unanimous decision.
    Significant.
    “Cool,” says the boy. “I like that tag.”
    I touch the tag.
Significant.
    It does have a tone of insistence.
    Of demand.
    Of declaration.
    Aren’t we all significant, after all?
    It was significant that I encountered a shark,
    nearly died, and lost my arm. Why did that happen?
    And I’m not
deceased.
I survived.
    Luck? Or a reason?
    The need to figure that out
    seems
immediate.
    We place the tag in Sweater Lady’s lap.
    And I wonder,
    what would it be like if we all wore tags
    declaring the state of our injuries?
    Because we all have them — call them
    what you will. We all walk around
    with thorns on our shoulders,
    in our heads, our hearts, our past,
    our present.
    Significant. Minor. Immediate.
    A tag would speed things up, wouldn’t it?
    And maybe even help
    everyone know
    just how kind they need to be.
    Every day.

The class concludes with everyone
    sharing their results. “I was beyond saving,”
    a woman says in disgust.
    “My arms were severed.”
    In the silence, I am aware of the pull
    of every pair of eyes in the room,
    straining not to look at me
    and my severed arm.
    At home I put away my notes
    and slide into bed.
    Red,
that’s what my tag would have been
    in that moment, when the lady
    mentioned severed arms.
    Red cheeks, on every face in the room.
    Immediate
    would have been the classification.
    Immediate
    is the need
    to tell everyone,
    “It’s okay, really. Let’s just move on.
    No need to be embarrassed.
    I’ve seen and heard it all before.”
    And the other thing?
    Tonight, when Mom brought me home,
    I walked into the kitchen
    and saw two plates
    still on the table, covered in crumbs,
    and two wineglasses.
    I pretended not to notice
    when she quickly snatched them up
    and clattered them into the sink.
    Someone shared dinner
    at home
    with my mother
    while I was gone.
    Label that one
    SIGNIFICANT .

“Another D in science,”
    I tell Rachel as I slide into a seat
    next to her at lunch.
    “But we studied so hard together,”
    Rachel says. “You
had
that one.”
    “I thought so, too.”
    Trina and Elizabeth and Angie join us,
    their trays laden with pizza.
    “What’s wrong?” Angie asks.
    I sigh. “I am failing science.”
    “I got a C in social studies,” Angie counters.
    “You’ve
always
been bad at science,” Trina adds.
    “Yes. But now my grades matter. For college.
    It’s something you really need for nursing programs —
    good grades in science.”
    They all start eating. Not me. I’m too worried.
    “You know what I need?” I say. “Osmosis.
    I need to find someone smart at science
    and sit next to them. Then their knowledge
    will ooze into my brain by proximity.”
    Rachel says, “Don’t ask me.
    I am barely getting by in that class.”
    Elizabeth snaps her fingers. “A tutor.
    That’s what you need.
    My brother