Free Formerly Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham Page A

bite my lip. “Oh?”
    “
Jane.
Why do you think he even mentioned it?
    And saying he has a meet coming up?
    He was
hinting.
I bet he wanted you to come to it!”
    “You think?”
    “
Yes.
Jane. We have
got
    to get you in dating shape.
    You are like . . .
    way
behind on how to talk to boys.”
    As if I don’t know this?
    I’m an
idiot
when it comes to boys.
    “Rub it in, why don’t you,” I say.
    “I’m a little behind on things, okay?
    I was sidelined for a
whole year,
    remember?”
    There’s a small silence.
    “What do you mean?” Rachel asks.
    “Did something happen to you last year?”
    We both giggle.
    It’s a joke we use often now,
    when the mood needs lightening.
    Humor helps. And next time?
    Next time I talk to Max,
    I won’t blow it.
    Next time
    I’ll do better.

M: Working late tonight. Will you be okay?
    J: Yes.
    M: I’ll be home around ten. Lock up. OK?
    J: Ok. CU later.
    M: Love you.
    J: Love U, too.

Mom. Working late.
    The third time this month.
    Not that I’m counting.
    This morning,
    when she put on her best sweater
    and wafted by
    in a cloud of perfume,
    I knew something was up.
    I wonder when I’ll meet him.

So today I took
    a little extra time
    fixing my hair.
    So I straightened up
    the living room
    before leaving for school.
    So I even brushed Mabel
    and dusted the furniture.
    So what?
    It does
not
mean
    I did that because Max
    is coming here tonight.
    It just means —
    Well,
    you
figure it out.

Rachel calls:
    “This is the night, right?”
    Angie, too: “Wear your black sweater.
    He won’t be able to resist!”
    Even Trina and Elizabeth send texts:
    Call me after Max leaves. Want details. :) — T
    Call me later. Tell me everything. — E
    Then Mom sends a text:
    Working late again tonight.
    Sorry for the short notice.
    Call if you need me.
    See you about 10.
    She must have forgotten
    Max was coming over tonight
    because there’s
no way
    she’d leave us alone otherwise.
    I don’t see any reason to remind her.
    Besides, it’s kind of nice to have the quiet.
    Though that very quiet shatters
    to a billion pieces
    the moment
    the doorbell
    rings.

Shocking. Seeing Max walk around in my home,
    leaving a faint trail of chlorine-scented air.
    He squats to pet Mabel, who sniffs his shoes.
    “What a cute dog,” he says. “So fluffy.”
    She licks him on the nose, and he grins.
    Great. My dog has scored a kiss with Max
    two seconds after he’s walked in.
    And what am I doing? Standing around staring,
    his coat over my arm.
    “You want something to eat or drink?” I ask.
    Max stands and shakes his head. “No, thanks.”
    His tall, broad-shouldered body
    seems to deprive the room of oxygen.
    “We’ll work in here.” I lead the way
    into the small room off the kitchen.
    Max puts his backpack down
    and pulls up a chair.
    He nods toward the desk by the window.
    “Are those your weights?”
    I glance over at the pink dumbbells
    lying on the desk. “How’d you guess?”
    Max says with a smile,
    “The pink sort of gave it away.
    Though they could have been your mom’s.
    Or your brother’s, for all I know.”
    We both laugh, and I set books on the table.
    “Michael using pink weights. Or pink anything.
    That would be the day.”
    “Hey, I competed in a pink swimsuit once,”
    Max says.
    I smile. “Seriously?”
    He nods. “It was for breast cancer awareness.
    The whole team wore pink Speedos.”
    I busy myself with pencils and paper,
    trying to get the image of Max in a Speedo
    out of my mind before I start blushing.
    Too late. “That’s cool.”
    Max asks, “So — you work out much?”
    I take a seat. “I lift weights five times a week.
    I’m supposed to keep my muscles strong
    in order to compensate for Chuck.”
    Max squints, confused.
    “Chuck? Who’s Chuck?”
    Oh, for heaven’s sake.
    That one just slipped out.
    “It’s what I call my fake arm.
    Kind of stupid, huh?”
    He laughs again. “You named your arm Chuck?”
    “My
fake
arm,” I remind