In the movie, a group of four college students go to explore an abandoned meat factory. Don’t ask me why; I think it has something to do with a sorority initiation gone wrong, but I don’t think the writer was all that concerned with plot. Let’s be honest: People watch the movie because of the interesting ways people are eaten by the Butcher.
When you watch so many of these low-budget horror movies, you start to see how all of the characters have a very specific role to fulfill, like they’re all different parts of a recipe. But with the sound off you don’t hear all the cheesy movie dialogue, so they just seem like good people caught in really bad situations.
Take the CWDF, or the Character Who Dies First. I always feel sympathy for them because they really only exist to move the story along. And who wants to think that their whole purpose in life is to create more suspense for everyone else?
The UBF, or Ugly Best Friend, doesn’t have it easy either. How sad for them that their main role is to make the main character seem really good-looking and nice and likeable and all that. It really makes you wonder, can life be full of main characters? Or do some of us have to play supporting roles?
Even the TF, or Topless Female, is a hero in her own way. Movie after movie, these actresses help Hollywood producers increase ticket sales, bravely going shirtless in the cold, like they do in Vampire Snowman (Volumes 1–5), or spending hours chained up naked in some dingy basement, like they do in the extremely gory and violent Dingy Basement. Boobs really shouldn’t be used as a way to get people to watch movies. I hardly ever pause those scenes anymore, and when I do, I feel pretty guilty about it.
Anyway, we were in the middle of a kill scene involving barbecue sauce and macaroni salad, the kind of gory spectacle that instead of scaring you makes you laugh at how ridiculous it is. Just as the Butcher was about to hang the CWDF on a meat hook, and Simon was filling in the Butcher’s line with “I hate to leave you hanging,” the doorbell rang.
Simon and I stared at each other.
I nodded to the TV. “Could it be the Butcher?”
“Come for the perfect cut of meat?”
“It’s possible.”
I heard my mom open the door. Muffled voices followed by the sound of the door closing. No struggle, no crazy laugh, no creepy line about a Filet Man-yon. Simon and I both sighed with relief.
My mom called up the stairs. “Ray, you have a visitor?” There was a slight rise in pitch at the end, like she couldn’t believe it herself.
I pressed pause on the DVD, right on a shot of the Butcher preparing some sort of stew with an ear bobbing at the surface.
Simon looked at me strangely, as if he thought I’d been hiding friends from him.
I shrugged. “I have no idea.”
I walked out of my room with a heaviness in my stomach. As I rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, I saw Jane and immediately stopped. Her black hair shielded her face, but the silhouette was unmistakable. She had been all I could think about for the past couple of weeks and now she stood in my living room.
A thought suddenly struck me: She’s making awkward small talk with my mom. I thought of all the unfortunate comments my mom could make: Ray doesn’t get many visitors. Who put you up to this? We take bullying very seriously.
I sprang out from behind the wall and ran down the stairs, almost slipping as I reached the bottom.
I must have startled Jane, because she jumped a little when I descended the final stair.
“Hi,” I said, out of breath.
“Hi,” she said.
She looked tired. Dark eye shadow and bags under her eyes. Her voice sounded hoarse.
My mom stood between us. I could feel her eyes on me, accusingly: Have you just been pretending to be a nerd this entire time?
“Do you want to offer your friend something to drink?” she asked.
I stared blankly at Jane and then attempted to ask, but the noise came out as a grunt.
Jane shook her head. “I’m okay, but thanks.” The silence expanded. I repeatedly blinked, hoping it might snap me out of my caveman daze.
My mom’s eyes darted back and forth from Jane to me. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said, and made her exit. Glancing back over her shoulder as she left, she had this weird look on her face, one eyebrow raised, like she couldn’t quite piece together the puzzle.
Part of me wanted to run after her, grab her leg, and scream, “Take me with you!” Instead, the part of me still going through puberty kicked in; I lowered my voice and puffed out my chest. “What brings you here?” I asked.
“I wanted to say sorry for ditching you a couple of weeks ago.” She scanned the room, lingering on the baby picture with my exceptionally large head, eyes darting past the off-color square on the wall where my parents’ wedding portrait used to hang, all the way to the ceramic sculpture of a giraffe I made in fourth grade, perched on the mantel like a phallic-inspired deity.
“I tried to escape,” Jane said after she finished her stationary tour of my living room.
We remained standing by the stairs. The light from the chandelier cast shadows around us. Our shadow selves stood on the edge, watching us.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They caught me,” she said. “And now here I am.”
She sighed, as if being in my house was one of the worst fates that could befall a person.
“Your mom said you’re having a sleepover,” she said. “So what are you guys doing?”
“On Fridays we watch horror movies.”
“Cute.” She motioned to the stairs. “Shall we?”
Together, we walked up the steps. We paused at the top, Jane waiting for direction. I pointed to the right and followed Jane down the hallway toward my bedroom.
Just as she reached the door, Simon opened it.
He rubbed his eyes the same way people do in movies when they’re in the desert and see an oasis in the distance.
“This is Simon,” I said.
“Sorry to bust up your play date, Simon.”
Simon’s mouth hung wide open.
“This is Jane,” I said. No explanation necessary. I’d been talking to Simon about her ever since that first day I saw her in Mr. Parker’s class.
She brushed by, barely giving Simon time to get out of her way.
Suddenly everything in my room became the worst thing imaginable. The action figures on my desk made me seem like a kindergartner. My only trophy, a monument to my miraculous win in the eighth-grade spelling bee, looked like a pathetic cry for help. The plate of cookies that my mom had “baked with love” now mocked Simon and me from the corner, two overgrown children watching scary movies on a Friday night.
Jane grabbed a cookie off the plate, took a bite, and sat down on my bed. “What are we watching?”
“The Butcher,” I said.
“Who’s for dinner?” she said, repeating the movie’s tagline.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“New York.”
“You just decided to leave?”
“Yeah, no offense, but I don’t know how you guys take it. I feel like I’m in a hundred years ago.”
“That’s part of the fun,” Simon said. He then remembered himself and lowered his gaze to the ground.
“It’s just so much nothing,” Jane said. “Unless you’re talking about green cows.”
She winked at me. But all exaggerated, like she was . . . Oh my god, was she flirting with me?
“You mean you’ve seen one?” Simon asked.
Jane laughed. “No. But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“But you could end up with your own statue,” I said.
“Or in a mental institution.”
“Or both,” Simon said.
Simon pressed play on the movie and raised the volume. “Tastes
like chicken,” the Butcher said to his unfortunate date. “I thought it was chicken,” his date said. We all gasped in horror as the Butcher opened a fridge with the CWDF’s head in it, his face frozen in anguish.
Jane brought her hands to her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the TV. Blood-curdling screams echoed in the background.
“I hate horror movies,” she said.
“It’s a true story,” Simon said, staring at the screen.
“Even worse.”
Her reaction surprised me. For some reason—chalk it up to the heavy black boots and dark eye shadow—I’d assumed she would love blood and gore.
Simon turned the TV off. “It’s only fun for the dinner scenes.”
“I have Jenga,” I said.
Jane began to pick fuzz off her sweatshirt, a black hoodie with a picture of what looked to be a possum with wings. The Flying Possum of Williamsburg was written beneath the picture in bright red. Yet another obscure reference to her old life?
“Jenga never disappoints,” Simon said.
But Jane had already decided against it. “Have you guys ever played Never Have I Ever?”
Simon and I stared at her blankly.
“It’s really simple. Basically, someone says something they’ve never done . . . and if it’s something you’ve done yourself, you drink.” Jane started rummaging through her bag. “But I play it a little differently. It doesn’t make sense that the people with the most experience end up drinking the most. So, in my rules, you drink only when you haven’t done something.”
“Drink what?” Simon asked innocently.
She pulled a small bottle from her bag. “Just a sip. Unless you guys want to play with milk to go along with those,” she said, pointing to the cookies. Simon, not getting the joke, nodded his head and raced downstairs to retrieve some milk.
Jane studied my room while we waited.
“I feel like I’ve seen this room on a sitcom.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I guess.” She raised her eyebrows and looked around. The air became thick with silence, and I wished real life had a laugh track or canned awws to take away the awkwardness.
Simon burst through the door carrying a gallon of milk. “Your mom told me she buys milk just for me,” he said. “Do you think she’s trying to tell me something?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head, as if to say, Not now, we have a guest.
“I’ll start,” Jane said. “Never have I ever gone cow tipping.”
“People don’t actually go cow tipping,” I said.
Simon had a guilty look on his face. “It was only once, I swear.”
“Bottoms up,” she said as she passed me the bottle. I took a sip and my throat practically burst into flames. I wanted to gag, spit it out, take an action figure, and go hide in the corner.
“First drink?” she asked.
“Today,” I said. Jane gave me a quizzical look. She could see right through me.
“It was with my uncle,” Simon said apologetically, still on the cows. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever done.” He took a sip of his milk, ignoring the rules of the game. He wiped his milk mustache and took a bite out of a cookie.
“Your turn,” Jane said to Simon.
“Never have I ever done drugs,” Simon said proudly. It sounded like a PSA for kids.
I took another sip. I had never even seen drugs.
Jane laughed and took the bottle from me. She pretended to bring it to her lips, then quickly put it down. “I thought living here would make anyone do drugs.” She turned to me. “Have you thought of one, Ray?”
I collected my thoughts. “Never have I ever wet the bed.”
This time Jane took a big sip of the syrupy liquid.
Simon remained staring at his milk, caught in a battle of his conscience versus his thirst. He put his milk down and dropped his head in his hands. “What?” he said. “Everyone has their demons.”
Jane patted Simon on the shoulder and nodded at me to do the same.
As we both comforted Simon, Jane smiled at me. And in that brief moment, time stretched out and I realized I’d been waiting for that look my entire life. Hoping for it. And I didn’t know it until right then.
After a few seconds, Simon picked his head up. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”
“Friends don’t tell each other’s secrets. Right, Ray?”
“Consider it off the historical record,” I said.
“Wait, did you say ‘friend’ before?” Simon asked.
“You’re up,” I said to Jane, not wanting her to clarify. A sinister smile formed at the edge of her lips. “Never have I ever kissed a girl,” she said.
Simon and I looked at each other. We both knew the truth. The only question was whether or not we’d admit it in front of Jane. The age-old battle of ethics versus survival. I saw Simon bring the milk up to his lips and imagined diving out in front of him to slap the bottle away.
Instead, I grabbed the alcohol and drank along with him. I took an extra-big sip, bravely facing my fate.
We both slowly pulled the bottles away from our mouths. Simon wiped his milk mustache on his sleeve as I coughed into mine.
“Really?” she asked after we’d finished. “Never?”
We both shook our heads.
She shrugged, but that was it. She didn’t laugh or call us losers or anything like that. Instead, she pointed at Simon and told him it was his turn. Once again, I got the feeling we were in an alternative universe, one where the popular kids sat alone at lunch, had their houses egged, and were slammed into lockers. And in that dimension, I was captain of the football team and Simon was prom king.
We kept playing for another hour or so, though Simon and I did most of the drinking. My head was spinning by the time Jane stashed what was left of the small bottle of alcohol in her purse, walked over to my window, and said she had to leave.
“You can go through my front door,” I said, slurring my speech.
She opened the window and reached out to touch the old tree that grew right next to my room.
“I’m fulfilling a lifelong dream,” she said. “Some things you just can’t do in the city.” I watched as she climbed out of the window and placed both feet on the branch until only her head and torso were visible over the edge. Simon shyly waved good-bye and held his stomach with his free hand. He let out a loud burp.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked her. I forced myself to make eye contact. Her eyes were practically closed, but instead of making her seem more distant, she appeared softer and less guarded.
“It’s a lot scarier on a sixth-floor walk-up,” she said. She motioned for me to come closer, half of her body still hanging out the window. I walked over to her. “So where are you taking me next?” she asked.
I had to lean in to make sure I heard her correctly.
“It depends,” I said. “What do you want to see?”
“Something that makes me question whether or not we’re actually living in someone’s bizarre dream. Or nightmare.”
“That’s easy.”
Our faces were only inches apart. She leaned closer to me. I could smell the alcohol on her breath.
The whole scene was apparently too much for Simon. His stomach gurgled, a bubble that made its way up to his throat in a volcano of milk and cookie. He spewed all over my carpet. By the time I had a chance to turn back, Jane had already left.
234–228 DAYS BEFORE
THE HISTORY OF BURGERVILLE
After our Never Have I Ever game, I made a list of a few places in Burgerville Jane and I could visit. I scoured my history books, looking for all of the weirdest stories, the legends, the ones that lay somewhere between reality and God, I hope that’s not true.
I showed Jane the list in biology first thing on Mo
nday morning. Mr. Parker was trying a new tactic in class. Instead of making us read his made-up comics about biology, he’d created an assignment based on finding the science in Batman and Superman.
“Now listen, class,” Mr. Parker said. “You might be saying to yourself, what relevance do the Metropolis Marvel and the Caped Crusader have to our study of biology?” He paused, handed out some dog-eared comics, then quickly retreated behind his computer. He either forgot to finish his thought or didn’t really have an answer himself.
While Mr. Parker browsed a used comic books website—he forgot to take his computer off the projector—Jane and I read through the list.
The History of Burgerville
Town Hall
The Lost Woods
The McCallen Mansion
The Burgerville Annual Spring Festival
Green Cow Acres
“Burgerville’s Grand Tour,” I said after we talked through the list. “A walk through the bizarre history of the most interesting town in America.”
Jane raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about then.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “And I see you saved Green Cow Acres for last?”
“I’m hoping that by then you’ll know I’m not a serial killer.”
“That line sounds like it was lifted directly out of the serial killer handbook.”
“So you’ve read the handbook?”
“You got me there,” Jane said. “What’s life without taking a few chances, anyway?”
“Exactly,” I said. I looked at her T-shirt. An alien ominously peered over an operating table. Area 52 was scrawled across the top above the caption: And you thought Area 51 was bad . . .
Jane looked down. “Pretty scary, huh? My best friend, Ellie, gave it to me. She’s the one who got me into conspiracy theories.”
“He looks familiar,” I said, pointing at the lanky alien.
“You mean you’ve met . . .” At which point, Jane made a loud noise, something that sounded like a velociraptor giving birth. Everyone in the class turned to look.
The History of Jane Doe Page 4