Free Formerly Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham

to get back to the mural?”
    I stand up and set the ice pack on the dresser. “Yes, I am.”
    He picks up a brush and I do the same.
    Hard or not, the people have to be dealt with
    if we want to finish this masterpiece.
    And we do.
    That’s another thing we have in common.
    Justin and I, we don’t
    quit.

“You are
kidding.
    Max
Shannon
?
    He’s going to be your
tutor
?”
    Angie’s black-lined eyes are huge.
    “I thought he was going to school
    in New York or something,”
    Trina adds.
    “You said you didn’t go out there yet,”
    Rachel says, confused.
    She gives me a quick, searching look.
    I dig into my ravioli.
    Rachel.
Why did I —?
    See, this is the problem with lies.
    Once you tell a single
    crumb of untruth,
    you start paying the price.
    You have to look people in the eye.
    You have to make up
more
lies.
    Things unravel.
    Quickly.
    “I went there after you and I talked,”
    I tell her, rearranging my plate.
    “I ran into him in the cafeteria.”
    Rachel accepts this explanation cheerfully.
    “Wow. That is so
great,
” she says.
    “Jane and Max. Hitting the books!”
    Elizabeth makes a loud whistling noise
    while Trina says, “Oooooh!”
    Angie bats her eyes dramatically,
    and Rachel makes a kissy sound.
    I glance around at the other tables,
    feeling my cheeks burn.
    Normally
    I would be joking
    right along with them.
    Today I have zero sense of humor.
    In fact, I am dangerously close
    to a foul mood.
    I’m pretty sure
    this is another price
    of telling lies.

At home
    I work on the painting
    I plan to enter into the competition.
    It’s a bright scene:
    a sliver of scenery
    from Santa Barbara,
    painted from memory.
    The pier stretches out into the water,
    waves roll gently onto the beach,
    mountains range across the horizon,
    and orange California poppies glitter
    from fields far behind rocky outcroppings.
    Families play along the pier
    and lean over the railings.
    It’s the most ambitious thing I’ve ever tried to paint,
    and if not for Mr. Musker’s help and patience
    I would have scrapped it long ago.
    Tonight I work on the palm trees,
    stubbing layers of light
    into the green fronds,
    trying to give depth to the shadows beneath.
    When I’m done,
    I stand back and take stock.
    Parts are working; parts are not.
    But as I told Justin,
    practice makes perfect.
    Thankfully,
    there’s plenty of time
    and plenty of paint
    to go
    before the competition deadline.

Max has my phone number.
    Mine,
riding around on a scrap of paper in his pocket.
    He’s supposed to call to confirm our first session.
    I am wrapping Mabel’s front paw in bandages,
    practicing my skills on her willing four legs,
    when the phone rings.
    I bash both shins stumbling into a chair,
    and Mabel leaps out of the way,
    bandages trailing in a stream.
    I snatch up the phone. “Hello?”
    “Hi. Jane? This is Max.”
    “Hello, Max.”
    “What are you doing?”
    Waiting for you to call me.
    Even though you probably have a girlfriend.
    Even though it’s all totally ridiculous.
    That’s what I’m doing.
    “Um, nothing much.”
    “I was calling about the tutoring.
    Did you talk to your mom?”
    Goodness, the sound of his voice in my ear
    makes me need to sit down. “Yes.
    She said it was fine. We’re all set.”
    “Great. Tomorrow still work for you?”
    “Okay. I mean, yes. Yes, tomorrow is fine.”
    “I can come right after swim practice.”
    “Oh. Okay.”
    “We have our first meet coming up soon.”
    Did he pause, just for a moment?
    Is there room to jump in, ask him why
    he didn’t go away to college out east
    like I heard he had planned, and if
    he is dating anyone? Sarah, perhaps?
    “Well . . . see you then,” he says.
    “Bye, Max.”
    If there
was
a pause,
    if there was a chance to talk,
    I blew it.

We both hang up,
    and after a minute, I catch my breath.
    Then I call Rachel.
    I relay the conversation for her
    word for word.
    Rachel sighs. “Jane . . . you should
    have asked him about his swim stuff.”
    I