whispers reach my ears.
The two girls over there
fingering their notebooks,
staring.
If they would lift their tinted eyelashes
they would notice I’m staring back.
But they don’t.
So I turn in my chair,
placing my shoulder out of their sight.
Students stream in,
pull iron stools up to the tall tables.
Mr. Musker puts a hand
on my shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, Jane.
How are you feeling?”
His tired face,
his hound dog eyes,
so familiar.
This room, too,
with its blend of odors: turpentine,
fixative, clay, and dust.
I shouldn’t be here. It’s like showing
a dead person her lost life,
and all
she missed.
It’s cruel.
Pounding, thumping, rolling.
Everyone’s hands pull,
like the surf.
Pottery wheels spin.
Clay becomes form.
I crumble pastels across
black paper,
listening to the slap slap of hands.
“Does this count a lot toward our final grade?”
Michele Lomer asks,
lobbing a wad of gum
inside her lower jaw
as she surveys her crooked urn.
Mr. Musker hurries over,
works with Michele’s limp hands
upon the dusty clay,
but it’s like trying to revive a corpse.
When the class ends, Mr. Musker beckons.
“Jane, how are you
really
doing?”
I want to tell him,
but it’s too melodramatic.
Can’t he see?
I’m like the pots
lined up by the kiln.
Half-finished.
Max Shannon rolls through the halls,
his hair still wet from senior swim team practice.
Frankenstein
slips from my hand.
Max Shannon stops,
rescues the book with slender fingers.
“You’re that . . . uh, you’re Jane, right?”
His tan cheeks turn pink.
“How’s it going?”
His lips are perfect.
My face gets hot.
“You need help with that?”
He jerks his chin toward my backpack.
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
His eyes seem magnetic.
“It’s great you’re okay.
My cousin lost her leg.
She switched to home school.
She was too embarrassed to leave the house.”
“Oh.”
Max’s chin has a dimple.
“You’re probably sick of questions.
Does anybody ask you about anything
else
?”
Angie and Rachel appear. They stare.
“What a stupid question!” Max smacks his forehead.
“Sorry, I’m an idiot.
Forget I bothered you.”
He folds himself into the passing crowds.
Rachel raises her eyebrows. “Well!”
I laugh, but
Max wouldn’t talk to me
if I was just me.
I shouldn’t feel flattered, then.
Or happy.
Definitely not jelly-legged.
Angie doesn’t smile like Rachel.
She just says, “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“I heard she got tons of mail while she was in the hospital.”
“I heard the president wrote to her.”
“I heard they wanted to make a movie for television out of it, and her mom asked for too much money, so they didn’t do it.”
“I feel sorry for her.”
“She was such a good artist.”
“
Really
good.”
“What do you think she’ll do now? What would you do?”
“Probably kill myself.”
“Shut up. You would not.”
“Well, no. But God. What a nightmare. I would, like, have nightmares every night for the rest of my life.”
“Did you see the video?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty sick.”
“I want to talk to her, you know? Say something. But I don’t know what.”
“She would probably rather be left alone, anyway.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
When I come home,
I can’t wait to get Chuck
off of me, toss him onto the couch.
The whole day
is hot and heavy in my ears,
and I keep seeing faces in the hallways.
Walking to the kitchen,
I notice
flowers on the table. Sunflowers.
My favorite. A small square note
against the rippled glass vase:
I’m proud of you, Jane.
Love, Mom.
An e-mail from Michael:
UCLA has an awesome football team,
but even the fullbacks
aren’t as tough as you are.
Hang in there. You can do it.
Exhaling, I realize
I can
breathe
again.
Dear Jane,
I am thirteen years old. I am a paraplegic. I had a skiing accident two
The two girls over there
fingering their notebooks,
staring.
If they would lift their tinted eyelashes
they would notice I’m staring back.
But they don’t.
So I turn in my chair,
placing my shoulder out of their sight.
Students stream in,
pull iron stools up to the tall tables.
Mr. Musker puts a hand
on my shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, Jane.
How are you feeling?”
His tired face,
his hound dog eyes,
so familiar.
This room, too,
with its blend of odors: turpentine,
fixative, clay, and dust.
I shouldn’t be here. It’s like showing
a dead person her lost life,
and all
she missed.
It’s cruel.
Pounding, thumping, rolling.
Everyone’s hands pull,
like the surf.
Pottery wheels spin.
Clay becomes form.
I crumble pastels across
black paper,
listening to the slap slap of hands.
“Does this count a lot toward our final grade?”
Michele Lomer asks,
lobbing a wad of gum
inside her lower jaw
as she surveys her crooked urn.
Mr. Musker hurries over,
works with Michele’s limp hands
upon the dusty clay,
but it’s like trying to revive a corpse.
When the class ends, Mr. Musker beckons.
“Jane, how are you
really
doing?”
I want to tell him,
but it’s too melodramatic.
Can’t he see?
I’m like the pots
lined up by the kiln.
Half-finished.
Max Shannon rolls through the halls,
his hair still wet from senior swim team practice.
Frankenstein
slips from my hand.
Max Shannon stops,
rescues the book with slender fingers.
“You’re that . . . uh, you’re Jane, right?”
His tan cheeks turn pink.
“How’s it going?”
His lips are perfect.
My face gets hot.
“You need help with that?”
He jerks his chin toward my backpack.
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
His eyes seem magnetic.
“It’s great you’re okay.
My cousin lost her leg.
She switched to home school.
She was too embarrassed to leave the house.”
“Oh.”
Max’s chin has a dimple.
“You’re probably sick of questions.
Does anybody ask you about anything
else
?”
Angie and Rachel appear. They stare.
“What a stupid question!” Max smacks his forehead.
“Sorry, I’m an idiot.
Forget I bothered you.”
He folds himself into the passing crowds.
Rachel raises her eyebrows. “Well!”
I laugh, but
Max wouldn’t talk to me
if I was just me.
I shouldn’t feel flattered, then.
Or happy.
Definitely not jelly-legged.
Angie doesn’t smile like Rachel.
She just says, “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“I heard she got tons of mail while she was in the hospital.”
“I heard the president wrote to her.”
“I heard they wanted to make a movie for television out of it, and her mom asked for too much money, so they didn’t do it.”
“I feel sorry for her.”
“She was such a good artist.”
“
Really
good.”
“What do you think she’ll do now? What would you do?”
“Probably kill myself.”
“Shut up. You would not.”
“Well, no. But God. What a nightmare. I would, like, have nightmares every night for the rest of my life.”
“Did you see the video?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty sick.”
“I want to talk to her, you know? Say something. But I don’t know what.”
“She would probably rather be left alone, anyway.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
When I come home,
I can’t wait to get Chuck
off of me, toss him onto the couch.
The whole day
is hot and heavy in my ears,
and I keep seeing faces in the hallways.
Walking to the kitchen,
I notice
flowers on the table. Sunflowers.
My favorite. A small square note
against the rippled glass vase:
I’m proud of you, Jane.
Love, Mom.
An e-mail from Michael:
UCLA has an awesome football team,
but even the fullbacks
aren’t as tough as you are.
Hang in there. You can do it.
Exhaling, I realize
I can
breathe
again.
Dear Jane,
I am thirteen years old. I am a paraplegic. I had a skiing accident two
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