I looked back at Simon and Tommy. “We’ve gotta find her.” Simon and Tommy slowly got up, as if trying to slip out unnoticed. We made our way out of the cafeteria, our shoes squeaking on the floor, the metallic clang of the door opening, the dim of the hallway. It was agreed that Simon and Tommy would split up and search the school, while I’d take the Red Rocket and look around Burgerville.
But as I was running through the hallway to the exit, Jane’s whereabouts came to me with a certainty I still can’t quite explain.
On the way to Beddington’s statue, I tried to plan what I’d say. I was sad about Ellie, upset that Jane felt like she had to keep this part of her life a secret. But I was also mad at her for telling Tommy Beddington and not me.
I found her with her back to the stone pedestal. Her forehead rested on her knees. Dwarfed by Beddington, she looked like a small child.
“I guess you know,” she said. She remained staring at the ground.
I texted Simon, told him to find Tommy and let him know Jane was okay.
I sat down next to her and hugged her. Her body remained stiff. “Darth Vader not wearing any pants,” I said.
“Mr. Parker dressed as Darth Vader not wearing any pants,” Jane said, her voice muffled.
“Once again, too realistic,” I said.
She picked her head up and let out a quiet laugh.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
Jane shrugged.
“Seriously,” I said, getting worked up, as if her omission was somehow an indication of our love for each other—or lack thereof. “I can’t believe you told Tommy Beddington and not me.”
Jane kept her gaze focused on the horizon. “That’s what you’re upset about?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you’re supposed to tell me that kind of stuff.”
“I get to choose how I tell my story, right?”
She turned to me.
“Jane, I don’t want some pretend perfect version of you. You can tell me things.”
She scoffed and shook her head.
“What?”
“I watched my best friend die,” she said. “Okay?”
“I know. It’s horrible. I can’t even imagine what that’s like. Roger Lutz says—”
“I swear if you tell me something else about history I’m gonna lose it.”
I stopped cold. “I’m just trying to help—and you don’t make that easy. Nothing’s easy with you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m always either trying to cheer you up or say the right thing or not say the wrong thing. It can be exhausting.”
“Dating me sounds like a real hassle,” she said.
“That’s not what I’m saying. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. But you have to realize that.” I thought back to the two of us shouting at Burgerville Bill, taking fate into our own hands. “We can make our own happiness.”
“That’s great for us,” Jane said. “But Ellie never had that chance. And it’s all my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
She spoke softly. Wouldn’t look at me. Picked at her nails until her fingers started bleeding. She told me it was her idea to sneak out that night. That she was the one who convinced Ellie to join her on the edge of the lake. That somehow, all of this sadness led back to her.
She took a deep breath and exhaled.
“After Ellie died, I had this voice in my head. The images of Ellie falling, staring right at me. I couldn’t make it stop.”
“Is that when you . . .”
She glanced down at her wrist. “I thought people would be better off.”
“Don’t say that,” I said. I pulled her close to me, felt myself come undone as she cried; quietly at first, until her whole body started shaking.
We sat there without talking, shielding our eyes from the sun as it began its downward trek. I thought about perspective. How the sun appeared to be moving even though it was the earth spinning. An understanding based on faulty reasoning could change how you saw the world.
As I stared off into the distance trying to find the right thing to say, I noticed a penny on the ground, flickering in the sun. I picked it up and held it between my thumb and index finger, looking at it as if it held all of the answers to Jane’s questions, as if it could explain everything I couldn’t. I carefully placed it in her palm.
“You never told me what you wished for,” I said. “Right now we’re two out of three.”
Jane sat up straight and held the coin in front of her eyes. After a few seconds, she threw it over her shoulder with a flick of her wrist, the way you’d shoo away a bug or get rid of something too hot to touch. “I wished for something impossible,” she said. The coin clanged on the pavement and rolled to the grass. “I know better now.”
When Jane was ready to leave, I led her to the Red Rocket, wishing we could take off, leave Burgerville, leave Earth.
Instead, we drove around until the end of school, Jane barely speaking, her forehead pressed against the window as we made loops around Burgerville.
35–9 DAYS BEFORE
THE OTHER WILLIAMSBURG
After Jane’s old life crept back into her new life, things were different. Kids whispered about Jane’s past, making her relive Ellie’s death over and over again.
At Burgerville High, Jane and I became ghosts. We ate lunch together, went to school together, and when Jane was up to it, hung out. But the gaps returned. There were days when Jane wouldn’t go to school. Other days, she’d refuse to see me, wouldn’t even talk to me.
Of course, I took it personally. I’d call her on the phone, ask her to hang out, but she was avoiding me.
“Where were you today?”
“Home.”
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Can I come over?”
“Not today. I don’t feel well.”
“But you just said you weren’t sick.”
“I need to be alone.”
“You need to be with someone.”
“Don’t be that boyfriend.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine. Go hang out with Simon.”
It got so bad that I called her parents.
“Ray?” Mrs. Doe said into the phone.
“I’m worried about Jane.”
I told them about what happened at school, how everyone knew about Ellie and about how Jane had tried to kill herself. I didn’t know what else to do.
“Jane told us,” Mrs. Doe said. I heard her sigh.
“We’ll have her see her therapist more,” Mr. Doe said.
“Please keep an eye on her, Ray,” Mrs. Doe said, speaking over Mr. Doe.
“We’ve been through this before,” Mr. Doe said, his voice sounding tired.
“We were hoping Burgerville would be a fresh start,” Mrs. Doe said.
“She just needs time,” Mr. Doe said.
Simon felt the same.
“You have to give her space,” he said.
“How much?”
“As much as she needs. Jane is like a cat. You have to wait for her to come to you.” He paused. “And she can jump really high.”
But I worried that the more space I gave her, the more likely she’d go spiraling out on her own. I waited and waited and waited, until a couple of weeks later, Jane called me—I practically jumped when I saw her name on the caller ID—and asked me to drive her to Brooklyn to see her old neighborhood. I felt funny about it, especially since reminders of Ellie seemed to make her so sad, but I would’ve done anything just to see Jane at that point, so I agreed.
Instead of lying to my mom about why I needed the car, I figured I’d just tell her, though I did wait to ask until Tim was around. Regardless of my mixed feeli
ngs about him, he seemed to have a calming effect on the whole house.
At first, she shook her head, crossed her arms, and gave a definitive “Absolutely not.”
“Hear me out,” I said. “I’ve been driving for over a year, we’re only going to Brooklyn, and we’ll go on a Saturday, when there’s not as much traffic.”
“I’m sorry, Ray, there’s no way I’m letting you drive Jane to Brooklyn. I can’t believe the Does are okay with this.”
“It’s important for her to visit her old neighborhood,” I said.
“Why?” my mom asked.
“Why do you look through old photo albums?”
I looked at Tim to gauge his reaction. I always wondered how he felt about my mom’s other existence, her life being married to my dad.
“Sometimes I visit my hometown,” Tim said. “When I need a little perspective.”
“You’re from Centerville,” my mom said. “A few miles away.”
“You can’t help where you’re born,” Tim said.
“So you think I should let him go?”
It was an innocent question, but it was the type of thing she might have asked my dad.
My mom’s face reddened, as if she was having the same thought.
“It’s up to you,” Tim said. He squeezed her hand.
“Okay,” she said after a while. “Fine. But you’ve got to be back before dinner.”
Maybe I was onto something with this whole acting mature thing after all.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said.
“Just be safe,” she said.
“I think you’ve earned a hug.”
She looked surprised.
“What?” I said. “It’s not like I’m taking any AP courses next year.”
“Just come here,” she said.
* * *
• • •
On the drive to Brooklyn, Jane stared out the window as the skyline of New York City took shape in the distance. The traffic thickened, speeding up and slowing down, an incomprehensible rhythm I couldn’t seem to get a handle on. Taking the train to New York was one thing, but driving there felt like a constant assault.
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t know.”
“We can still turn back. Take a trip to Green Cow Acres.”
“Not today,” she said.
We sped up as the traffic thinned and drove down FDR Drive. I remained hyper alert as cars honked their horns and sped in front of me.
“Before we go to Williamsburg, there’s something I want to show you.”
Jane guided me off the highway, right into the chaotic streets of Manhattan. I had no idea where I was going, but Jane seemed to know the neighborhood as well as I knew Burgerville, pointing out famous delis, parks she used to go to, a spot Ellie claimed was a Cold War–era testing facility for remote viewing.
We finally parked in the middle of a deserted block. Graffiti spotted the walls—tag names and figures drawn in silhouette beneath awnings announcing live music and used guitars for sale. Coffee shops and bars scattered in between.
Jane got out of the car, scanning the block. She shut the door and hesitantly began walking down the street. I followed, our shoulders lightly touching as we walked.
“Ellie and I would hang out here for hours on the weekends,” Jane said quietly. “Buying CDs, T-shirts, the occasional joint. There’s a whole underground folk music scene.” She had this faraway look on her face, like she could see the tie-dye and hear the gentle strumming of acoustic guitar.
“What was she like?” It was the first time I’d ever directly asked.
Jane looked caught off guard. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “She was funny. I wish you could have heard her tell the backstory of the Flying Possum of Williamsburg. It was epic.”
We walked faster.
“She liked mysteries. She was always finding some crazy place to explore. A weird story to research. I guess it made things not feel so . . .”
“True?”
She smiled. “Exactly. And she believed in stuff. The random conspiracy theories, but other things too. Dogs. The feeling you get in your stomach when you ride a roller coaster. The first day of a new school year. Me.”
She took my hand, pulling me along. “Just a little bit farther.”
We were practically jogging by the time we stopped in front of a store called Irene’s. “Here we are,” Jane said, out of breath.
“You mean?”
Jane nodded. “Now it’s mostly a grocery store, but back in the sixties, it used to be one of the best folk venues in the whole country. It’s where my grandma got her start. One of her fans bought it and named it after her.”
As we walked through the door, a prerecorded guitar strummed a happy chord. In between the narrow aisles, I could see an acoustic guitar propped up on a small stage in the back. Signs hung on the walls, advertising various shows that had taken place there over the years. Bands like Tambourine Jamboree and Neon Rainbow and a mysterious woman with the moniker Mother Folker.
“They sometimes have shows at night,” Jane said. “There’s nothing like grocery shopping while listening to folk music.”
Next to the stage, there was a poster of a young Grandma Irene above a tattered piece of paper outlining her contributions to the world of folk music. She had an acoustic guitar strapped around her body and was wearing a tie-dye headband. Her nails were painted all different colors. Just like Jane’s.
“That’s her before the Folk Williamsburg Festival,” Jane said. “Before my grandparents and my mom left Burgerville. That’s how I like to remember her.” She paused, bowed her head, like she was saying a prayer.
As we were leaving, the man at the counter called out to Jane. His movements were slow, like a wind-up toy running out of power. He had tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears and nose, though it was conspicuously absent from his head. “I thought I recognized you,” he said.
“Hi, Mr. Palmer.”
“Still listening to your grandma’s music?” the man said. “She was quite the singer.”
“Every day,” Jane said.
“I still remember her first show,” he said. “Watched her play just a few feet from where you’re standing.”
“I wish I could have been there,” Jane said.
“You play any folk?”
“Me?” Jane’s tone made it sound like he’d asked her if she’d ever been to Mars.
“Yes, you. Music’s in your blood.”
Jane shook her head. “I think it skipped a couple generations.”
“You can’t escape your genes,” he said.
I put my arm around Jane and we walked out of the store, a happy chord playing as we left.
* * *
• • •
On the ride to Williamsburg, neither of us spoke. We crossed silently over the bridge, watching the current of the East River move steadily below, water shimmering in some spots, a brownish hue closer to shore.
Once we made it over the bridge, Jane directed me through the streets of Williamsburg, until she told me to park along a quiet side street, the hum of the city barely audible.
“My old street,” Jane said. A smile brushed her lips before quickly retreating.
It was a row of faded brick buildings, the tops almost castle-like, a row of teeth extending out of the brick. Metal fire escapes were placed haphazardly along the front, staircases without a clear end or beginning, similar to a design you might see in an Edward P. Delaney blueprint. Ivy grew in patches on the brick; in some places it appeared to be spreading, on the verge of covering the windows and doors. Trees lined the sidewalks, angrily jutting up from beneath the concrete. Surprisingly, there was no sign of tight pants or flannel or eighteenth-century beards.
After a few minutes of sitting in silen
ce, Jane opened the car door. She walked quickly, head down, determined, the way someone looks when they’re marching into a storm. I followed. She finally paused in front of a building with a ramp that ran parallel to the front, leading to an entryway framed by a green awning.
“My dad would never let anyone push him,” Jane said, making her way up the ramp.
“Oh” was all I could muster.
“One time the power went out and he couldn’t get upstairs. He had to go wait at a restaurant across the street.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “It was an accident.”
“I thought everything in history has a reason. A cause.”
“It does. But that doesn’t mean it’s you.”
“Whatever.” Jane sighed, grabbed hold of the railing, and tilted her head back to look at a window a few stories up. She shook her head and marched away.
Once we got off Jane’s street, thick crowds stampeded along the sidewalk, most people with headphones in their ears, looking down at their cellphones. The sun shone brightly, blazing on the asphalt.
“Where are you going?” I asked her.
“I want to show you one last thing.”
People splintered around us. Jane and I were in our own orbit once again. I had the feeling that we could deflect anything that came our way if we just stayed together.
Jane walked ahead. She stopped in front of a black wrought-iron gate. Behind it, there was a small park filled with flowers. There were four benches arranged around the center. She walked through the gate and stopped in front of one of the benches.
I walked beside her. After a few seconds, I realized she was looking at something: a small inscription on a gold-plated plaque, barely visible: Eleanor ______: 1999–2015.
“So much for history,” Jane said.
Somehow, I knew what she meant. At least I think I did. The past year I’d been telling her stories about wacky mayors, Burgerville Bill, Earl Beddington and the green cows. But that’s all they were: stories. Monuments to the past. A bench in the middle of the park reminding the world that a girl named Ellie had lived in the other Williamsburg. So much for history.
“She went to college out west,” Jane said. “She studied fossils.” She shrugged, as if saying it surprised even her. “But not dinosaurs or anything like that. Something completely random, like an ancient species of kangaroo that used to hop all around North America until the meteor hit.”
The History of Jane Doe Page 19