See Jane Run

by Hannah Jayne

  Henry’s big head bobbed up and cocked, his enormous bug eyes seeming to pin Riley back. He raised a hand and waved then turned on his heel and disappeared behind a bank of food carts.

  Riley yanked her purse out from under the booth and searched through it then pulled out the cash box. “It doesn’t look like he took anything.”

  “But who the hell was that? Hey, Trevor!” Shelby yelled.

  Trevor trotted over, giving a short nod to Riley.

  Shelby put her hands on her hips. “You were paid good money to be Henry. He’s a beloved mascot!”

  Trevor shrugged. “You paid me ten bucks to be Henry for an hour.”

  “Then who is Henry right now?”

  “I don’t know. I took that thing off the minute the hour was up. That head smells like ass. I should have asked for fifty bucks.”

  “Well, where did you put it after you took it off?” Riley asked.

  “Back in the band box. Geez, lay off.” Trevor turned away, disappearing back into the crowd.

  Riley found Henry again.

  “There he is. Stay here.” Riley jogged across the fairway, poking her head behind the food carts. She saw Henry’s giant antennae snaking around a taco truck. “Hey!” She followed him around the corner, but it was only Henry’s head, settled over the folded hornet costume.

  “So?” Shelby jogged up behind her, Riley’s purse slung over her shoulder, the change in the cash box rattling as she ran.

  Riley shrugged. “I don’t know. Whoever it was changed and left the costume right here.”

  “OK, so we have a random person who likes to run around in a stolen hornet costume. That is gross on so many levels.”

  She handed Riley her purse and the cash box and gathered up the Henry costume.

  “I have to go turn this back in. Turn in the cashbox and meet me at the car, OK?”

  Riley nodded, even as unease pricked out all over her. She grabbed the back of Shelby’s shirt and followed her out of the food truck shadows and onto the well-lit fairway.

  “I just got the chills.”

  “I’m thinking someone in a stolen hornet costume will do that to you,” Shelby said with a grin.

  Riley dropped off the cashbox and was waiting at Shelby’s car, tapping her foot. “Where the hell are you, Shelby?”

  She rooted around in her purse, looking for her cell phone. When she pulled it out, there was a postcard half sticking out of the case.

  Riley frowned. It was a black-and-white photo of some kids—teenagers, mostly—dressed in funky 1970s clothing. They were all slouching in front of a brick wall, a fading four-leaf clover painted just above their heads.

  “Love note?” Shelby asked as she came up over Riley’s shoulder.

  “No, I just found it in my purse.” She turned the postcard over and read the note:

  “Something lost has now been found. And there’s a red circle around the word found.”

  “Um, OK. In terms of love notes, I’ve read better. Who’s it from?”

  “I have no idea.” Riley waved the card. “There’s no signature, and I don’t recognize the writing.”

  “And it was in your purse?”

  “Yeah, that’s so weird.”

  “Not if it’s from your birth parents.” Shelby waggled her eyebrows. “Or maybe it’s from Jane O’Leary, trying to contact you from beyond the grave.” She did her best impression of spooky fingers and ghost voice, but Riley was not amused.

  “You really need to stick to your stories, Shelbs. Am I the missing kid, or is the missing kid my knocked-off big sister?”

  Shelby gunned the engine. “I don’t know. You’re the one getting ghost posts.”

  • • •

  Shelby pulled the car into Riley’s driveway and pushed it into park. “So tomorrow morning, bright and early?”

  “Definitely. I can’t wait.” Riley slammed the door shut, and Shelby rolled down the window, grunting with the effort of cranking the handle.

  “Don’t let the fake hornet get you. Oh! I bet it was your birth mother, closing in on you! She’s sending you mystery postcards to warn you…”

  “Shelby! If I were adopted, my parents wouldn’t have changed my age and my birth date. Stop with this!”

  “But if your—”

  “Drive away, Shelby.”

  Shelby rolled down the street, giggling, as Riley headed for the front door. She paused when her hackles went up, her whole body stiff with the sudden fear that she was being watched. She spun slowly, squinting at the vacant houses that lined the street around her. When nothing jumped out, she let out a long sigh.

  She tried to brush the feeling off but it stuck; she sped up the walk and locked the door behind her.

  “How was the carnival, turnip?”

  Riley jumped when her father came down the hall. “Creepy.”

  Her father looked alarmed. “Did someone bother you?”

  She thought briefly of telling her dad about the fake Henry or the weird postcard, but she knew it would only lead to two things: her parents’ insane overreaction and her parents’ insane overprotection. They would call the police, and Riley would never be able to leave the house again, let alone go on the school trip.

  “It was nothing. Just some stupid kids or something.” Riley paused. Maybe it was the strangeness of the night or a sudden boldness at being allowed to spend the weekend away, but she asked, “Did you and Mom ever want another kid?”

  Her father paused then sat down on the stairs, patting the space next to him for Riley to sit. She did.

  “Is this because you didn’t win a goldfish?”

  “What—no!”

  “Honey, I know how hard those carnival games can be. If you really want a goldfish, Mom and I will get you one. It’ll be a lot faster than making you a baby sister.”

  Riley rolled her eyes when her father laughed.

  “I was being serious, Dad.”

  He swung an arm over Riley’s shoulder. “Why would we want another kid when we’ve got perfection right here? We hit pay dirt the first time around.” He gave her a loud, smacking kiss on the forehead then patted the top of her head and shuffled up the stairs. Riley didn’t move from her spot even when he turned off the hallway light, leaving only the faint upstairs glow bleeding in the hallway.

  Was it weird that he immediately mentioned a sister? Riley thought absently.

  • • •

  Shelby was standing in front of the school the next morning, checking her phone and glancing up occasionally. She broke into a wide grin as Riley waved good-bye to her parents. “I. Am. So. Excited.” She was talking in fully punctuated sentence-words and flapping her arms—Shelby always did when she got excited. Riley grabbed her friend and brushed down her arm-wings.

  “Calm down, Shelbs. You’re about to take flight.”

  But Riley didn’t quite feel as cool as she acted. She looked around, little goose bumps rising on the back of her neck. She always found being on campus eerie when classes weren’t going on—even more so on a Saturday morning like this. It almost seemed like school should cease to exist between Friday night and Monday morning.

  “Hey!” Shelby calmed down and pinched Riley. “I called you, like, three times last night. No answer. What’d you do?”

  “Nothing. Ate pizza, ran a few more Google searches.”

  “Oh, on your parent-felons?”

  “My parents aren’t felons!” Riley hissed. “Besides, it didn’t turn up anything, felons or not.”

  “Did I hear someone mention felons?”

  As if Jonathan “JD” Davison’s voice wasn’t distinctive enough—it was deeper and smoother than any other high school guy Riley had ever encountered—the fact that he showed up once the word “felon” was mentioned was all kinds of indication.

  JD was
the kid every parent hoped didn’t hang out with theirs—and Riley’s parents topped that list. He had been dubbed JD—for juvenile delinquent—from his numerous stints in the principal’s office and his not-so-private run-ins with the Crescent City Police Department. Normally a guy like JD wouldn’t cross into a world like Riley’s—accelerated classes, the “good” kids on college tracks—but Riley’s new, longer trek to Hawthorne High paired with her love for sleep landed them smack dab in the same detention period for a week straight almost a month ago. She had pushed the “I overslept” envelope, and he was warming his usual spot.

  She remembered the scrutinizing way he looked at her when she walked into the empty classroom.

  “You’re new,” he muttered.

  Riley gripped the straps of her shoulder bag and slipped into the desk furthest away from JD. She was horrified to be in detention and not exactly eager to make friends with someone who always seemed to be in trouble for something. Her parents were going to freak out enough already.

  JD turned in his seat, his dark eyes following her every move. “What are you in for?”

  She pulled her knees up to her chest. “Tardies. You?”

  “Truancy, gambling on campus, just being my charming self.”

  Riley cocked an eyebrow. “Oooh, you’re a regular James Dean rebel.”

  JD looked impressed. “You know James Dean?”

  Riley crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Why is that such a surprise?”

  “I don’t know. I figured your vintage would be Johnny Depp, pre-Jack Sparrow.”

  Riley feigned confusion. “Johnny who now?”

  JD laughed, and her wall of ice was beginning to melt. “My parents and I like to watch old movies,” she said. “We pop a bunch of popcorn, grab a couple of Cokes, and watch till our eyes cross—or until my dad starts with his impressions. He does a mean Jimmy Stewart.”

  “Really?”

  “No, it’s awful.”

  Riley and JD spent the next week whispering until the detention monitor glared or threatened them. She liked his wild streak, his carelessness. On the last day, he waved to her.

  “See you, Spence.”

  “You act like we’re never going to see each other again.”

  He shrugged. “We both know how this works.”

  Riley watched him disappear into a sea of black leather and spiky hair. She turned, linking arms with her own friends—preppy shirts, Hawthorne High ribbons, and straight As.

  “Ugh, JD,” Shelby whispered.

  “Back off, Shel. He’s actually kind of cool.”

  Shelby crossed her arms in front of her chest and cocked out one hip, her eyes zeroing in on JD. “They have you doing detention here on Saturdays now too?”

  “Actually, I’m here for the tour,” JD replied.

  “Cool,” Riley said.

  Shelby gaped next to her. “Seriously?”

  Riley felt color wash her cheeks. She glanced up, but JD was unaffected. “Always nice to chat with you, Shelby. Ry.” He gave her a curt nod then turned on his heel. Riley watched him go, thinking that from the back, he looked way less felon, way more runway model.

  “Earth to Ry!” Shelby started snapping her fingers a millimeter from Riley’s nose. “We’re getting on the bus.”

  Riley stumbled out of her reverie and hiked her backpack up. Shelby laced an arm through hers and dragged her toward the bus.

  “So you know what? I’ve decided to use this opportunity to break out of my shell. I’m going to make friends. I’m going to talk to boys.”

  “My little Shelby Webber? Talk to boys?”

  Riley could see the fear wash over Shelby’s face. “OK, maybe I should pretend to be a foreign exchange student on this trip. You know, practice as someone else before I break out the Shelby.”

  Riley cocked a brow. “From what country? You’ve had three years of Spanish and still can only ask for two Cokes or how much that sombrero is.”

  Riley glanced over her shoulder when she heard JD’s low laugh. He followed them on the bus, taking a seat across from them as they got situated in the back.

  “So, JD, are you taking any of the classes on the tour?” Riley asked casually.

  JD’s eyes flicked over Riley’s. “Nah. I got in to Berkeley.”

  Shelby launched herself across the bus seat and over Riley’s lap. “You’re going to Berkeley? Like the school?”

  JD nodded, his eyes still on Riley. “Yeah. Early admissions.” He narrowed his eyes at her, and Riley felt herself flush.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. You just don’t seem like the Hudson type.”

  Riley’s eyebrows rose. “The Hudson type?”

  “Preppy. Boring.”

  Shelby leaned over Riley a second time. “I’ll have you know that Riley’s dad is a preppy, boring Hudson alum.”

  “Undergrad,” Riley clarified.

  Shelby waggled her eyebrows as she yanked her tablet from her purse. “Your dad is borderline hot now, Ry. I bet he was smokin’ in college.”

  “That’s disgusting on so many levels, Shelbs.”

  Shelby ignored her, swiping until the Hudson University Alumni Association home page popped up.

  “So, JD, if you already got into Berkeley, what are you doing on this trip?” Riley asked.

  JD kicked his boots up on the empty bus seat next to him and knotted his hands behind his head. “Let’s just say this bus will get me where I need to go.”

  Riley snaked her arms in front of her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Shelby broke away from her tablet. “He’s probably planning a bank heist. Hey! Maybe he can help you with your new life of crime!”

  JD’s eyebrows went up, disappearing into a shock of his dark hair. “Sweet little Riley Spencer is engulfed in a life of crime? What an interesting development.”

  “It’s nothing,” Riley said, glaring at Shelby.

  Shelby went back to her tablet, wrinkling her nose and frowning. “Did your dad take your mother’s last name by any chance?”

  “Of course not. So, JD—”

  Shelby nudged her. “I’m serious, Ry.”

  Riley straightened. “What are you talking about?”

  Shelby sucked in a deep breath and turned the tablet to face Riley. “Because according to the alumni association, the student registry, and the yearbook, Glen Spencer never existed at Hudson.”

  “You probably spelled his name wrong. Or got the dates wrong. His class probably isn’t even online anyway.”

  “It goes all the way back to class of 1980.”

  Riley took the tablet and began a new search. “Why would my dad lie about being an undergrad at a stupid university?”

  “Right,” JD laughed from his seat. “If I was going to lie about school, I’d tell everyone I went to Harvard or Oxford.”

  Shelby cocked an eyebrow. “Or Berkeley?”

  “What’s your problem, Shelby?”

  Riley heard JD snapping and Shelby quipping back, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words. Her fingers were moving, constantly typing and retyping her father’s name until the string of letters looked like gobbledygook before her eyes. But the search result was always the same: Your search for Glen Morgan Spencer yielded 0 results.

  She handed Shelby the tablet, unease settling in her gut. Shelby’s eyes were soft, questioning, and Riley shrugged, feeling the need to explain.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Probably just a mix-up at the registrar’s office or something.”

  “Yeah, totally.” Shelby nodded emphatically and slid the tablet into her bag, popping in her ear buds instead.

  Riley glanced around the dimly lit bus as her classmates’ voices started to fade. Kids started to settle in, the rhythmic whir of the engine l
ulling most to sleep, but Riley’s eyes were wide open, her thoughts buzzing like hornets in her mind.

  My dad wasn’t at Hudson?

  “Hey,” JD said, pulling Riley out of her thoughts. “So you’re planning on going to Hudson, then?”

  Riley paused, biting the inside of her cheek. “Where is the bus taking you?”

  “Um, OK.” JD leaned forward and dropped his voice. “I’m going to take the train to Rosemont.” He flipped his iPad around so the screen faced Riley. “Going to see my favorite band.”

  “Oh my God! That’s right! You love Death to Sea Monkeys too! How far is Rosemont?”

  “It’s a forty-minute train ride from Boone.”

  Out of nowhere, a thought popped into Riley’s head. Rosemont was a forty-minute ride from Boone. Boone was a two-hour ride to the California-Oregon border.

  And Granite Cay, Jane Elizabeth O’Leary’s birth town, was just across that border.

  Suddenly, Riley’s palms itched. The birth certificate burned in her bag where she—on a whim—had stashed it.

  That morning, Riley piled her bag with vintage tees and her usual cache of jeans, a Mom-approved stash of in-case-of-hospital clean underwear and bras, and, for some reason, the birth certificate. She had sat at her desk and rubbed her finger over the onionskin sheet, over the names typed in more than a decade ago. Who was baby Jane Elizabeth and where was she now? The question pulled at her. She had traced her tiny footprints and handprints and felt a weird sense of longing, of connection to the baby—and the baby’s parents—who had come into her world, floating around like balloons without strings.

  Riley looked from Shelby—who had her ear buds in and was bopping in her seat—to JD. Sometimes I feel like I have no connection, no root, nothing tying me to my life, to my brand-new bedroom in our brand-new tract home—to anything, Riley thought. She felt as disconnected and as forgotten as baby Jane, tucked away in a baby book somewhere, dumped in a box, forgotten until unearthed by accident. Tears stung at the back of her eyes.

  “So what do you do? You can’t just walk out.” She jutted her head toward the front of the bus where Ms. Carter sat, her profile lit by the greyish light of her iPad. “Carter counts.”

  “Or miscounts.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.