Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham Read Free Book Online

all that people see.
    Before this happened,
    once in a while I would see someone.
    Someone without a leg or an arm.
    My stomach would flip,
    I’d look away fast,
    then look back,
    a crawling sensation behind my belly button.
    I’d wonder about them.
    Now I’m one of those people
    and people wonder about me.
    I get that crawling sensation
    just thinking about it.
     

    Angie and Trina
    come to visit. They look so pretty.
    Skinny Angie’s makeup is perfect,
    Trina wears new black sandals.
    She scoops up wiggly Mabel,
    kissing Mabel’s curly white-haired head.
    “I missed this dog.”
    Mom offers us brownies
    she has made,
    but they are so dry
    we smile and disappear upstairs to my room.
    “You guys, I am
so
fat,”
    Angie moans,
    sprawling across my bed.
    “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
    I’ve been eating like a pig.”
    She pulls at the waistband
    of her jeans.
    “See? I can barely zip.”
    “Yeah, you’re taking up the whole room,
    you must be a size
two
by now,”
    Trina says, rolling her eyes.
    She catches sight of my drawing table.
    She fingers the pens.
    “Jane, have you tried drawing again yet?”
    I hear myself lie.
    “No.”
    Angie and Trina exchange looks.
    “You will, though, right?”
    Trina asks.
    Angie sits up. “You should.”
    I shrug. “Yeah, I will.
    Sometime.”
    For a moment,
    we all listen to a crow,
    cawing outside.
    Then we resume talking
    about Angie’s fat.
    “You have to
make
me
    watch what I eat!” she says.
    And this talk is fine.
    It’s better
    than the
    bare-boned
    truth.
     

    Uncooked
    red beans, black beans, white rice,
    filling up a wide glass jar.
    Pretty enough
    to sit on a shelf just for looking.
    Instead,
    I stick my stump
    inside the jar,
    and roll it around,
    feeling.
    Rough and smooth.
    Grainy on my flesh.
    Doctor’s orders.
    Desensitization, in preparation for my prosthesis.
    Does it get any weirder than this?
     

    To Jane Arrowood,
    My name is Paul Shaylor. I am writing because my English teacher, Miss Felix, is making us do a nonfiction report. We have to interview somebody about something and write a report about it like it’s a newspaper column. I saw the video on TV. The newspeople said you’re home now. Will you interview with me?
    You could e-mail me or call me, or maybe just fill out these questions on a separate sheet of paper.
    1. What happened when the shark attacked you?
    2. When did you find out you had to have your arm amputated? What did the doctors say?
    3. Are you going to get a fake arm? If so, what is that like? How much does one cost? How long will it take to learn to use it?
    4. Do you hate sharks now? Do you think you’ll ever go swimming again?
    5. What kind of things did you like to do before you lost your arm?
    6. Do you think you’ll do most of those things again, or not?
    7. Do you have any advice for anyone going swimming? On how to protect themselves from sharks?
    Thanks for helping me.
    Sincerely,
    Paul
     

    I’m not thankful for much these days.
    But I thank heaven and lucky stars
    that Dr. Kim was straight with me
    about my prosthesis.
    “It’s not going to do the things your hand
    could do.
    Give it six months, then decide.”
    Open, close. Click,
    click.
    Sam, the prosthesis maker,
    demonstrates the metal hook attachment.
    “It’s not the most attractive thing in the world,”
    he says. “But it is functional. There are other options,
        too.”
    Mom is silent.
    There’s a cosmetic arm,
    with “skin” that looks soft and smooth.
    “Doesn’t do anything,
    but gives some people confidence,” Sam says.
    “Some patients wear it
    when they’re on a date,
    or a job interview, or just walking around.
    It depends on how you feel.”
    I could tell him how I feel.
    This
place
feels like mannequin purgatory.
    It’s unbelievable
    that I belong here.
Need
to be here.
    I wonder what makes a person
    want to make artificial limbs for a living.
    “I love it,” Sam replies.
    “I get to meet some pretty