See Jane Snap

by Crandell, Bethany

  Disgusted with myself, I tear into the silver Pop-Tart package with my teeth, then start breaking off chunks and shoveling them into my mouth. Avery casts me a sideways glance but thankfully doesn’t say anything.

  We’re just pulling up to school when I say, “I’m really sorry I wasn’t at your game. You know I would’ve been there if I could.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  There’s not an ounce of disappointment in her response, which makes me feel good. At least she knows that’s where I wanted to be.

  We say our goodbyes—mine an “I love you, have a great day,” hers a grunted-out “Later”—and I’m just about to pull away from the curb when Claudia Ruiz, associate PTA president, appears outside the passenger window, and I’m suddenly reminded of yet another shameful ramification to my pill-popping escapade: the PTA rummage sale. Crap! It was Saturday afternoon, an event I spearheaded and have been organizing for the past month, with all the proceeds going to the eighth-grade Washington, DC, trip, and I wasn’t there.

  I wasn’t there for the biggest freaking fundraiser of the year because I was too busy shitting out vital organs in my bathroom!

  My stomach wrenches around the Pop-Tarts as I roll the window down.

  “Hey, Claudia.”

  “Oooh, honey.” She sucks in a deep breath over her teeth. “You’re still not feeling well, huh? Dan said you got hit pretty hard with the ole flu bug.”

  The flu.

  Right.

  I start to nod, disgusted but also unnervingly grateful for my husband’s ability to sell a lie. “Yeah. It must’ve been the flu.”

  “He said you got it from your mom?” Her expression sours. “Did a lot of people at the nursing home have it?”

  “Yeah . . . it, um . . . well, a bunch of the residents got sick. Everybody’s fine now, but it was sort of concerning at first, you know, because they’re all so . . . old.”

  To my ears the lie is obvious, but thankfully she doesn’t seem to notice my bumbling, because she just carries on, saying, “Well, I’m just so glad that no one else at your house caught it. You did the right thing by isolating yourself. Now is not the time of year you want to be getting sick, what with the holidays coming up.”

  Right, the holidays . . .

  I can use my mug shot for our Christmas card.

  “So how did the sale go?” I ask.

  “Fantastic! We brought in close to three thousand dollars; can you believe that?”

  My eyes widen. “No. That’s—wow! That’s great.”

  Our goal was only two thousand. Looks like people ponied up.

  “Yeah, everything ran like clockwork. The food vendors got there right on time and had everything ready to go when the sale started, and all the parents who signed up actually showed, except that Jennifer Sutton.” She rolls her eyes. “You know how she is.” I nod. Yes, I definitely do. “But other than that, it was perfect.”

  I sigh, relieved. “I’m so glad to hear that. But I feel terrible about leaving you with all the work—”

  “Oh, please.” She waves away my apology. “You were sick; you can’t help that. Besides, you did all the heavy lifting ahead of time. Everything was organized, right down to the second. All I had to do was stand there and collect all the money,” she says with a laugh. “I swear, Jane, even when you’re sick, no one can take charge of a situation like you.”

  I force a smile.

  Flinging f-bombs and oranges at perfect strangers on a Friday night? Yes, Claudia, I know how to take charge of a situation, all right.

  CHAPTER 8

  Thanks to a surprising amount of traffic and several directional missteps (really, Siri?), I don’t get into the city until just after ten.

  Late on my first day . . . great.

  The three-story police station is a newer building—all red bricks and glass embellishments, with tidy landscaping hugging its perimeter—but it’s located in the middle of a rougher-looking neighborhood. Not body-chalk-outlines-on-the-sidewalk rough, but one of those areas where there are more bars on the windows than curtains, and the corner liquor stores appear to be well attended despite the early hour.

  I grip the wheel a little tighter as I turn into the fenced-in visitors’ parking lot down the block from the station. I stupidly take a quick look at myself in the rearview—still a vision of day-old dog poop—then grab my bag and start speed-walking toward the station.

  “Hey, pretty lady, can you thpare a dollar?” a toothless man—dirty and reeking of body odor—calls out from where he sits behind a loaded-down shopping cart just to the right of the intersection I need to cross. He’s holding a hand-scribbled sign that says, PIGEONS KILLED MY FAMILY. NEED MONEY FOR A BB GUN.

  I tuck my bag in a little closer and press the crosswalk button. “Sorry, not today.”

  “Thath okay. God bleth you anyway.”

  I smile a little. With the way my day is going, I need all the blethings I can get.

  There’s a security checkpoint at the station’s front entrance that delays me another five minutes, so by the time I reload my keys and phone into my purse and get to the information desk to ask for directions to my classroom, it’s already ten after ten.

  Crap.

  “You’re gonna go right up these stairs here and then down the hall to your right, room 225. Officer Bates is your instructor. She’ll be really glad to see you.” Officer Moore, according to her name badge, is smirking like she knows the punchline to a joke, but no one’s told me the setup.

  My chest tightens as a scary image of Kathy Bates in Misery suddenly comes to mind. “Officer Bates? Room 225?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She nods, smirk deepening across her cherubic cheeks.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Nerves ratcheting, I hoof it up the U-shaped stairway to the second floor. As instructed, I turn right, passing by four doors before I arrive at number 225. A small dry-erase board to the right of the closed door says WOMEN’S OFFENDERS GROUP in red marker.

  Offender.

  I’m an offender.

  My stomach rolls, another pang of guilt slicing at my soul.

  Dammit, Jane.

  I pinch my eyes shut and inhale a deep breath through my nose.

  “You can do this,” I mutter on the exhale while gently grazing the recovering skin on my wrist. I was so out of it this morning that I forgot to grab a rubber band. “You are strong. You are smart. You are capable of anything you set your mind to . . .”

  For the first time, Dr. Deedee’s words aren’t doing me a lick of good, so I change up my mantra to something a bit more motivating: “You don’t have a choice, stupid. If you don’t do this, you and your family will lose everything!”

  I give my head a resolved nod, then reach for the handle and open the door.

  “Can I help you?” A stout, middle-aged woman poured into a police uniform turns toward me, hand pressed against her ample hip, head cocked like I’ve just interrupted something very important.

  I swallow hard.

  “Hi. Sorry, I’m . . . Jane Osb—Holliday,” I quickly correct myself. Dan and I determined it would be safer to use my maiden name if given the option. “I’m supposed to be in this class—er, this group.”

  I step forward, handing her the enrollment paperwork the discharge officer sent me home with Saturday morning. She studies it with a narrowed gaze while I cast a nervous smile to the handful of women sitting in folding chairs in a semicircle around us. At first glance, I’d say my gutter-rat look fits right in.

  “Jane Holliday.” She spits out my name like the words hurt her tongue. “Arrested in Morris Creek Friday night for possession of an illegal substance and assault . . .”

  I gasp, my cheeks igniting with heat at the sound of those horrifying, shameful words. Arrested.

  Jane Holliday was arrested.

  And she just announced it to everyone in this room!

  “You are aware that we start at ten, Holliday?” she continues, unmoved by my obvious humiliation. �
��It says it right here on the paperwork.” She points to the page. “Mondays and Fridays at ten a.m.”

  I raise my hand to my forehead and give my brow a little scratch, a feeble attempt to shield myself from my audience.

  Please don’t let anyone from Mount Ivy be here.

  Please, god . . .

  “Yes, I know. I’m—I’m sorry. There was a lot of traffic, and then Siri—well . . .” She reels back, her pinched expression morphing into an offended one. She doesn’t want excuses. “It won’t happen again,” I quickly say.

  “I sure hope not, because that would suggest to the rest of the group that you think your time is more valuable than theirs. Is that what you think, Holliday? Do you think you’re more important than these ladies?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Good. Because we don’t operate that way here. Everybody’s on equal footing. Nobody’s more important than anybody else, understand?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” I tighten my grip on my purse straps, wishing they were a piece of rubber about to strike my skin. Now I get the joke. Officer Bates isn’t an author-maiming wacko; she’s a drill instructor with a penchant for punctuality, and an obvious dislike for me. “I won’t be late again,” I assure her.

  “Go ahead and sit,” she grumbles.

  Head hanging like a scolded third grader, I scurry to the empty chair on the end, right next to a black woman about my age, who mumbles, “Hang in there, girl,” under her breath when I sit down.

  “All right, as I was saying,” Officer Bates goes on, glaring at me while she assumes an uncomfortable-looking, cross-armed stance. She really should get a larger uniform. Her shirt sleeves are Saran Wrapped to her arms, not leaving much room for her to move. That can’t feel good. “Not only am I a law enforcement officer, but I’m also a certified drug-abuse and mental-health counselor. I’ve been a member of the Chicago Police Department for twenty-two years and have been administering this program, and others like it, for the last ten.”

  She punctuates her résumé by making intentional eye contact with every one of us. I blink hard beneath her heated gaze, while the woman beside me sighs.

  “Every one of you is here today because you were charged with a class C or D misdemeanor,” she continues. “But rather than formally charge you, you’re being given the opportunity to erase that mistake and start fresh; all you have to do is complete this course. And believe me when I say it’s not going to be easy.” She’s pacing in front of us now, like a bear walking its enclosure at the zoo. Her steel-toed boots squeak beneath her intentionally slow and lumbering steps. “Over the next four weeks, we’re going to dig deep into what earned you the seat you’re sitting in right now. We’re going to figure out what your triggers are and how you can take control of them so you can make better decisions in the future. Decisions that won’t land you on probation, or in a jail cell, ’cause that’s where you’ll end up next time—”

  “Hun-uh. No jail for me,” a woman down the way says, prompting another to say, “I’ll do anything to keep it off my record.”

  “I hear that,” the woman beside me mutters.

  Despite my nervousness, I nod.

  Me too.

  I’ll do anything.

  “At times it’ll probably be a little uncomfortable, but trust me when I say that you will leave this class a stronger, healthier person than you are right now. But you only get one shot, so don’t screw it up.”

  Under different, less terrifying, circumstances, I might feel the teensiest bit motivated right now. I want to be a stronger person . . .

  “First thing we’re going to do is level the playing field,” Bates continues while plopping down into the folding chair in front of us. “Everybody needs to stand and tell the group their name and what they were charged with. No details, just the basics. We’ll start down here.”

  She points to the opposite end of the half circle from where I’m sitting, which I think is good because it means I don’t have to go first. Or do I even need to go at all? She already announced to everyone what I did . . .

  “I’m Maya,” a young girl—no more than twenty—stands and announces in a disinterested voice. “I got caught with heroin.”

  Heroin? My eyes spring wide.

  She’s so young!

  “Donna. Assault,” the next woman, at least my age with what sounds like a pack-a-day habit graveling her voice, says.

  “Lina. Crank. And assault.”

  “Angel. Assault and possession of meth.”

  I shift against the metal chair.

  Is this really where I’m supposed to be?

  One accidental ecstasy and a few rogue oranges earn me a seat in a roomful of drug addicts and criminals?

  “Birdy,” the plump little blonde two seats down from me says in a surprisingly thick southern drawl. Less polished than Brielle’s accent, but just as cute. “Indecent exposure.”

  A woman—Lina, I think—snorts out a laugh.

  “It’s a long story,” Birdy admits over a shrug as she plops back down in the chair.

  My next-door neighbor stands. “Iris. Petty theft.”

  And then all eyes turn toward me.

  Jane, THE OFFENDER, whose stupid actions nearly cost her everything.

  Humiliation barrels into me, burying my breath deep inside my lungs.

  I blink hard.

  I don’t want to do this.

  I don’t want to be here—

  “Come on, Holliday . . . ,” Officer Bates grunts impatiently.

  “Uh . . . I, uh . . .” I drag my thumb across my wrist, desperately wishing I had something to snap or tug, but there’s nothing there. It’s just me. Just me and my quickly unwinding nerves—

  “You got this, girl,” Iris mutters in a low voice from beside me.

  She sounds nothing like Dr. Deedee, but for some reason her words have the same effect. Air slowly starts seeping back into my lungs.

  Okay.

  I can do this.

  With my right hand still pressed longingly over my left wrist, I slowly stand and say, “I’m . . . Jane. Possession and assault.”

  “Possession of what?” that Lina lady asks.

  I cast a wary glance toward Officer Bates, silently begging her to intervene and protect at least some of my privacy, but she doesn’t say a word.

  Shit.

  Shifting beneath the women’s curious stares, I swallow hard and say, “Ecstasy.”

  The horrible word no sooner leaves my lips than a surprisingly familiar male voice from the doorway says, “Okay if I come in?”

  Everyone’s attention, including mine, immediately shifts to the door, the spotlight thankfully turning away from me and onto—ohmygod.

  My breath catches again.

  My eyes snap wide.

  It’s him.

  That’s . . . Chris Chavez.

  My arresting officer—

  The guy from high school—

  The guy I—

  Oh no . . .

  Broken memories from Saturday night suddenly start playing through my mind like grainy images on a children’s View-Master: Officer Sexy Pants. Deep-set dimples and muscular arms. Ponch, from CHiPs. Windows—licking windows!

  A flood of embarrassment erupts from the soles of my feet, traveling all the way up to the tip of my tangled head. I quickly drop my attention to my lap.

  “Well, hello there . . . ,” someone mumbles as she takes in the sight of him.

  “Mmm . . . ,” someone else groans.

  “Of course, of course. Come in. Let me introduce you.” Officer Bates calls him over, a surprising lilt in her voice. “Ladies, this is Detective Chavez. He’s one of the officers who helped design this program, effectively keeping all of you out of jail.”

  “Gracias, Detectivo,” someone purrs from the other side of the room.

  “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” Bates asks while glaring in the vicinity of the comment.

  “I just happened to be in the
building and thought I’d stop by, see how you’re all doing.”

  I brave a quick glance up and find him standing right next to Officer Bates, surveying the lot of us. Given his muscle-hugging black thermal and well-worn jeans, I’m not surprised he’s earning catcalls from some of the ladies. But what is surprising is that I didn’t recognize him when I saw him Saturday night. Now that I have a name to put with the face, it’s so obvious. He looks just like he did back in high school, sans the laugh lines and the dusting of gray along his temples. Those are the same mile-deep dimples I used to pass in the hallway, and that’s the same warm smile I saw from across the room in . . . biology? Or was it Spanish class? The fact that I couldn’t recognize him—especially after he’d, apparently, recognized me—is just—

  Crap.

  His deep-brown gaze lands on me, prompting my cheeks to ignite with heat. A mortified breath gets tangled up in my lungs, all the blood in my veins turning to concrete. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. All I can do is sit here looking like a turd on a doorstep . . . and feeling like the world’s biggest fool.

  Hey, classmate, I turned out pretty good, didn’t I?

  The corner of his lip starts to twitch before he finally breaks his eye-lock and turns back to Officer Bates. “This looks like a pretty good group you’ve got here.”

  “We’ll see,” Bates answers skeptically. “I was just telling them that this isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”

  “That’s for sure. They call this one the ball buster.” Chavez thumbs toward Bates, prompting my classmates to laugh.

  “Oh, stop it. I’m not that bad,” she grouses back.

  “Nah, I’m just kidding. You’re great,” Chavez says, and her cheeks flash a delicate pink at the attention. “You’re all great,” he goes on, turning back to us. “Which is why you’re here. Each of your arresting officers saw something in you that led them to believe you deserved a second chance. So, I hope you’ll all take advantage of it and take this program seriously.”

  “Oh, they will,” Bates insists, firing a stern look around the room.

  “All right then. I’ll let you get back to it,” Chavez says. “Ladies, I wish you all the best of luck.”