Jane Jones (8 page)

“Thanks, Daddy, but I’m going to walk. I don’t want to waste any of this post-feed energy. Thank you for the breakfast, Ma.” I stood up from the table, kissed my father on the cheek, and slung my backpack over my shoulders while crossing to the door.

Rather than discouraging me from walking (shock) my mother began to run through her regular checklist of questions that always preceded any time spent outdoors during daylight hours. “Are you wearing sunblock?”

“I put some on before I went to sleep.” I was lying. I hadn’t. I just didn’t feel like getting all goopy and it was only a short way to school. Besides, aren’t teenagers known for sometimes making bad choices? It was kind of my duty.

“Do you have your cell phone? In case—”

“In case I suffer a massive SPF failure during the ten-minute walk?” I cut her off. “Check.”

Undeterred, she pressed on. “Are you planning on wearing a hat?”

“Ma, I’m not planning to wear a hat because I don’t really have a hat face. I’ll just let my hair hang in my eyes like you hate. I’ll be fine.” My hand on the doorknob, I thought I’d be able to make my escape, but this morning my mother had a new addition to her list.

“Don’t forget—we’ll see you later for that meeting with your vice principal,” she reminded me.

Ugh, I
had
forgotten, momentarily, but I wasn’t about to let her know that. “How could I forget?” I replied, and banged through the screen door, then bounded down the steps. It was really incredible how even just two tiny drops of blood warmed my skin against the brisk breeze. I felt more like myself than I had in weeks and I felt ready to face the day. Let Astrid torment me. Let Mrs. Rosebush pigeonhole me as a troubled teen. Let Charlotte Smithburg continue her transformation from my favorite teacher
into someone who kind of freaked me out a little. And Eli Matthews? Let him be all enthusiastic and polite. Let him keep making stupid jokes and laughing at
my
stupid jokes and staring at me when he thinks I’m not looking at him.

I had caught him staring a lot during our study date the night before. No, not a date. Appointment. It was a study appointment. But Eli sure acted like he wished it had been a date. He arrived at seven o’clock on the dot, and he was wearing a clean button-down shirt and some of that body spray that’s supposed to make women throw themselves at guys and tear their clothes off. It smelled like medicated dog shampoo. Luckily, I was able to tune that out because of his real scent, which reminded me the slightest bit of these cinnamon-clove cookies I remember Ma making at Christmas when I was very little and we still had plenty of food to eat. Not enough to be overpowering or sickening—just enough to make me remember, when I leaned close to him accidentally and took a big enough whiff. Ma let us work in my room, which was fine, except for when Eli flicked on my incredibly bright sleeping-lights. I made some dumb excuse about the high-wattage bulbs being there since we moved in and how I’ve been bugging my dad to change them. The only other light I had was a dim little desk lamp, which I snapped on instead. Thinking
about it now, I realize that between the low light and the way I tried to casually throw open the drapes on my bed, it might have looked like I was trying to set some kind of mood. Ridiculous.

Ma was ridiculous too. She made a tray with some cheese we’d bought and some free crackers my dad had brought home from the plant that had been stashed in an otherwise empty cabinet. She cut vegetables into little sticks and poured cola into a glass for Eli. I had to say, “Ma, it’s not a cocktail party,” to get rid of her, but before she left he said, “Really, Mrs. Jones, thank you for the snacks. Truly. They look great,” and grinned so wide his top and bottom braces showed. I think he really did like the food too, or he was a nervous eater, judging from the amount of crackers and crudités he put away.

I mean, it’s possible he was nervous because it’s possible he kind of liked me. I think that was kind of safe to assume, although I know it’s bad to make assumptions. I mean, maybe the way I kept refusing to eat anything at all caused him to assume that I was too nervous to eat. And that wasn’t the case. I mean, I
was
too nervous to eat, but not because of him. I was too nervous to eat because of how I’d violently regurgitated human food once already that day.

Besides, all I was really interested in was getting this
project over with. Eli seemed to like Ms. Smithburg as much as I thought I did before recent events had me questioning her intentions. He had taken her Dust Bowl idea to heart and had obviously been thinking a lot about how we could make it our own. His idea was that we could create a kind of fictional video diary of a kid our age who was living on a Midwestern farm in the mid-thirties. He suggested that we write the script together, and that he work the camera, while I did the acting. “Then I can edit the whole thing on my laptop,” he said. “Add some old folk music and title cards. It’ll have tons of pizzazz!”

“Pizzazz? Did you really just say ‘pizzazz’ on purpose?” I was teasing him, but I felt like a ball of ice was forming in my stomach. I wished I could just put my foot down and say I absolutely would not work on this topic, but we were already committed. Besides, it would be difficult to refuse without giving a reason, and what would that reason even be? Lying about shopping for bras is one thing, but I couldn’t think of a lie that could possibly work in this case, and I didn’t really want to. Maybe I was just being foolish. Maybe it was all a crazy coincidence that Ms. Smithburg had suggested a topic that hit so close to home for me. Maybe it would be therapeutic to relive my strictly classified past. Maybe it would even have tons of
pizzazz
.

“Okay, fine, let’s do it. I like the video diary idea, but
can we just do it with old photos and narration? I think that would work better for me.”

“Why, are you afraid you won’t show up on camera?” Eli laughed.

“No! I’m not afraid of that. Why would you say something like that?” I shot back.
Why would he say something like that?
I wondered. Does he think he knows something about me that he absolutely shouldn’t think he knows? Of course vampires
can
be photographed, but most people don’t know that. Does he know about me? Is that what he’s getting at? My eyes darted from side to side as I worried that my secret was about to be exposed. Then I looked at his face and his sheepish expression told me there was no reason to panic.

“Well, you are very … pale,” he said. “Your skin is fair. I thought maybe you were worried that you’d be too washed-out for video. It was dumb, a bad joke. I’m sorry.” He wrinkled his forehead like he was slightly afraid I would punch him, but I was too relieved. He’d only been teasing.

“You
should
be sorry. If it weren’t for your squillion freckles, I don’t know if I’d even be able to see you right now!” I teased. Eli smiled and flexed his bicep, the better to display his spotted white skin.

“Oh, you like those, huh? You should see them in
summertime. They merge into one giant freckle and it looks like I have an awesome tan!”

I rolled my eyes at him, but then gave in to a giggle I’d been trying to suppress, before remembering that I am
not
a giggler. I cleared my throat and Eli became serious for a moment too.

“For real, though? I think this project would be okay if we did it with photos, but I sincerely and truly believe that if you let me put you on video, we could take it to a whole other level. You could tell the entire story with just your eyes.” Right when he said that, his own watery blue eyes locked on mine for a second. Nobody in all the decades of my life had ever said anything like that to me, and I responded the only way I could, by looking down at my sneaker, which had a piece of rubber peeling off the toe that needed to be addressed right away.

Eli left soon after that, saying, “Promise you’ll think about it, okay? I gotta go. Thank your mom for me.”

I believe I said, “Yup.”

Well, I did what he asked. I thought about it over and over again until I was finally able to fall asleep. Now I’d thought about it all morning and the whole time I was walking to school and I still thought it was a bad idea. I also thought that if he made a corny joke or smiled at me or complimented my eyes just one more time, I would
probably agree to whatever he wanted to do for this stupid project. I would never have admitted it to anyone, but the guy kinda grew on you. Ugh.

“Good morning, Jane.” I’d been gazing at the sidewalk for I don’t know how long, but now my head whipped up from the cement like I’d been caught doing something weird.

“You look very … pink … today.” Timothy Hunt, one hand in the pocket of his expensive cashmere coat, held the school door open for me with his other hand. Inside, I was swooning over his chivalrous gesture, but outside, I’m sure it just made me look even more gawky by comparison.

“Do I? I guess I must. It—it makes sense,” I stammered. What made sense? Certainly not me.

Timothy smiled. He was probably very accustomed to females tripping over themselves in front of him. As we entered the hall and walked toward our lockers, I concentrated very hard on not tripping literally.

“Pink suits you,” he said. Timothy paused briefly but not long enough for me to think of a clever reply like “Thank you” before he said, “Listen, Jane, I’ve been looking over that article you gave me, and I find it very intriguing. I’d really like to discuss it further.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, and then dumbly added, “With me?” I realized I sounded like an idiot, and Timothy’s bemused
expression might have infuriated me if I hadn’t absolutely deserved it. He put his hand lightly on the small of my back as we started up the stairs. It was just for a second, but the residual thrum of energy where his fingers had been lingered. I struggled to find some composure. “What about at lunch?”

“Yes, I was actually hoping we could talk somewhere a bit more private than the cafeteria.” Before I could even start to tell myself that my earlier fears were true and that he was, in fact, ashamed to be seen with me, he added: “I’m not sure if you realize this, but Astrid is horrible.”

Caught off guard, I laughed through my nose inelegantly.

“I’m pretty sure if she sees us in the cafeteria together,” Timothy said, “she’ll do whatever she can to be obnoxious and disruptive. What about second period?”

“Um, I have English. AP. AP English.” Like I needed to be that specific, making sure he knew that I wasn’t going to be in just any English class, but Advanced Placement English class. I’m sure the more I spoke, the more he was dazzled by exactly how advanced my English skills were. Or not.

“I have government. Why don’t we skip our classes and meet on the football field under the bleachers?”

“Oh. I’ve never cut class before. Except for yesterday, kind of. But I haven’t even found out if I’m in trouble for that yet. What will happen if I do it again?”

“Well,” Timothy said, “the worst-case scenario is that you’ll fall into a pattern of delinquency and have to repeat the tenth grade. Can you imagine anything worse than repeating the tenth grade? Egads!” He chuckled at his inside joke as he deposited me in front of my locker and continued walking toward his own. I watched him move lithely through the sea of students milling in the hall, and because I couldn’t take my eyes off him, I clearly saw when he turned and silently mouthed to me, “See you then.”

As I walked into my first-period American history class, my mind was still racing with the idea that I could actually just cut a class and meet up with Timothy if I wanted to.
Grateful that our chairs were arranged neatly in rows rather than in any kind of group, I snagged the last remaining seat on the non-windowed side of the classroom in the fourth row as the warning bell rang. In my peripheral vision, I noticed some motion from the sunny side of the room. Between my perpetually fingerprinty glasses and having to squint because of the intense morning light, I couldn’t exactly see who the frantically gesturing figure was, but logic told me that it had to be Eli Matthews, beckoning me to sit closer to him. What a goon. Still, it was kind of nice that he had saved a seat for me. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had saved a seat for me, or if anyone ever had at all. Either way, I couldn’t risk sitting by the window for an entire hour, not with that sun
streaming in. I pretended to sort through my binder on the desktop.

Everyone was sitting in their seats fairly quietly when the final bell rang. Though Ms. Smithburg was not at her desk in the front of the classroom, it was reasonable to expect that she would come through the door momentarily. However, as the clock ticked off five minutes, the students gradually became more and more restless, eventually speaking to each other at full volume, wondering if Ms. Smithburg was out for the day, and if we would have a substitute or if we should just go to the cafeteria. Though I didn’t join the conversation, I was wondering what was going on as much as anyone. When Ms. Smithburg finally did sweep in at 8:06 a.m., you could almost sense everyone’s disappointment at not getting out of class. I could also feel my anxiety level tick up just a notch.

Ms. Smithburg sat down in her chair without removing her long wool overcoat or setting down her chic leather briefcase. As she addressed us, her eyes never moved from the surface of her desk. “Good morning, everyone. I realize that I am late. I was attending to a … personal … matter. However, I also appreciate that your time is precious and … I apologize for wasting it. Please, open your textbooks to chapter nine. You will read silently for the remainder of the period.”

Many curious glances were exchanged. Silent reading was a very out-of-character assignment to get from Ms. Smithburg, a woman who treated the front of her classroom like the stage of a theater. Still, everyone got out their books and did what she’d instructed. I paused partway into the first paragraph, about the Battle at Chancellorsville, to glance up at Ms. Smithburg, who had stood to hang her coat and stow her bag and was now smoothing her shiny, coppery-red hair in front of her storage closet. Were her hands shaking? As she turned away from the cupboard, I dropped my eyes down to my book and tried to look absorbed. Truthfully, though, the Civil War was losing the battle for my attention this morning. My head was buzzing as I thought about what Ms. Smithburg’s personal matter could possibly have been and why she was acting so strangely. When I got tired of asking myself those questions, I’d switch to thinking about meeting Timothy Hunt for a private conversation instead of going to English class, and then my head would start spinning. Thanks to my double shot of breakfast, it seemed that my brain was able to obsess and freak out even more effectively than normal.