Dial Books
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New York, NY 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Michael Belanger
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Ebook ISB: 9780735228832
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jacket spot art © 2018 by Grace Lee
Jacket design by Dana Li
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For Mary, Jack, and Hammy
“If you think you’re going to sum up your whole life on this little bit of paper, you’re crazy.”
—Jane’s Fortune Cookie
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
61 DAYS AFTER: JANE DOE
67 DAYS AFTER: BURGERVILLE
254 DAYS BEFORE: NOW YOU’RE IN KANSAS
88 DAYS AFTER: SIMON
253 DAYS BEFORE: ALTERNATIVE DIMENSIONS
98 DAYS AFTER: THE CIVIL RIGHTS FITNESS MOVEMENT OF RICHARD DAWSON
252 DAYS BEFORE: GREEN COW ACRES
112 DAYS AFTER: LIGHT THERAPY
237 DAYS BEFORE: NEVER HAVE I EVER
234–228 DAYS BEFORE: THE HISTORY OF BURGERVILLE
125 DAYS AFTER: JENGA
222 DAYS BEFORE: TOWN HALL
138 DAYS AFTER: THE CARROT AND THE STICK
206–205 DAYS BEFORE: THE FOLK WILLIAMSBURG FESTIVAL
155 DAYS AFTER: NOTABLE EVENTS FROM THIS WEEK IN SCHOOL
193–192 DAYS BEFORE: SIMON’S LAW
172 DAYS AFTER: ROLE PLAYING
189 DAYS BEFORE: SUPERMAN UNLEASHED
188–182 DAYS BEFORE: THE LOST WOODS
191 DAYS AFTER: BRAIN CLEANING
181–168 DAYS BEFORE: THE OTHER BEDDINGTON
208 DAYS AFTER: MAKE-BELIEVE
167–133 DAYS BEFORE: WHEN SIMON MET MARY
133 DAYS BEFORE, CONT’D: THE MCCALLEN MANSION
224 DAYS AFTER: HOME SICK
229 DAYS AFTER: ROSETTA STONE
123–112 DAYS BEFORE: VALENTINE’S DAY
112 DAYS BEFORE, CONT’D: AFFIRMATIONS
112 DAYS BEFORE, CONT’D: BE HAPPY
243 DAYS AFTER: THE CAR METHOD
111–84 DAYS BEFORE: THE TRUTH ABOUT GRANDMA IRENE
251 DAYS AFTER: THE REUNION
83–52 DAYS BEFORE: BURGERVILLE BILL
266 DAYS AFTER: THE BUTCHER II: THE SEQUEL
36 DAYS BEFORE: JANE’S HISTORY
35–9 DAYS BEFORE: THE OTHER WILLIAMSBURG
8 DAYS–1 DAY BEFORE: THE LAST DAY
0 DAYS BEFORE: THE UNKNOWABLE WHY
1 DAY–6 DAYS AFTER: GREEN COW ACRES
287 DAYS AFTER: ANGER
287 DAYS AFTER, CONT’D: THE HOSPITAL
290 DAYS AFTER: ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT PIZZA AND DRIVE-IN MOVIE THEATERS
NOW: NEVER HAD I EVER
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
61 DAYS AFTER
JANE DOE
I don’t have cancer and both of my parents are still alive. I just thought I’d get that out of the way so you’re not disappointed. While we’re at it, I might as well tell you that I’m not a vampire, I don’t have magical powers, and the closest I’ve ever come to fighting a war against an evil dystopian government was in a video game.
Now that you’re no longer expecting a story about orphaned vampires fighting an oligarchy of terminally ill wizards—although come to think of it, that does sound pretty cool—I’ll tell you why I’m writing this. It’s not to “document my feelings” or “look for self-destructive patterns,” like my therapist, Rich, suggested. I guess you could say I’m a history buff, but don’t worry, this isn’t a story about the Civil War or little houses on the prairie. History has enough stories already, things way more interesting than anything I could make up—the epic battles, rumors about people playing games with severed human heads, all of the unsolved mysteries involving rocks and ritual sacrifices. I know people say history repeats itself, I just hope I’m not around when it does.
The truth is, I’m writing this mostly to help me understand everything that happened over the past year between my (ex) girlfriend Jane and me. When you read as much history as I do, you start to wish real life also had textbooks, the kind with illustrated chronologies and “Did You Know?” sections that make everything so simple and easy to understand. Any good historian knows that the past is a lot more complex than cause-and-effect charts and corny acronyms make it out to be; but Jane, a person more complicated than any revolution, more confusing than any war, and more life changing than any invention—and I’m including the lightbulb and chocolate chip cookies when I say that—deserves her own volume. And so, in a way, I guess you could say I’m writing one for her.
Since she’s been gone, I’ve been scouring documents, text messages, her bizarre drawings inspired by the boredom of biology—anything to help me shine a light on the history of Jane. The only obstacle has been my mom, who has started checking on me every hour to either annoy me or make sure I’m still alive.
As if on cue, I hear her walk down the hallway, the wooden floorboards creaking as she makes her way to my room. She knocks lightly, and when I don’t answer, her knocks become more aggressive.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says through the door. She jiggles the doorknob.
“It’s locked,” I say, just because I know it will irritate her.
She hovers outside the room, a presence more terrifying than anything found in a horror movie: a mother who has dinner ready.
“Are you coming down?” she asks.
“Yup,” I say. “Right after I finish summoning Lucifer.”
“What?”
“Can you bring me my dinner like I’m a prisoner?”
I hear her footsteps recede down the hallway. She sighs as she goes.
I know I’m being a jerk, but I can’t just smile and pretend everything’s okay. Even though I know that’s what everyone wants.
Before I forget, I should tell you that everything I’m about to write is true. It’s not one of those made-up stories that has morals and plot devices and well-crafted metaphors. History doesn’t have room for all that. Facts are facts, whether you like them or not. I’m only changing one name: hers. It just didn’t feel right to use her real name, so I’m calling her Jane, as in Jane Doe.
67 DAYS AFTER
BURGERVILLE
I live in the sprawling, barely suburban wasteland of Williamsburg. No, not the Williamsburg where people wear funny hats and visit old buildings. That one’s in Virginia and was named after King William III, affectionately referred to as King Billy and admired for his work in the Glorious Revolution—otherwise known as the m
ost boring revolution in the history of the world, a sort of happily-ever-after fairy tale where hardly anyone got decapitated and the king gave everyone their rights. Nice to live through, boring to read about.
I’m not talking about the Williamsburg in Brooklyn either, where people dress in tight pants, point out the irony of the modern condition, and, well, wear funny hats. That Williamsburg was named after Colonel John Williams, a revolutionary war veteran who bears an uncanny resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.
I’m referring to the lesser-known Williamsburg of Connecticut, home of that guy who knew a guy who had a cousin who sat next to (insert famous celebrity) on a bus. Our Williamsburg’s name comes from an unfortunate coincidence: the rise of the middle class and, shortly later, the invention of the hamburger. Originally called Burgherville because the word burgher means middle class, the town found itself the butt of too many jokes. Newspaper articles referred to the various neighborhoods of Burgherville as cuts of beef, extending from the Marrow outward to the Rump. People in the town were ranked according to their looks: well-done, rare, or if you were extremely unfortunate, ground beef. By the end of the 1950s, everyone was sick of it and the mayor called an emergency meeting to rename the town. At the time, the hero of Burgherville, a local football star named Frank Williams, had just been killed in a car accident. A motion was made to call the town Williamstown, at which point another council member, in probably his most important contribution to mankind, put the two words together, and so Williamsburg—albeit the lesser Williamsburg—was born.
Most of us still call it Burgerville, though, and spell it like it sounds.
When I told Jane that story she thought I was making it up. Her exact words were, “I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone.” But I think that’s how Jane felt most of the time. Like she didn’t really belong, no matter where she was.
254 DAYS BEFORE
NOW YOU’RE IN KANSAS
I first saw Jane a little under a year ago, in biology. Mr. Parker was explaining the difference between RNA and DNA, using visual aids that depicted each as a superhero, when the door slowly opened. The girl standing in the doorway looked lost. Not in the sense that she didn’t know if she was in the right class, but lost in general. Seeing all of our heads turned to the doorway, Mr. Parker stopped his lecture and nodded, like he’d been waiting the entire class for this moment.
“There you are,” he said excitedly, but it sounded over-the-top, kind of like the way people talk to their dogs. “Class, we have a new student. This is Jane Doe.” On the screen in the front of the room, Mr. Parker had left a picture of a strand of RNA wearing a cape and tights with the caption: Quick, DNA needs our help! Jane turned to the screen and looked back at the class, as if to say, What kind of school is this?
“You can sit anywhere you like,” Mr. Parker said, before realizing there was only one empty seat in the class—right next to me. The confused look on Jane’s face gave way to a sinister smile, like we had an inside joke. She nodded and began walking toward me, my heart racing as she approached.
My mind became a camera, cataloguing every detail of the mysterious stranger as she made her way to the desk. Her pale face was framed by long black hair streaked with red, which may not sound that weird to you, but for Burgerville she might as well have had 666 stamped on her forehead. As she brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes, I noticed her nails were painted all different colors. When she reached the halfway point, we locked eyes and I had to immediately look away; something about the way she looked at me made me feel like she could read my mind. As she got closer and I began to seriously consider using my lunch bag to stop myself from hyperventilating, I worked up the courage to look at her again. A black T-shirt hung loosely around her body and bracelets covered her wrists. The name of a band I’d never heard of—Pineapple Melody—was inscribed above a pineapple-shaped guitar, the slogan Folk You scrawled beneath. By the time I scanned all the way down to her shoes—heavy black leather boots with neon-green laces—she had already taken her seat.
Mr. Parker then began to ask her a series of questions, which always makes me really uncomfortable, but it didn’t seem to faze Jane at all. Really, Mr. Parker was the one who seemed uncomfortable.
“What brings you to Williamsburg?” he asked, his cheery voice blunted by Jane’s somber expression.
“My parents are punishing me,” she said.
Mr. Parker looked around, unsure how to proceed. Then, as if reading from a book of common English phrases, he robotically asked, “Where are you from?”
“The Williamsburg in Brooklyn,” she said. “I guess my parents thought it was ironic.”
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Mr. Parker said, struggling to keep a smile on his face. “How do you like our town so far?”
“Can it really be called a town?” she asked.
Mr. Parker gulped. “What are your interests? Remember, this is biology.” He laughed uncomfortably as the class continued to stare.
“Folk music and conspiracy theories.”
The class began to whisper. Mr. Parker held up his hand for silence.
“That’s . . .” He struggled to find the right word before finally settling on interesting. “Very interesting,” he repeated, sounding relieved now that the interview was almost over. “And is there anything else you’d like the class to know about you? Maybe something you did this summer?”
Jane paused to think. “I visited Mount Rushmore.”
“I love Mount Rushmore,” Mr. Parker said, happy to be on familiar ground. “What’d you think?”
“It’s amazing that these rocks somehow look exactly like the presidents. Kind of spooky when you think about it.”
I laughed, then quickly caught it. Mr. Parker didn’t seem to get the joke. Same for pretty much everyone else in the class.
“Oh,” Mr. Parker said. “I could see why you’d think that, but Mount Rushmore is actually manmade. It was finished in . . .” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember the date. “Help me out here, Ray.”
My reputation for history was well-known, but I didn’t see this one coming. It was like I’d suddenly entered a TV show. I cleared my throat. “1941,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure she was being sarcastic, Mr. Parker.”
I glanced at Jane. She mouthed thank you. I was so nervous I couldn’t even attempt to move my lips.
“Of course,” Mr. Parker said, forcing a laugh. “I was being sarcastic too.” But I don’t think anyone believed him. After a moment of awkward silence, he loosened his collar and said, “Well Jane, welcome to Williamsburg, or as we like to call it, Burgerville.” At which point he proceeded to give a speech about how much she would like it, how friendly the people were, how he definitely understood sarcasm, and if there was anything she needed to just let him know.
But I could tell she wasn’t really listening. Instead, she took out a notebook and started to draw. I looked at her desk and watched as she created an idyllic landscape with cows and chickens and for some reason, a minotaur. At the top of the page, two evil-looking eyes peered over the horizon like a sinister sunset. But my favorite part about it was the billboard in the background. It said:
NOW YOU’RE IN KANSAS
Jane must have seen me looking at her, because as Mr. Parker continued his lecture about Captain RNA and DNA Man, she scribbled something in the margin of her notebook and slid it to the edge of her desk. Is this place as weird as it seems? it said.
I couldn’t figure out which part of Burgerville she was referring to. The name? The other kids in class, all with the same exact outfit, what I’d come to think of as Children of the Corn–casual? Mr. Parker’s strange comic book approach to science?
It was hard to know. For me, Burgerville had always occupied a gray area, a place where history meets one of those horribly depressing fairy tales. Sort of, I wrote in the corner of my notebook. We made eye contact once again
and I thought my head might explode. As if she could hear my thoughts, Jane smiled and went back to finishing her drawing.
I turned to Mr. Parker and closed my eyes. As he continued to drone on about our genetic makeup, all I could think about was the mysterious stranger to my right.
88 DAYS AFTER
SIMON
Outside my window, I see an old oak tree. Its branches claw and scratch against the glass when the wind picks up. The sun is setting, the sky turning a bright shade of orange before an inky black creeps in from the horizon. A full moon sits at the edge of the sky, passive, an observer watching day turn into night.
The window, the tree, the moon. All roads lead back to Jane. History, the subject that used to feel so liberating, now feels suffocating, my year with Jane weighing down the present. Weighing down me.
“Ray,” my mom yells from downstairs, “Simon’s here.”
Simon Blackburn and I have been best friends since middle school. Simon looks like your textbook definition of a nerd—think glasses and T-shirts that say things like Does not play well with others. But Simon’s really not a nerd at all. He’s terrible in math and knows next to nothing about comic books. His nerdiest attribute would have to be his love of vampire fiction, which is also the reason he used to occasionally wear fangs to school.
As Simon climbs the stairs, I try to muster up some happiness, a shred of the old Ray. If not a smile, then at least an expression that doesn’t make it look like I’m constipated.
Simon makes his way down the hallway and peers into my room. “Ray? You okay?”
At first I’m slightly annoyed that concern and worry has become an appropriate conversation starter. Then I remember I’m sitting in the dark. In the corner of my room.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Simon inches into the dark. I swivel my chair around to face him, realizing too late that I’m behaving an awful lot like an evil supervillain.
The History of Jane Doe Page 1