Jane Jones

by Caissie St. Onge

  “I think if you’re ill, you shouldn’t go to class. I think you need to see the nurse.”

  Uh, the last thing I needed was to see the nurse, because the last thing I needed to do today was have someone take my temperature and then watch her eyes pop out when it was 26.6 degrees lower than normal. I’d had it happen thirty-something years ago, and that time I convinced the woman her thermometer was broken. But right now, I just didn’t feel up to it.

  “Seriously, I’m fine. I swear. I mean, it’s incredibly tempting to get out of geometry—who wouldn’t want that? But I’m not sick, so it wouldn’t be right. I want to go to geometry. That’s how fine I am.” I realized I was blathering and abruptly shut up.

  I got lucky. Mrs. Rosebush was the kind of educator who liked to believe that she was developing a special relationship with every kid who passed through her halls. She thought she understood me better than any other teacher here ever could.

  She had no idea.

  “Well, if you won’t go to the nurse, I want you to go to the library and read quietly until the end of the day. I’ll give you a pass.” She took a pink pad of hallway passes out of the pocket of her long duster and scrawled on one before tearing it off and handing it to me. She raised her eyebrows and gave me a little smile as I took it.

  “Jane, I know you’re new in town and being in a new place isn’t easy. But this is a good place. We take care of each other here. So, I’m around if you ever need to talk. Okay?”

  I figured I needed to play along if I was ever going to get out of there. I looked down at the tile floor.

  “Okay. Thanks.” I managed a small, grateful, fake-yet-convincing smile as I turned and left the bathroom.

  I headed toward the library, fully intending to do as I had been told. Then I realized: if I just held on to my pass and said I’d forgotten to turn it in, I probably wouldn’t get into any trouble. If anybody even asked at all. I decided my day had already been long enough. I tucked the pass into my notebook, and when I reached the library, I just walked past the door and out the north exit of the school. The air, I noticed, was colder than I was.

  five

  “Honey, I’m home!” I yelled as I banged through the back door of my house into the empty kitchen. When you’re a teen vampire stuck in a suburban wasteland, it’s the little things like being a smart-ass that really keep you going.

  My mother appeared in the doorway, finger to her lips. “Jane, your father is sleeping!” she hissed. “What are you doing home? I thought you were spending the last period of school reading quietly in the library.”

  I get it that mothers come equipped with some kind of sixth sense that tingles when something is up with their offspring, but this was a little ridiculous. Had decades of mom experience allowed her to actually start reading my thoughts? “How did you—”

  “Mrs. Rosebush from the school called.”

  “Oh, God …”

  “She said she was concerned because she heard you vomiting in the bathroom after lunch. I’m sure there must be some kind of mistake.”

  “No, I was in the bathroom. And there was puke.”

  “Jane, those kids didn’t goad you into drinking blood again, did they?”

  Logically, due to my being conscious, my mother must have known that wasn’t the case, but why not take an already embarrassing situation and compound it by bringing up another recently embarrassing situation, right?

  “No, Ma. They didn’t.”

  “Then why on earth were you sick?”

  I knew she wasn’t going to drop it until I gave her an answer, yet I still tried to avoid it. “It’s a long story, Ma.”

  She folded her arms. “Well, I’ve got all the time in eternity to hear it, so go ahead.”

  I sighed heavily. Scientists theorize that people sigh when they have low oxygen levels in their bodies. I theorize that teenagers, both human and vampire alike, have low oxygen in their bodies due to parental smothering.

  “I took a bite of a sandwich and I threw up. That’s it.”

  “A sandwich? Jane, you see your father come home from work feeling sick just from the smell of human food. What would possess you to take a bite of a sandwich?”

  I had been trying to keep my voice low so I wouldn’t wake my father, but frustration overwhelmed me. I said, louder than I should have, “Ma! I was working on a project with a boy over lunch. Just like you’re always pushing me to do. He’s a regular boy who brought a sandwich from home, made by his pushy mother. When he noticed I wasn’t eating anything, he pushily insisted that I share it. He wouldn’t drop it, so I had to take a bite. End of story!”

  Her face softened a bit, almost imperceptibly. She resumed speaking in a low tone.

  “I’m just very concerned. I know you’re almost a century old and it seems like you’ve been through everything. But because of who you are, and what you are, you still think like a child thinks—an intelligent and gifted girl, but still just a girl nonetheless. It worries me that you could be so easily pushed into doing things that you know will be bad for you.”

  I didn’t raise my voice again. There was no need to shout what I was about to say. “Well, you know what, Ma? It worries me that you can’t see the truth of the situation I’m in. You don’t want me to be pushed into anything unless it’s you doing the pushing. You want to have absolute control over my life and you’re constantly telling me what I should and shouldn’t do, but it’s the very things you tell me I should be doing that are getting me into trouble. Sometimes I wish you weren’t in my life at all.”

  The instant I said it, I wanted to take it back. I assumed that my words would reignite her anger, but the way her forehead crinkled and her eyes fluttered, I could tell she was feeling the sting of phantom tears that probably couldn’t appear so many hours after she’d fed. She knew I was telling the truth. I may not have used my fangs to draw blood, but my mouth could be dangerous in other ways.

  “Ma, I know you worry. But you don’t need to. I’m basically unkillable except for a couple very unlikely scenarios, right? So any mistake I make is just a mistake. Unless it involves accidentally walking into a track-and-field practice and getting javelined through the chest, I’ll be okay.”

  “You’re right, Jo.” She cringed at her little slip of the tongue. “I meant to say ‘Jane.’ I could stand to trust you more and to give you more space than I have been.” Now it was her turn to sigh. “Unfortunately, your vice principal wants to have a meeting with your father and me about this vomiting incident.”

  “A meeting? Why?”

  “Well, she didn’t want to alarm me, but she’s convinced that you’re displaying the classic symptoms of a teenage girl with an eating disorder.”

  Oh, crap. Of course. A touchy-feely former guidance counselor eavesdrops on a ninety-two-pound, pale sophomore retching in a stall after lunch and what else is she supposed to think? Her extensive experience with adolescents would no doubt lead her to one obvious conclusion. If Mrs. Rosebush only had an inkling of what she’d actually stumbled upon, she might have sped off in her earthy-crunchy mobile and never looked back.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “What could I tell her? I said we would come in tomorrow. She wants you to be there too.”

  “Oh, that’ll be lots of fun. I’m sure she’ll have a team of doctors ready to whisk me away to a treatment facility.”

  “Jane, stop. This isn’t one of those depressing reality shows. But we do have to think of something we can tell her that will get this idea that you have an eating disorder out of her mind.”

  “Oh, I know! Let’s tell her I was hurling because I’m pregnant! That will totally distract her from my bulimia.”

  “Jane, that’s not even funny.” Even as she tried to frown, the corners of her mouth turned up involuntarily. It was at least a little funny. After all, I was in my nineties and still a total virgin. Not to mention the fact that vampires tend to reproduce in a we-bite-you-then-feed-you-our-blood kind of w
ay, rather than in the mainstream sex-resulting-in-a-cuddly-baby way that humans seem to favor. There were times when I’d been overcome by sadness at the idea that I would never be a mother myself, but I’ve gotten used to it. And right now, the mental image of my own mother telling Mrs. Rosebush that I was with child was absolutely hilarious to me. Ma’s snorting told me that she agreed.

  Our moment of shared laughter was interrupted by knocking at the front door. My mother and I stared at each other for a second. Visitors to our household were a rarity, and even though she possessed the strength and ability to overpower any intruder, after all these years Ma was still understandably paranoid about inviting anyone into our home. Ever. Still, it wouldn’t do to let whomever it was just stand there, lest he start ringing the doorbell, which could wake my father.

  We held hands as we walked from the kitchen into the living room. I patted my mother’s arm before taking a deep breath and opening the door just a crack. Standing there, fist poised to rap on the wood again, was Eli Matthews, with an old wooden skateboard under his arm. Relieved but exasperated, I opened the door all the way.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, perhaps a bit too rudely.

  He answered in what I now knew was his usual way—a rapid tumble of words: “I waited for you after geometry, to see if you wanted to walk home together … y’know, so we could talk about our project on the way. But when you didn’t come out, I tried to catch you at your locker. Obviously, as you know, I didn’t. But I caught up with that girl Astrid and her friend—Celeste, I think? I asked if they had seen you around. Astrid said no but that she thought you’d be psyched if I just dropped by. I asked if they knew where you lived and they didn’t exactly, but then they actually went to the office and somehow got the secretary to give them your home address, which I thought was pretty unorthodox. But anyway, I figured since you all are good friends and they said you’d be cool … I’d just come over. I hope that’s … I hope you don’t mind.” Eli finally stopped to breathe. I realized I’d been holding my breath too, waiting for him to finish. Noticing my mother standing beside me, he stuck out his hand. “Hi, Mrs. Jones. I’m Eli Matthews.”

  Ma slid me a sideways glance before accepting Eli’s hand. It looked as if she were simultaneously baffled and charmed by this goofy kid. I was simultaneously thinking that she was crazy and he was a crazy stalker.

  “Ma, this is the guy I was telling you about. We’re doing the project together. For American history?”

  “Really? You told your mom about me? That’s … wow. I mean, it’s not a big, big deal, but it’s nice. Nice to meet you, by the way, ma’am.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Eli.” My mother smiled and squinted her eyes against the autumn sun coming through the open door. She looked behind her into our empty, undisturbed living room, then back at Eli before saying, “Please forgive me. Would you like to come in?”

  Before I could stop him or say a word, that tall, baby-faced, befreckled kid had dropped his board on our front steps and shouldered his way into our home. I looked from his metallic grin to Ma’s frozen smile. It was hard to tell which one of us was the most awkward.

  “Uh, can I offer you anything?” my mother said. I elbowed her sharply in the side to shut her up. “Of course, I haven’t been grocery shopping this week, so perhaps a drink … of water? Perhaps?”

  Real smooth, Ma.

  “Oh, no thanks, Mrs. Jones. I had some water earlier today. I like to stay hydrated. Thank you, though. I really just came by to see if Jane wanted to brainstorm for a while on our history project. It counts for a huge part of our grade, and I think the earlier we—”

  “I can’t. Sorry. Can’t do it right now,” I said. I didn’t owe him an explanation, but the way his grin dimmed a little made me feel like I should give one anyway. Even if it had to be another fib. “I can’t because … we’re going shopping. Me and my mother.” I widened my eyes at Ma until she caught on and nodded slightly in agreement.

  “Oh, okay. Well, then.” His smile vanished completely, and I almost felt bad for him. Then, just as quickly, he brightened. “Wait, are you going grocery shopping now? Because I could come with you and we could talk in the car a little bit before we got there and then …”

  “Nope. Not grocery shopping. We need to get some …” I struggled to come up with something that would prevent Eli from reinviting himself on our bogus excursion. “We need to get some … girl stuff.” Girl stuff? Good one.

  My mother unhelpfully jumped in. “Yeah. We’re going bra shopping. They’re on sale today.”

  While I was looking at my mother aghast, I noticed Eli, glancing at my chest. I turned to him and his eyes snapped back up to my face.

  “Really?” he said. “I mean, of course. You don’t need me tagging along for that. You’ve got to focus on … that.”

  Sometimes, when your mother utterly humiliates you by calling a classmate’s attention to your bust, the only thing you can do is own it. “Yup,” I said. “A bra sale can be really competitive. Gotta get our game faces on.” Originally, my intent was to get rid of Eli quickly, but as I noticed how much redder each additional mention of the word bra made his face, it was tempting to keep him around for a few minutes just to mess with him. Then Ma ruined it by taking pity on him.

  “Eli, we should be back before too long. Why don’t you come by after you eat dinner tonight and you and Jane can work on your project for a couple of hours then?” I could not believe she was doing this to me.

  “Really? That would be great. Thank you, Mrs. Jones. So, Jane, I guess I’ll see you around seven?”

  Before I could even think of another excuse, he was out the door and on his skateboard, pushing down our front walk. I watched him shift his weight to turn the corner and roll off down our street. “I guess,” I said to nobody, shoving the door closed. Then I wheeled around, ready to pounce on my meddlesome mother—but she was already at the front closet, wearing an old L.L.Bean barn jacket and sunglasses, trying to dig the keys to the Volvo out of her overstuffed purse.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Well, I guess we’re going shopping, right?”

  “Ma!” I rolled my eyes. “There isn’t really a bra sale! You made it up, remember? I was just trying to blow him off.”

  “Jane, I know. But now he’s coming over at seven and we really do have to pick up a few things so this house looks a little more … lived in.” She looked at me, on-the-ball mother to clueless teenaged daughter. “I’d like to be able to show your guest a little hospitality.”

  I wanted to say, You seem to be forgetting that it was hospitality that got us into this whole mess all those years ago. But I had used my mouth for evil enough for one day. In a weird way, my mother even looked kind of excited as she rummaged around in the bottom of her bag and came up with a fistful of keys. So, for once, I just shut up.

  six

  The next morning, I stayed in bed later than usual. My atrophied stomach muscles ached. Apparently, vomiting is more of an abdominal workout than I’d remembered. “Jaaaaaaane. Time to get up, Sleeping Doody!” I opened one eye to see my little brother poking his head between the heavy velveteen light-blocking drapes on my canopy bed.

  “Ugh, Zachary,” I said, calling him by the new alias he’d chosen when we’d moved to this town. “Can you never come in my room without knocking again?”

  He banged his knuckles on the wall above my head. “I’m knocking! Is this good?” I grabbed a throw pillow and threw it at his head. (That’s what they’re for, right?) Zachary dodged, then darted out of my room, shouting, “Ma, Jane is throwing things at me!” I knew it was pointless to wish that the twerp would grow up, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Slowly, I sat up and eased my legs over the side of the bed, gingerly placing my feet on the floor. I am not a morning vampire. I mean, most vampires don’t exactly jump out of bed whistling a tune when the sun comes up, but even before I was a vampire, I hated mornings. Even when I was just a girl, liv
ing in a little house on the prairie, getting me up and out of bed to do my chores was like pulling teeth. And speaking of teeth, my fangs were out. I was hungry and weak.

  I shuffled across my bedroom carpet and switched off the humming sunlamps before my skin started to sizzle. One really small good thing about being a vampire is that you rarely sweat, so BO is not much of a problem. Bathing wasn’t something we did super-regularly back in the day, and even though I like to have a soak sometimes at night to relax, I can definitely skip a shower in the morning with no problem. I didn’t even bother sniffing my armpits. I felt around for my glasses, poked myself in the eye twice trying to get them on my face, then pulled on some “vintage” jeans, which I’d actually bought new in the nineties, and a gray hoodie from the athletic department of some school I’d gone to ten or twelve years ago.

  Contrary to what you’d think, I don’t go around wearing Gothy capes or black lipstick. Any dark clothes or makeup would just accentuate how pale my complexion is, and that’s not really what I’m going for. Sure, I’d love to wear something a little more girly or trendy, but I have fewer curves than the letter I. Plus, I would never ask for the money. My father breaks his back making crackers just to earn enough to pay the rent and our insane electric bills here.

  As I reached the top of the stairs to make my slow descent, I heard my dad coming in the back door, after his shift at the plant. I made my way to the kitchen in time to see him, so tired, ruffle Zach’s hair and smooch Ma on the forehead. When he saw me, he looked up and winked before taking a seat. Just like a normal family you’d see on a TV show, but instead of passing buttered toast, my mother was setting defrosted black-market blood-bank donations in tiny half-full shot glasses at everyone’s place. Except for in front of me. What I got was a teaspoon containing what looked to be about two drops of the incredibly rare Bombay blood. It was twice my normal portion.