So I asked, in silence this time,
Who are you?
I heard the twittery laughter again, but not one of my classmates had uttered a sound.
Why, I am Miss Austen, of course
, the voice replied.
But you may call me Jane
.
As you can well imagine, Jane's manifestation in my life created some complications for me at school.
Since I was reasonably sure I'd be sent off to a psych ward if I didn't figure out what was going on, I ignored Mrs. Leverson's structured reading assignments and inhaled the whole novel in two days, snatching moments to polish off a chapter or two between classes, at lunch or late into the night. I was a girl obsessed.
Jane's voice in my head, instead of lessening, grew stronger with every page turned. While she insisted it was too early to explain why or how she'd chosen to inhabit my mind instead of, say, Sam's, Tanya's or Mrs. Leverson's, she sure was right about that Mr. Wickham character. What a prick he turned out to be.
And--fine, call me crazy--I went along with it all. I asked her endless questions, of course, about her sudden appearance in my previously silent mental world. I responded skeptically, sure, to her reticent but ever-proper replies that there was "a good reason" for her being with me (one I was frustratingly unable to pry out of her ghostly lips). But I was an egocentric teenager. I expected to be Special. I expected the Universe to have a Grand Plan for me. And I supposed this Jane thing was part of it.
Or, maybe, I was just really lonely.
Regardless, I got used to Jane being there, real fast. I rejoiced in the secretiveness of our conversations and started to enjoy the company. To count upon it.
As for Jane, she chatted, not constantly, but pointedly. She had her figurative index finger aimed in full accusation at human folly. According to her, there was plenty to criticize about her nineteenth-century era and homeland, and she didn't exactly spare me her sarcastic opinions of my time period.
Take gym class, for instance.
Young ladies engaged in sport with the gentlemen?
Jane said that first day, her tone incredulous.
How barbaric
.
I stretched in my assigned spot, wishing I were anywhere else.
"Barbaric" is the word. It's downright gladiator-like. Gym is an endurance test to see how much humiliation you can tolerate before you die.
I see
, she replied, but I didn't think she had any idea. Gym was my daily nightmare. Having Jane with me, though, made those forty-two minutes of hell pass far more quickly.
On her second day, she turned her dry wit to the world of academia. And, more specifically, to my place in it.
Our history teacher asked, "Who can name the three-word motto the people of France chanted during the French Revolution?"
I'd read the chapter and could answer this, but I didn't want to be the one to raise my hand. Sam, who was sitting across the aisle from me and knew the answers to everything, ignored the teacher completely and played with the Velcro on his Trapper Keeper. Our teacher, however, shot us pleading looks, and, to me, it felt cruel to refuse to offer him some kind of lifeline. So, I made brief eye contact. Big mistake.
After another twenty seconds of silence, the teacher sighed and said, "Okay, Miss Barnett. Why don't you tell us? We all know
you
know the answer."
The class snickered as I murmured my now obligatory
"liberte, egalite, fraternite"
and some smart-jock buddy of Sam's whispered, "She can remember
that
, but she can't remember to 'bump, set, spike' in volleyball?"
Sam laughed loudly at that one, as did most of the class, and I vowed then and there never to bail out our history teacher again. But Jane, at least, came to my defense.
Do not be embarrassed, Ellie. Let them enjoy their amusement now. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?
Her confidence grounded me and helped me remember not to take myself so seriously. It was a reminder I desperately needed throughout high school.
And then there was Stacy Daschell, the girl I despised most in our entire sophomore class. On day three, while changing back into our regular clothes after gym, an item Stacy wore beneath her red-and-gold cheerleader's sweater snagged Jane's attention.
Pray, what is that?
Jane inquired, her voice horrified.
I didn't own such an item myself, but I'd heard about Stacy's purchase ad nauseam that week.
It's a lavender Victoria's Secret demi bra. Heavily padded,
I answered silently.
The slender, pointy-nosed Stacy, who'd recently returned from a trip to San Francisco where she'd encountered the first of these soon-to-be-famous stores, swept a cascade of blond curls off her shoulder, giggled seductively at her mirror image across the room and showed off her orthodontically perfect incisors right along with her enhanced cleavage. "It's called the 'Emma,'" Stacy informed her friends. "Pretty cool, huh?"
Jane sniffed.
Strumpet
.
My good friend Terrie, in an independent assessment at her locker next to mine, used the modern American equivalent. "Slut."
I laughed at their comments and, consequently, was rewarded with an extra-nasty sneer from Stacy.
Then she, with her Victoria's Secret uplift and her cheerleader's outfit snugly back on, adjusted her leg warmers, slipped on her gold-glittered Nikes and blotted her hot-pink lipstick with a tissue as she tracked my far-less-fashionable footsteps down the hallway toward algebra.
Unfortunately, coming from the opposite direction strode my
other
worst nightmare.
A gaggle of senior girls materialized like a firewall, blocking our path. There were four of them--all big hair, big boobs, big attitude. The leader crossed her arms over a thin, low-cut sweater, which emphasized her abundant chest, and nudged one of the other girls to speak.
A leggy blonde--more specifically, Stacy's older sister--turned to Stacy. "Where do you think
you're
off to?"
"Math," Stacy said with a weary flip of her hair. She tossed a disgusted look in my direction. And, though she was failing algebra, she added, "Anything's better than gym class with losers."
The seniors cackled and broke the human wall open just wide enough to let Stacy pass through.
"Well?" another girl said, expecting me to defend myself.
I kept my mouth shut. There was no way to win this kind of battle. I could only wait it out.
Their leader finally stepped forward, shaking her head so the long ash-brown strands brushed her shoulders. Her squinty eyes glittered with general malevolence, her expression pure scorn.
"Ellie, Ellie, Ellie Barnett," she said. "What exactly is your problem? How is it that you're so
competent
with classroom shit, so very
responsible
in your stupid little academic life, but such a fuck-up in everything else?"
Jane chose this inopportune moment to chime in.
This young woman hardly seems a paragon of virtue. What manner of conduct is this?
I clutched my algebra notebook and pencil a little tighter, but I didn't answer either of their questions.
"You're becoming quite a legend at school," the leader said with her trademark mockery. She scanned me up and down, rolled her eyes and burst out laughing. "Just look at you! Scraggly hair. Dressed like a geek. No makeup. Digging yourself into a hole of permanent unpopularity. Sometimes I can't stand to be in the same hallway with you. Make an attempt to get with it or I'll make you sorry. You know I can."
Oh, yeah. I knew.
The two-minute bell rang and, with a taunting shove to my shoulder, an "accidental" treading upon my left toes and an intimidating parting glare, the leader and her gang finally let me go. I hobbled the rest of the way down the hall.
How deplorable,
Jane whispered, and I could envision her pursing her thin lips with disdain.
Who is this individual?
Oh, she would be last year's Homecoming Queen and this year's titleholder for Most Likely to Get Laid on a First Date
, I said. The leader had been away for two days on a college scouting trip and Jane hadn't encountered her before. I envied Jane that, inhaled deeply and tried my hardest to laugh off the incident.
But, even this early on, Jane had developed an unnerving habit of persistence.
By what proper name is that young lady called?
Ah, well, if you must know, most people call her Di, but her full name is Diana Lynn Barnett.
I paused for dramatic effect.
Otherwise known as my big sister.
Just then, I saw Sam on the other side of the hallway eyeing me strangely before breaking into one of his smirkiest grins. With his index and middle fingers, he made a V for victory, which he held above his head, since his team had just annihilated mine in volleyball. Again. Then he switched the fingers around--index and thumb--to form an L for loser, which he directed at me.
God! Why did I still like that guy? He was too competitive, too arrogant, too intense for me, or so I tried to tell my bruised ego. He added too many distractions to my already complicated life but, stupidly, I couldn't quite let go of my fantasies about him.
At the same moment, this other guy, a hotshot basketball player named Jason Bertignoli, walked by, too. He'd been on my losing volleyball team, but he didn't blame me or mock me or ignore me. He turned around and said, "Don't worry about the game, Ellie. We'll get 'em next time."
I smiled. Jocky Jason was nice. Then again, he was new to the school and still being nice to everybody.
Sam saw Jason talking to me, and he sent us the evil eye, which did not go unnoticed by either Jason or by Jane.
Wickham
, Jane said.
"Asshole," Jason muttered, glaring at Sam as he walked away.
As for me, I sent Sam the evil eye right back before he disappeared down the hall.
Little did I know, as my irrational heart trailed after him, that I'd just embarked on the Odyssey-like saga that would set the course of my romantic journey for the next two decades....
There is meanness in
all
the arts which
ladies sometimes condescend to employ for
captivation. Whatever bears affinity to
cunning is despicable.--
Pride and Prejudice
A
lmost seven years after Jane first spoke to me, the August late-afternoon sun beat down on my head as I bolted from the Glen Forest Public Library. We'd been short-staffed again, with two people out on vacation and one last-minute sick call. And, while I loved my summer job--well, most of the time--my day hadn't been the greatest, and I yearned for a calm, relaxing evening.
Dominic, my boyfriend of eight whole weeks, had other plans.
"Can we take your car tonight?" he asked when he came to pick me up. "I'm running kinda low on gas and--" He glared at his beat-up Pontiac. "I don't trust the transmission."
I shrugged. "Fine," I said, though it wasn't really fine. We were going into Chicago--
again
--because he just had to meet with his loud, pseudo-radical friends who liked to think of themselves as "mavericks."
"We'll only stay at the bar for an hour," he promised when I told him I had a massive headache and wanted a quiet night. "Then we'll grab a couple slices of pizza at the restaurant next door. Just you and me."
I wanted to believe him, but the reality was he couldn't get enough of his discussion group. Once they started yakking, one hour had a way of turning into four. I wasn't in the mood this time.
Not that I wanted to deprive him of his friends and make him cling only to me. He'd explained that this group was his lifeline, particularly during the summer months, since he was away from his nonconformist college buddies and living with his parents a couple of suburbs over. Unlike me, though, he'd get to see his university friends again in the fall. At nearly twenty-two, I'd just graduated. Dominic, already twenty-three, was on the five-or six-year plan.
"But what about the guys at work?" I'd asked him a month before when we were at my sister's wedding to her punk-rocker/ bank-manager boyfriend Alex Evans (i.e., irrefutable proof that there was a psycho out there for everyone). "I thought you all got along really well, especially since your neighbor and his cousin got you the job. Don't you ever want to do things with them?"
"Nah. Besides, I quit on Tuesday."
My eyes flew open at this news. "You quit the deli?" He'd only been working there a few weeks, but his hourly salary had been higher than mine at the library. "I thought you liked it there."
"The work wasn't that challenging." He wrinkled his nose. "I'd rather do something where I can use my mind, not just slice up salami or provolone, you know? I'll get some other position in a week or two."
But he hadn't and, therefore, he claimed he especially needed the outlet of meeting his friends after a stressful day of dealing with his nagging parents and their demands that he "grow up."
So we went to Chicago.
"Can you spot me a five for a beer?" Dominic asked when we got to The Bitter Tap. "It doesn't look real sociable if I don't have one in my hand, too."
I sighed, but I bought him a beer and got myself a Long Island Iced Tea. Then I sat at the edge of the table, had a private conversation with Jane about the merits of combining multiple liquors in a single mixed drink, and listened to snatches of Dominic's latest discussion. Something about the ethics of genetic engineering. One of the guys pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them to us.
"No, thanks," I said, but Dominic reached for one and lit it expertly. He waved it as he made each point, his face aglow with that feverish excitement I'd found so intriguing when first I spotted him in my final college semester's Films & Lit class.
He'd always hop on his soapbox, saying things like: "We're privileged to be part of society's free thinkers. We need to help others shape their understanding of our world while keeping it a positive, affirmative kind of activism. And it's all here, you know. The change." He'd jab his thumb at his chest. "Here is where we need to make our decisions about the way we organize our culture. Not from pure intellect. Not from our pocketbook. Not from the restricted mores of our narrow-minded predecessors who call us 'radicals'--like it's a bad thing." He'd roll his eyes at the absurdity. "It's only through a continuous dialogue about our creative and cultural life that we can achieve the kind of human connection we all seek."
It was still mesmerizing to watch him get into a debate, like a televangelist preaching the Word of God.
He smoked five more cigarettes and mooched another beer off someone else before the first hour was up. I checked my watch and made polite conversation. An hour and fifteen minutes. An hour and a half. Still no sign of him wrapping things up. Time for a nudge.
"Dominic." I tapped my wrist.
He nodded at me, held up his index finger in the Just-One-More-Minute position and resumed talking. For another half hour.
Granted, I was tired, I was cranky and, now, I was hungry, too. I may not have been in the cheeriest of moods starting off, but that didn't mean he could worm out of a promise, so I said, "Dominic, it's been two hours."
"Okay, okay. Just five more minutes. Please. Let me finish this thought."
I picked up my purse, waved goodbye to the guys and walked out the door.
I heard a "Shit!" from inside the bar and, a moment later, Dominic was by my side looking furious.
"Dammit, Ellie, that was so fucking rude!"
"You said one hour. I waited twice that long. I've had enough now, and I'm going home. Come. Don't come." I shrugged. "It's your choice."
"I--" Dominic looked between me and the door to The Bitter Tap, clearly considering. "Look, sorry. I just...I just really love being in that environment, and I'm...surprised, I guess, that you don't, too." He gave me a hurt look. "Those guys are my best friends."
I nodded. "Well, perhaps one of them can give you a lift home." I turned and walked toward my car.
"Ellie. Wait." He ran up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder, caressing it with his fingertips. "Let's get a slice of pizza for the road. It's just right here." He pointed to the Italian carryout joint next door. "I know you've gotta be starving."
Not wanting to make a huge scene on the sidewalk, I agreed and, of course, I knew that also meant I had to spring for the food. It may have taken me almost two months of dating this cretin, but I was starting to see a pattern here.
When I got home I watched the taillights of Dominic's Pontiac fade away into the distance, and I thought about our deteriorating relationship. Who I was. Who he was. Where we were going. Or not going. I'd almost broken up with him an hour before, but I'd held on. Why, why, why?
Perhaps it is because you feel lonely?
Jane suggested.
Yeah.
And because you are about to embark on something unknown next month--your graduate studies at a new university--and you crave the familiar?
Yeah. That, too.
And, additionally, because you will be two-and-twenty next week and wish to celebrate it with someone dear to you?
I didn't speak, but I nodded. I should've known Jane would figure it out. She'd been my constant companion, my most secret friend for years. She knew me as no one else could...or wanted to.
All will turn out right, Ellie,
she said softly.
Trust in yourself and in your instincts. You have a strong intuition about the honour and character of others. It is stronger, perhaps, than you realize, and it gains further strength with time and experience. Do not despair.
Thanks, Jane,
I whispered, fighting back the despair that curled in my stomach nevertheless.
So, a week later, when I found myself sitting at that same Chicago bar, after being promised a romantic birthday dinner we were already thirty minutes late for, I took a good long look around me:
I was in a place I didn't want to be, with people who talked about big change but did nothing.
I was dating a man who, while attractive and reasonably intelligent, didn't appreciate me, and who was also part leech.
I was exactly twenty-two (as of 8:28 that morning), unmarried, inhaling secondhand smoke, bored, frustrated and hungry.
The evening couldn't get any worse.
I grabbed my second white wine at the bar and took a turn about the room--sipping my drink, chitchatting idly with Jane, glancing at the framed autographs hanging crookedly on the walls and contemplating Dominic's untimely death.
The driving beat of a Def Leppard song came on, competing with the ambient noise, and I felt a gust of hot summer wind next to me as the front door swung open. The woman who walked through it was about my age and height, only really stunning. Her hair was a long, soft auburn that curled at the ends like some L'Oreal hair-color model. She seemed as gleeful walking into The Bitter Tap as I'd be if I could walk out of it. A tall, dark-haired man followed her inside, and I looked away.
Then I looked back.
Holy shit.
There'd been times since high school ended, times over the past four years--indeed, a great
many
times--when I'd wondered what I'd say or do if I ever ran into the loathsome Sam Blaine again.
I imagined myself holding my head high and carrying on with whatever I was doing without acknowledging his presence.
Or, I thought I might lift an elegant eyebrow in greeting and say with perfect indifference, "Is that you, Sam? I hardly recognized you. You look shorter."
Or, maybe, I'd be in the midst of laughing over something hysterically funny when someone else would break in and introduce us. I'd shake his hand and pretend not to remember him until he insisted we'd gone to kindergarten and all twelve grades of school together. And that we'd spent one really memorable night in each other's arms...a night that had inexorably shaped my view of love. Then I'd reply with an amused "Oh, yeah.
Sam.
That's right. Sorry, your name slipped my mind."
That night, in sad reality, I stood utterly still and gaped at him.
He moved toward me and, as recognition dawned, his handsome features contorted into a look of pure horror.
My God. I must've looked pitiful.
Turn away,
Jane commanded.
You need not speak to him.
But I couldn't make myself turn away.
"Ellie?" he said.
"Sam." His name came out of my open mouth with a veritable squeak.
He cleared his throat. "I'm surprised to see you. I almost didn't recognize you."
I laughed aloud, and Sam shot me an odd look. Yeah. Irony was a bitch.
"Same here," I said, though we both knew better. I pointed to the auburn-haired chick, who'd been watching our exchange curiously. "Your girlfriend?"
He nodded and introduced me to Camryn, a fellow future med student with sharp, assessing green eyes in addition to all that TV-commercial-worthy hair.
Dominic, of all people, chose this particular instant to stride up to us and lay his hand on my shoulder. "Hey, darlin'," he said to me, but he fixed his gaze on Sam and Camryn. "We'll be outta here in just a couple of minutes. Mick's trying to find an article for me in his bag."
He pointed in his buddies' direction, where Mick alternately puffed on a cigarette and dug through a rumpled backpack. I knew this task would take another half hour at least.
"We've gotta get you to your birthday dinner," Dominic continued, punctuating his bald-faced lie with a possessive squeeze.
I forced a grin at the jerk. "Take your time, um, sweetie."
Dominic looked back at me, his eyes widening in surprise. "Uh, thanks." He nodded to the couple in front of us. "Hi. I'm Dominic, Ellie's boyfriend. You guys old friends?"
Camryn started to shake her head, but Sam said, "Yeah," before she or I could reply. "Very old," he added.
"Yep. Ancient-history old." I smiled toothily at the other three and took a long swig of my wimpy wine. Crap. I wanted a margarita
now
, heavy on the Jose Cuervo Gold. If ever there was a time for strong drinks, this was it.
Do whatever you must,
Jane said, with hot fury in her voice,
but get away from that despicable man.
I wanted to listen to her. I really did. But my feet were rooted to the spot for the duration.
Camryn's gaze ping-ponged between her boyfriend's face and mine. Her green eyes narrowed. "Pleasure meeting you both," she said to Dominic and me, her gritted teeth indicating her definitive lack of enthusiasm. "But I've been waiting all day for a daiquiri, so, we'll see you later. Enjoy your birthday...Emmy."
"It's Ellie," Sam said, beating me to it.
Camryn cast him a lethal look and began to walk away.
Hmm. So that was how it was.
Sam opened his mouth but then closed it again. He lifted his arm up in a half wave and followed his girlfriend to the bar.
Dominic squinted after them, turned back to me and shot me a puzzled look before rejoining his fellow mavericks.
Jane, who'd begun ranting with fervor since Sam appeared on the scene, scarcely paused for a breath between words.
That rake! That rogue! The nerve of him to cross your path again after what he did. How insupportable!
I let her continue her tirade of antiquated English insults a while longer, but the combination of seeing Sam again and Jane's marked displeasure had given me the headache from hell. Swift action was required. With a sigh, I told Jane to
please
calm down and gulped the rest of my drink. It was going to take an act of God to stop me from getting one very necessary and immediate jumbo birthday margarita. For medicinal purposes.
I sized up the people sitting at the bar, scanning for a good spot to squeeze in. Sam and Camryn were up there, and they'd just ordered their drinks. I watched the bartender hand Camryn a pink daiquiri with a cutesy umbrella. He passed a foamy beer to Sam.