Free Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham Page B

an important part of yourself.
    You
have
been seeing Mel.
    I don’t need to see Mel to know how important your art is to you. I
am
your mother.
    What’s the point? I will never be able to make a living at it.
    I don’t agree. And besides, is that what it comes down to? You only want to create things to get paid?
    Mom . . . I don’t want to talk about this.
    Of course not. You don’t talk to me about anything anymore.
    Mom
 . . .
    I know, I know. You’re a teenager. Everyone said to expect this. But I’m here, okay? If you need me?
    I don’t want to be on that show.
    I understand.
    If anyone else calls here, or they call back, tell them NO. Okay?
    Okay.
     

    Forget the competitions.
    I won’t be able to even
enter
    this year, or maybe ever again.
    A professional? Doubtful.
    My days of “look at me”
    are over.
    As to why I didn’t tell Mom
    Yes, I’ve been working at it,
    I don’t know.
    This thing is private,
    very private,
    and no one needs to stand witness
    with a stopwatch or progress chart.
    No one needs to say the wrong thing.
    Door closed, I work at the drafting table.
    Pen in hand,
    pawing.
    Something is not right in me
    and won’t be
    until I can do this.

 

    Tuesday it storms. A real
    spring storm, common in March.
    By the evening,
    the freeways are flooded.
    With fevered excitement,
    the newscasters discuss the flooding,
    the mud slides, the road closures.
    As it grows dark,
    Mom calls on her cell phone.
    “I’m stuck on the 405.
    It’ll be another hour,
    at least.”
    “Be careful,” I tell her.
    In the kitchen, I listen to the rain pounding the roof
    and my stomach growling
    as I poke through the cupboards.
    I reach for the mini-wheats, then stop.
    A plate of steaming scrambled eggs,
    fluffy,
    and buttered toast.
    My favorite meal. I used to fix it all the time.
    That’s what I want.
    Getting out the pan is no trouble.
    But cracking the eggs is a problem.
    The first one shatters on the edge of the bowl,
    slops everywhere,
    while the bowl scoots away from the impact.
    It takes a long time to wipe the glop up.
    I think about quitting.
    The second egg splits open and falls into the bowl,
    along with several shards of shell.
    I pick them out, one by one, then rinse my fingers.
    Egg number three goes in better —
    there’s only two fragments of shell to remove.
    I add milk, which dribbles onto the counter,
    then put the bowl against my stomach,
    pin it against the wall with my weight,
    and beat the eggs with a whisk.
    Into the pan, the eggs crackle in hot butter.
    I put two fat slices of cranberry bread
    in the toaster. Get out a plate and a cup.
    Spill the orange juice and swear.
    Why is pouring stuff so weird?
    I wipe it up,
    hurry to stir the smoking eggs, check the toast,
    stir the eggs again.
    Tipping them onto a plate, half the eggs tumble
    onto the counter.
    A small portion falls on the floor.
    Mabel snatches a piece, burns her mouth.
    I try not to scream.
    Buttering the toast is tricky.
    I can’t get the knife to spread the way I want,
    just stab holes in the bread as it cools.
    Mabel sits under my chair,
    watching for falling crumbs.
    The eggs are overcooked.
    The toast is a buttered murder victim.
    But I’m proud, really proud,
    like I just had a baby or something.
    I turn on the radio
    and light the flowered candle on the table.
    A victory dinner, as rain pours down outside.
    “I did it,” I tell Mabel,
    who wags, ears pricked.
    “I cooked dinner. Can you believe it?”
    And next time will be easier,
I think.
    And the next time, and the next time.
    I give Mabel a chunk of toast
    and eat,
    humming with the radio.
     

    Mom gets home late.
    She’s carrying a bag from McDonald’s. “For us!”
    “I already made myself some eggs,” I tell her.
    I can see she’s thrilled,
    but trying not to gush.
    “That’s wonderful, honey.”
    Then I remember.
    I forgot to wash the dishes.
    Shit.
    How am I going to scrub encrusted
    dried egg
    off a pan
    with one hand?
    “I’ll wash