The Shore Girl by Fran Kimmel Page A

disappear.”
    I stood in the hallway of the Messenger School, well to the side of the door so the children wouldn’t see. This was my last stop, possibly my last chance to do one right thing.
    â€œI’m here for Rebee Shore,” I announced when the substitute teacher answered my knock. She was very large. I wondered if those were her paper scraps in my top drawer, if she’d stopped weighing in and felt angry with herself for giving away her big clothes.
    â€œAnd who might you be?”
    â€œI might be the teacher. Miss Bel. The one you’ve so abundantly replaced.”
    â€œOh. Well. Yes, then.”
    Rebee stepped tentatively into the hallway, obviously frightened, but then she saw me and smiled wide. I put my finger to my lips to keep her quiet until the door closed.
    â€œMiss Bel,” she whispered. “Are you going to be the teacher again?”
    â€œOnly for you, Rebee. I have something to give you before I go.”
    She took my hand and clung on tight as we tiptoed down the hallway. I had my other hand in my pocket, clasping two rolls of wintergreen Life Savers and the fairy mirror with the sparkly frame. We were heading to the boiler room. We’d make it black as a starless night before we burst into light.

REBEE
    SOME MOTHERS CHEW THE ENDS OF THEIR BABIES’ FINGERS AND SPIT OUT THE NAILS. This keeps the babies from scratching their noses and cheeks when they bat their fists at nothing. I asked my mother if she did that for me. She looked out the window and said I should ask about French kissing or rosebud tattoos like normal girls.
    If you’re left-handed, the fingernails on your left hand grow faster. Visa-versa for right-handers. When people die, their fingernails keep growing after they’re buried in the ground. Toenails too. They grow straight, like daggers. When they run out of room in the coffin, they curl and loop like roots.
    I don’t use my left hand much anymore. My fingers must be confused. All my nails are stubby dead ends. They stopped growing after being hammered by a volleyball. When gym class was over, my first finger drooped at the knuckle like a candy cane. I could pull it straight, but when I let go, it curled back under. Mallet finger, the school nurse called it. She told me to get it splinted at the hospital. Said I’d be right as rain in six short weeks.
    Mom doesn’t believe in hospitals. Does it hurt, Rebee? she asked. Look at that, like pokin’ a caterpillar. She laughed and said I could point at people, and they’d never know. I tried a Popsicle stick and Scotch tape, but my finger just turned purple. When the Scotch tape ran out, I gave up.
    I can’t button shirts or pick up a jellybean with a floppy finger that has no feeling. But if I rest my left hand against my coat sleeve or desktop, it almost looks normal.
    * * *
    I collect nail clippings and keep them in a plastic box that used to hold elastics. Nobody knows.
    My nails come from all over. Most are my mother’s. She calls herself Harmony. Harmony leaves the slivers lying in the tub. I come along afterwards, scoop them up and drop them in the plastic box. Passion purple pinky trimmings from the lousy bed hotel. Carstairs. Sparkly red glitter bits from the place with ceilings that peed when it rained. Fort McMurray I think. I’ve picked up a few from the floor of the van. Harmony could do without shoes year round if her toes wouldn’t fall off in the snow. I read somewhere that it’s illegal to drive in bare feet. When I told this to her, she said, “So hand me over, Rebee. Here’s your chance.”
    At my Aunt Vic’s place I saw on Ripley’s Believe It or Not the old man from Bangkok with the longest fingernails in the world. Over twenty feet of nails. His one hand had five golden twisted ropes that dragged the floor and curved back up again like a ram’s horns. He couldn’t ride a bike, turn pages of a book, or sleep