“No,” answered Zander.
“I’ll read it. ‘Zander is a pleasure to teach. He shows great potential.’”
“Oh,” said Zander. “What’s po…po… that word mean?”
“That you can achieve anything you attempt,” Mom said.
“Great job, son,” said Dad, slapping Zander’s palm. “Jane, what about yours?”
I ignored him.
“Jane, your report card,” he said louder.
“I think I left it at school,” I muttered.
“Go look. Now,” directed Mom. “It’s probably in your backpack.”
“But I’m playing checkers with Zander,” I protested.
“Now, Jane.”
Needless to say, my report card wasn’t heavily embellished with As, or even Bs. And my delusional parents thought I was a closet genius. Whatever. I reluctantly went to my room and riffled through my school stuff until I unearthed the manila envelope that contained my passport to doom. I handed it to my father with the nervous delicacy one might use when passing off a live grenade. Dad slipped my report card from the envelope (an act remarkably similar to removing the pin from a grenade), scrutinized it carefully, then read the comments Mrs. Perkins had written on the back. Those were mostly about my behavior, and she had used a significant population of long, menacing words. (I admit to having consulted the dictionary when I’d braved a glance at it earlier.) I stood there holding my breath and crossing my fingers behind my back. Dad, looking displeased, laid his magazine on the coffee table.
“Jane, sit down,” he said, handing the offending document to my mother. I perched myself on the edge of the sofa. Dad shifted in his chair so that he was boring into me with his eyes. “I’m awfully disappointed in you,” he said in his “this is serious business” voice. “I know you can do much better than this. You’re a smart little girl, you just don’t apply yourself. And the bad behavior…there’s no excuse for that.”
I got the usual lecture laced with threats and predictions about my future, which looked bleak. (“Do you want to end up unemployable because you have no regard for the rules? Do you want to spend your life waiting tables at Waffle House?”) The natural follow-up to a good verbal thrashing is “Go to your room,” and I was relieved when Dad finally said exactly that and I was able to escape the onslaught of his words.
I kicked the checkerboard, sending checkers bouncing across the floor. Then I stomped down the hall, slammed the door, and shoved my backpack off my bed. The rest—well, the rest was karma. My blue math folder tumbled out and spilled open, and there I saw my original letter to Bubba. I was inspired.
I snatched my math worksheet (that night’s homework, which I hadn’t been planning to do anyhow) and a pencil (the NASCAR one I stole from Matthew Sellers, who sat next to me) and gave Bubba a piece of my mind. I was careful not to invert my Bs this time, not wanting my letter to inadvertently fall into the wrong hands—those being the hands of the wise and spiritual religious leader Buddha.
Dear Bubba,
You totally suck. I can’t believe you put my name on your sorry report card. You are such a loser.
Go to heaven,
Gabriel
Bubba hates to be told to go to heaven. The very idea scares the tar out of him. He thinks only sissies wear halos and white robes.
I grabbed my green crayon and wrote “Bubba” in big letters on the front of my math folder. Then I crammed that letter into the pocket.
Sharp executed an exaggerated kick and sang out, “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” initiating one of our favorite backyard games, inspired by the deMichaels’ vast collection of turtle DVDs. He tossed a handful of colorful strips of fabric onto the picnic table.
“Heroes on the half shell,” crooned Jazz and Zander together, slashing their hands through the air.
“I’m Donatello,” I called. “He’s the brainy one.”
“No. You’re a girl. You have to be April O’Neil,” said Chord.
I stamped my foot. “I’m not going to be April. She’s boring. I’m going to be a turtle, and Donatello’s my favorite.”
“I’m Splinter,” said Jazz, claiming the role of the rat, “so there’s an extra turtle anyway. Let her be Donatello.”
“Yeah,” agreed Zander, “we need all four turtles.”
“I’m Leonardo.” Sharp was tying a strip of ragged blue fabric around his head.
“Raphael,” called Zander.
“You be April, Chord,” I said.
“No way. I’m Michelangelo,” said Chord, jabbing and kicking in an aerial calligraphy. “Although Jane should be the goofy one and I should be the smart one, all things considered.”
“You should be roadkill,” I snarled as I fastened a purple band around my head.
“Good one, Jane,” said Sharp, slapping me a high five.
Chord, in his role as Michelangelo, got a queasy look on his face. “I think I’m gonna hurl, dudes. I ate too much pizza before that last gnarly encounter with Shredder’s gang.”
“A wise man does not overindulge,” commented Jazz in a fairly good imitation of Splinter, the turtles’ mentor. He shook his head and squinted in an attempt to look rat-like. With his shaggy honey-colored hair and large brown eyes, he looked more like a frisky puppy.
“Master Splinter, there is news that Shredder and his gang are planning another assault on the city,” said Zander.
“We will prepare,” said Jazz wisely.
And so we spent the afternoon ninja fighting on and around Elliot’s backyard musical creations. We pretended that one of his waterfalls was the sewer deep in the bowels of New York City in which Splinter and the turtles made their subterranean home. When Harmony and Carmella wanted to play on the swing set, we labeled them the evil Shredder’s minions and chased them screaming through the gate and out of our territory.
I think I was two hours old the first time I heard it: “Life isn’t fair.” Along with breast milk, my mother fed me little snatches of wisdom. I might not have believed her right away, as my experience to that point was somewhat limited, except what she actually said was “Life isn’t fair, Jane Venezuela White.” Once I heard that ridiculous name I knew for sure that life wasn’t fair. Then Mom added, “Life isn’t fair, but it’s good, and you’re going to have a great one. I can see it in your eyes.”
At least she was half right. Life isn’t fair. That’s why everyone needs an imaginary enemy. It’s fabulous having someone to blame.
Copycat
When I was eight, we went to Texas to visit the ancient Aunt Jane my parents were so fond of—the one whose mundane name was tattooed on my birth certificate. She was awful. She had orange hair piled on top of her head, bright pink toenails, and a silky dress with big magenta flowers all over it. The whole ensemble bottomed out with a pair of neon green flip-flops stippled with teeth marks where her cocker spaniel had attacked them. She smelled like bourbon, her supply of which she and my parents managed to diminish significantly that afternoon. Aunt Jane, Mom, and Dad told stories and laughed a lot, and I was so bored that I actually played with Zander and Carmella. By choice.
Aunt Jane kept calling me her “sweet little namesake” and saying how much I looked like her. That scared me to death. She was one huge wrinkle with bones sticking out and a puff of wild hair on top. If I really looked like her, I was in for one sorry life. When I opened my mouth to protest, Mom gave me the eye and Dad elbowed me in the ribs, so I held back my denials.
When it was time to go, Mom pulled me aside and told me to give Aunt Jane a kiss. “No way,” I snarled.
“Jane.” Mom crossed her arms.
“She’s yucky,” I protested.
“She’s your aunt, and she loves you, and she’s a delightful person. And you, young lady, are already in enough trouble for putting frogs in her toilet. So give her a kiss, now.”
I knew when I was licked. I walked up to Aunt Jane, holding my breath. I stood on tiptoe, steeled myself, and kissed her.
I survived. That’s the only positive thing I can say about that kiss.
On the ride back to the hotel, Dad said, “Now, Janie, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I’d rather eat dead bats smothered in maggot sauce,” I muttered.
Normally when I said things like that, my parents chuckled and talked about how precocious I was. Not that day. Dad actually pulled the car off the road, killed the engine, turned around, and glared at me. “I’ve had enough of this, Jane. You are not cute or funny. You are a brat.”
Zander’s eyes got huge when Dad said that. If I called Zander or Carmella a brat, I got punished. My eyes filled with tears. “I am not a brat, Daddy. Don’t say that,” I protested.
“You are a brat,” he replied flatly. Then he turned around, started the car, and merged with the traffic. “And you will be punished for your behavior.”
But I didn’t get punished back at the hotel. I swam in the pool and played in the elevator and jumped on the bed with Zander and Carmella. I thought Dad had forgotten about my punishment.
Wrong. When we got home, I caught it with both barrels. The usual lecture, followed by a mixture of restrictions and chores. Mom’s usual refrain was right on target: life isn’t fair.
Sharp and I were supposed to be doing our homework. Since we were in the same third-grade class, we usually worked together. The problem was this: Sharp always did his assignments, and I’d made a career of boycotting homework, so we spent more time battling than accomplishing anything. “Let’s go swing,” I suggested.
“After we do our spelling words.”
“I hate doing alphabetical order. What’s the point?”
“There isn’t one, but it only takes a minute.”
“You do it and I’ll copy yours.”
“Again?”
I didn’t respond—instead I jumped from the picnic table and ran to the swing set.
“Jane, come back. You have to do this.”
“You’re not the teacher, Sharp.” I was pumping my legs and soaring.
“We only have twenty words.”
“That’s twenty too many for me. Spelling’s boring. There’s a reason computers come with spell-check.”
He ignored me, then threw down his pencil and closed his book. “I’m done.”
“I’ll copy yours.”
“No.”
“Yes.” I jumped from the swing, ran to the table, and reached out to grab Sharp’s work.
He snatched it away. “No. I’m sick of always letting you copy. Do your own.”
“I just won’t do it at all,” I said smugly, tossing my head and returning to the swing set.
Soon after, Sharp went bike riding with Jazz and Zander. I dashed to the picnic table and took his loose-leaf page of neatly alphabetized words. I erased his name, replaced it with mine, and tucked the paper into my folder. Truthfully, I didn’t really care whether or not I turned in the assignment, but I was mad at Sharp for not letting me copy.
The next day at school, I saw Sharp searching through his backpack when Ms. Lassiter called for homework. “Hey, Sharp,” I whispered, and when he looked at me I held up our spelling words, all twenty of them carefully alphabetized in a column. Before he had time to respond, I marched up to the front of the room and dropped the paper onto the pile on Ms. Lassiter’s table. On my way back to my seat I walked past Sharp’s desk. “Next time you better let me copy.”
“You’re such a brat,” he snarled, elbowing me.
“Sharp,” Ms. Lassiter said. “Leave Jane alone. Where’s your homework?”
“I can’t find it,” he replied, glaring in my direction.
I’d known from the start that Sharp wouldn’t rat me out. We had our code. The next day, he grudgingly let me copy his homework, but not before splashing root beer all over me.
“Ten minutes till bedtime, kids,” said Mom.
Carmella, Zander, and I were playing slapjack. “I still don’t think it’s fair that I have to go to bed at the same time as Zander and Carmella. He’s only six, and she’s five, and I’m eight,” I protested.
“Write your congressman,” droned Dad. That was his usual response to my complaints. I was probably the first kid in history to know what “Write your congressman” meant before the age of three. Not that I ever actually did it. I was loyal to Bubba, my only pen pal.
Zander slapped a jack of hearts and raked the pile of cards into his hand. “I’m winning,” he bragged.
The back door slammed. Everyone looked up. “Who’s that?” asked my mother as my father rose and rushed toward the kitchen. The rest of us cautiously followed him, honing our radar, curious and frightened as to who had entered our home.
“Luke,” said my father, and even in that one word I could hear relief.
We crowded around Dad and stared at our half brother. His thick dark brown hair was tangled. He looked angry—his eyes flashed and his cheekbones seemed sharper than ever. He said nothing as he slid his backpack from his shoulder. It hit the floor with a thunk.
Dad looked quizzically at Luke. He’d spent the weekend with us and we hadn’t expected him back so soon—it was only Monday, and late for a school night. “What’s going on, son?”
Luke glanced at the rest of us. “I dunno.” His voice trembled ever so slightly.
“I’ll put the kids to bed,” my mother said, ushering us from the room. I heard the scraping of chairs on the kitchen tiles, so I guessed Dad and Luke were sitting at the table.
“Why’s Luke here, Mom?” asked Zander.
“Luke’s welcome anytime,” she answered. “This is his home, too.” Mom’s open-hearted acceptance of Luke seemed artificial at times. I mean, he didn’t really live there and she wasn’t really his mother. Maybe she was afraid he’d think she was a wicked stepmother like in Cinderella and Snow White, so she treated him with deference. “Now go brush your teeth. And Zander, use toothpaste this time.”
When Mom was tucking Carmella into bed, I slipped back down the hall to the kitchen. I stood in the doorway and saw Luke sweep the back of his hand over his eyes. Dad was at the counter pouring a glass of juice.
“Jane, you’ve been sent to bed.” I jumped at my mother’s voice behind me, sterner than normal.
“I want to kiss Dad goodnight,” I whined.
“Go to bed now,” Mom ordered.
Dad blew me a kiss from across the room. “Go on, Janie. Mind your mother.”
Luke was in eighth grade when he moved in with us. The night he’d interrupted our game of slapjack, he’d gotten in a fight with his stepfather and run away, although I’m not sure if it really qualifies as running away when you leave your mom to go live with your dad.
Things got weird around the house for a few days. Dad was constantly on the phone. I knew he was talking to Luke’s mom because I heard him say “Calm down, Sandy,” and “He’ll be fine, Sandy. He’s thirteen years old,” and stuff like that. Then he and Mom would go into their bedroom and talk in soft voices. Luke wouldn’t speak to anyone—he just sat on the back steps sulking or stargazing or petting Banjo.
Then it became official and Sandy brought Luke’s belongings to our house in cardboard cartons. When Luke saw her car pull into our driveway, he ran out the back door and jumped the fence. He climbed the rope ladder to the tree house nestled in one of the deMichaels’ oaks. Dad helped Sandy unload Luke’s stuff. Then I saw Sandy crying when she and Dad stood in the doorway talking quietly. He put his arm around her and she wept on his shoulder, but it didn’t make me angry, even though my mother was alone in the kitchen cooking dinner.
At first, Luke was like a caged beast, growling and snarling. Mom said it was part of growing up and that he’d been going through a difficult time, but when his wrath was directed at me, my feelings got hurt. He was a hero of mine—the invincible older brother. The smallest sharp word or briefest derisive glance shattered me.
Luke wasn’t always awful. When he caused one of us to cry, he’d apologize and try to make us laugh. S
ometimes he brought me stuff…a pack of Starbursts or an arrowhead he found at the clay pits or a Canadian penny. He was good at art, and since he knew I loved magical creatures, he covered sheets of paper with griffins and dragons and wizards.
There was one drawback to Luke’s moving in with us: Mom gave him Carmella’s room, insisting he needed privacy, and moved Carmella in with me, despite my protests. I tried everything—whining, crying, arguing, sulking, and shouting—but to no avail.
“You’re sharing your room with your sister and that’s it,” my mother said, crossing her arms.
“But Mom—”
“We’ll redecorate. How about that?”
“I dunno,” I mumbled. “It’s still not fair.”
“You can choose the paint and new bedspreads.”
That was at least something.
“Purple?” Mom asked. “You mean lavender?”
“No, I mean purple. Like this.” I pointed to the picture in the catalog.
“Purple comforters are fine, but let’s choose something…softer for the walls.”
“You said I could pick, and I pick purple.” Naturally, I got my way. She had promised, after all. The only problem was Carmella’s obsession with Barbie, which meant that the walls on her side of the room were plastered with Barbie posters, an odd contrast to the movie stills of Godzilla eating Tokyo and Escape of MechaGodzilla hanging on my side. Nonetheless, the comforters were perfect, with big colorful polka dots scattered on a field of Fanta Grape that matched the walls perfectly. It was totally cool at first, but over time the room came to look and feel like a giant bruise.
Dawn
Because I am her namesake, Aunt Jane periodically sends me gifts. Not typical gifts like clothes, books, jewelry, or toys. Odd things. When I was six she shipped me a hummingbird’s nest—tiny and fragile and carefully woven from grass and dandelion fluff. In its cavity she’d placed two solid blue marbles.
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