Young Jane Young

by Gabrielle Zevin

  Embeth had known prior versions of these boys and girls, though she did not know any of the current versions personally, and her arrival was not noticed. Through years of tepid celebrity, Embeth had learned the art of entering a room. When she wanted to be noticed, she was noticed. When she didn’t want to be noticed, she almost never had to be. The trick was in looking as if she knew where she was going while putting out a benign and boring, if slightly unpleasant, energy. The trick could sometimes be her phone, her (and everyone else’s) fortress of solitude, and a practiced absorption in it. The trick could involve an unpretentious hat, but never sunglasses. Whatever method she used, the older she got, the easier it was to flip that particular switch to the invisible setting. Someday soon, she supposed, the switch would stick there, and Embeth would never be seen again.

  Embeth arrived at Tasha’s desk, which was in a separate reception area outside her husband’s personal office. Across from her desk sat the girl. She wore a seersucker blazer and blue jeans with cheerful designs painted on them (a rainbow, a heart, the sun, clouds), and a T-shirt that said, WOMEN’S RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS, and pink running shoes. Her hair was frizzy with humidity and pulled into an awkward half ponytail. She had on circular frames, which emphasized the roundness of her face. Beneath those glasses were soft green eyes and Embeth could tell from looking in those eyes that school—nay, life—must be hard for her. She looked less guarded than was optimal for survival. She reminded Embeth of a turtle on its back, a porcupine born without quills. Either her mother had done a very good or a very bad job raising her. Very good, because the girl did not look as if she cared what anyone thought of her. Very bad, because the mother had not prepared her for the world. To Embeth’s eye, yes, the girl did resemble Aaron—the curly hair, the light eyes, though Aaron’s were more blue than green. But then again, Aviva Grossman’s features were quite similar to Aaron’s, so who was to say? What the girl mainly looked was Jewish, Embeth supposed. The girl looked peaceful and nerdy. She had on headphones and was reading something intently on a tablet.

  If she was Aaron’s daughter, it would be completely out of character for Aviva Grossman to have kept such a secret for so long. That girl was the most indiscreet person Embeth had ever encountered. Have an affair with my husband, if you must, but don’t write about it on the Internet! Certainly don’t write about having anal sex with him, for the love of God. Even if you changed the names, it was only a matter of time.

  “Mrs. Levin,” Tasha said, jumping out of her desk chair. “I told them to tell me when you were coming up.”

  “I’m slippery,” Embeth said.

  “That’s her,” Tasha said.

  “Yes, I assumed a second girl hadn’t shown up,” Embeth said.

  “I couldn’t find a closet, so I left her here,” Tasha said.

  “I’m going to speak to her. Would you give us a moment? And Tasha, please. I’m counting on you not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  Tasha left the office, and Embeth sat on the love seat next to the girl.

  “We’re wearing the same sneakers,” Embeth said.

  The girl took off her headphones. “What?” she said.

  “We’re wearing the same sneakers,” Embeth said.

  “Yours are black,” she said. “Mine are the pink ones, which I had to wait two extra weeks to get. Some people I know don’t like pink.”

  “It’s not my favorite color,” Embeth admitted. She would love to die without ever having to see another pink ribbon for breast cancer, for instance.

  “Me neither,” she said. “It’s my second favorite color. Mrs. Morgan says that not liking pink is a way of saying you don’t like women. Because women are so associated with pink.”

  “I see Mrs. Morgan’s point,” Embeth said. “But, it’s worth remembering that pink is forced on women from a young age—the ubiquity of pink for girls and blue for boys in baby stores, for example. So to resist the wearing of pink is to reject old-fashioned ideas about what it means to be a woman.”

  “Hmm,” the girl said. “But it’s not pink’s fault that people do that. And no one feels about blue the same way they do about pink. And the blue is forced on the boys as much as the pink is forced on the girls, so I think the issue is complicated. I think the issue is nuanced, which is one of my new favorite words. Nuanced means—”

  “I’m Embeth,” Embeth managed to interject. “Embeth,” she repeated. “The congressman’s wife.”

  “I know. I googled the congressman. I’m Ruby. I’m here to meet the congressman, but Tasha told you that when she called. Sorry, I heard her side. And I’m also sorry I didn’t make an appointment,” she said.

  “Yes, you probably should have made an appointment, but we are where we are. Let us not be Lot’s wife, looking back toward Sodom.”

  “You’re hilarious,” Ruby said.

  This comment momentarily disarmed Embeth. She hadn’t meant to be funny, and also, no one had ever thought Embeth was hilarious. Occasionally, Embeth’s dry wit was noted. “I can possibly arrange a meeting for you with the congressman, but you need to answer a few questions first.”

  Ruby nodded.

  “Your mother is Aviva?” Embeth asked.

  “Yes. She calls herself Jane now,” Ruby said.

  “Why does she do that?” Embeth said.

  “Because she’s a liar,” Ruby said.

  Embeth had to admit that the girl had an appealing directness.

  “Because she’s ashamed of herself, I think,” Ruby said in a gentler tone. “And because she’s scared people will judge her because of what she did with your husb —— congressman.”

  “She’s probably right. Why are you here?” Embeth said.

  “I want to meet my father. I’m not sure if the congressman is him, but I want to know if he is,” Ruby said.

  “And no one’s encouraged you to come here this week, of all weeks?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Ruby said.

  “For instance, your mother? Might she have put you up to this?”

  “My mom doesn’t know where I am,” Ruby said. “I left her a note.”

  “You seem rather young to travel alone,” Embeth said.

  “I am, but I’m very mature for my age. I’ve always had a lot of responsibility. My mom is an event planner, and I’ve been working for her for years.”

  Embeth sighed. “You seem like a good person, Ruby—”

  “I’m not,” Ruby said. “I’ve done terrible things.”

  Embeth paused. “What have you done?”

  “I don’t want to say. It wasn’t illegal, but it was possibly immoral,” Ruby said. “Maybe it wasn’t immoral, but it was definitely disloyal. Maybe—”

  “Never mind, this seems terribly complicated,” said Embeth. “Let’s put a pin in that. You must admit, the timing of your visit is somewhat suspicious. Do you know what an election is?”

  “Yes, of course I do,” Ruby said.

  Embeth could tell she had insulted her. In her defense, it was difficult to know what any given child knew. “Congressman Levin is up for reelection next week, and your presence could be less than ideal for him. Whether you turn out to be the congressman’s daughter or not, there are many people who would love to dredge up the ancient scandal between him and your mother. I don’t know how much you know about that?”

  Ruby averted her eyes.

  “Well, yes. Well, my point is it could be very bad for the congressman the week before an election.”

  Ruby considered this. She took off her glasses and she wiped them on her T-shirt. “It’s so hot here,” she said. “My hair has never in my whole life been this frizzy.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Embeth. “This can’t be your first time in Florida?”

  “It is,” Ruby said. “We live in Maine, which is the Pine Tree State.”

  Maine. For whatever reason, the thought of Aviva Grossman in Maine amused Embeth. Damned to eternal winter.

  “Did you hav
e cancer?” Ruby asked casually.

  “Why? Do I look like I have cancer?”

  “My mom does a lot of benefits for people with cancer. You look like you have cancer, or you had cancer, I guess. You don’t have any eyebrows,” said Ruby. “You might have overplucked them. That sometimes happens with brides.”

  “No, I’m not a bride. I haven’t been a bride for a very long time. I do have cancer,” Embeth said. “Usually I draw my brows on, if I think of it. They say they’ll grow back, but mine seem determined not to.”

  “It’s weird that you call your husband ‘the congressman,’ ” Ruby said.

  “It probably is,” Embeth said. “But I’ve been doing it so long, I don’t even know I’m doing it. He is my husband, but he is also the representative for my district. So he is actually my congressman and my husband.” There had been times when Aaron had let her down as a husband, but she could honestly say he had never let her down as a congressman. As a politician, he was honest and he never made promises he couldn’t keep.

  “I never thought about it that way,” said Ruby. “Have you voted for him every time he ran?”

  “Yes,” said Embeth.

  “Would you ever not vote for him?”

  “Probably not,” said Embeth. “We feel the same way on all of the most important issues, and I believe in his judgment and his vision.”

  “What do you mean by ‘judgment’?”

  What did Embeth mean by ‘judgment’? She had been saying the same lines for so long she barely knew what she meant. “He’s careful about who he takes money from, and he cares about his constituents more than his donors, and he cares about his conscience even more than his constituents. This is to say, he cares about doing the right thing more than getting elected. That’s what I mean by judgment.”

  Ruby nodded slowly, but she did not look convinced.

  Embeth tried to read Ruby’s expression. She imagined Ruby was thinking about Aaron’s judgment when it came to sleeping with young women like Ruby’s own mother. Embeth’s special power was what Jorge referred to as “negative empathy”—she could always imagine the worst thing a person might be thinking.

  Ruby put her iPad in her backpack. “You asked me if I knew what an election was. I do. I mean, I have for years. Since I was little. My mom took me to Washington, D.C., to see Barack Obama get sworn in. I know about elections. It’s not the reason I’m here, but it is the reason I found out about the congressman.”

  Embeth asked her to clarify.

  “My mom’s running for mayor of Allison Springs. That’s my town. It was named for Captain Eliezer Allison, who was a great captain but a bad husband and father. Isn’t it interesting how people can be good at some things and bad at others?”

  “So, how did you find out about the congressman?” Embeth tried to conceal her impatience.

  “My mom is running against Wes West, who is a Realtor. Wes West whispered ‘Aviva’ at the debate, and that made me google some things, and that’s when I decided to go to Miami.”

  “Wes West sounds like a douchebag,” Embeth said.

  Ruby laughed. “Mrs. Morgan says people shouldn’t use ‘douchebag’ in a negative way, because it turns a feminine hygiene product into a bad word. She says there’s nothing wrong with a douchebag except that douching itself creates an unhealthy climate for a vagina.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Morgan?” The alarm on Embeth’s phone went off. She dug through her purse to find it.

  “Mrs. Morgan is a woman who is now my enemy. Why do you think Wes West is a douchebag?” Ruby asked.

  “When the congressman and I are running against someone, we decide what we’re going to use against him or her, though usually it’s a him, and what we aren’t. We never half use a thing, because that’s cheap. That’s what Wes West did when he whispered ‘Aviva.’ He did it to bother her, to silence her in the moment. And that shows a weak and undisciplined candidate who probably wouldn’t be a good mayor, even of some podunk town like Allison Springs, no offense.” Embeth silenced her phone. “Damn it,” she said. “I have to go speak at this luncheon thing in about twenty minutes. And Aaron’s in D.C. right now.”

  The girl’s face looked hopeless. “I should have thought of that.”

  “He’ll be back tonight. It isn’t as bad as all of that, but I’m not sure what to do with you in the meantime.”

  Ruby picked at a string on her cuff. “I could come with you?”

  “It’s going to be intensely boring,” said Embeth.

  “I know. I go to a lot of luncheons. The bread is always stale, but the salad is sometimes edible. The meal is usually pretty bad, except for dessert. A good dessert is meant to trick you into forgetting about the bad meal that came before.”

  “Is that something your mom taught you?”

  Ruby shrugged.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go,” Embeth said.

  “What would you do if you could skip it?” Ruby asked.

  “I’d go to the movies,” Embeth said. “I’d buy a huge tub of popcorn, and I’d call my friend, Allegra, and after the trailers, I’d fall asleep. I love sleeping at the movies, and I haven’t slept much for months. But that is not going to happen. Okay, say you come to the lunch. What if someone asks who you are?”

  “I’ll say I’m shadowing you for the Future Girls’ Leadership Initiative.”

  “That was a most deft improvisation, Ruby,” said Embeth. “Have you considered a career in politics?”

  “No,” said Ruby. “I don’t think I’d be good at it. People don’t tend to like me. People my own age, I mean.”

  “People don’t tend to like me either,” said Embeth. “I like you, though. I am finding you very likable, and we’ve only just met, and trust me, I have many reasons not to like you, which must mean you are remarkably likable. Okay, you’re coming with me, but we need to call someone first. Your family will want to know you aren’t dead. Do you have your grandmother’s number? She lives pretty near here, I think.”

  Ruby said she didn’t know her grandmother.

  “You don’t know Rachel Grossman?”

  Ruby shook her head. “I don’t know any of the Grossmans. Grossmen. You’re not going to call my mom, are you?”

  “Are you kidding me? Your mom is about the last person in the world I would ever want to call,” Embeth said.

  Embeth left a note on Tasha’s desk, asking her to please track down a number for Rachel Grossman.

  IN THE PARKING lot of the Allen Library, Embeth hastily drew on eyebrows with a pencil.

  “One of them’s a little high,” said Ruby.

  “Shut up, El Meté,” said Embeth.

  “Sorry,” said Ruby. “Just trying to help.”

  “Oh jeez,” said Embeth. “Not you. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Someone called El Meté,” Ruby said. “I like that name. Is it Spanish? I’m interested in languages. I have a pen pal from Indonesia.”

  Embeth rubbed out and redrew her left eyebrow. “Is this better?”

  Ruby looked at her. “It is.” Ruby looked at her some more. “It looks like you are raising one eyebrow, as if you are slightly disapproving of something.”

  “Sounds about right,” said Embeth. “Let’s go in.”

  “Is your friend a boy? ‘El’ means masculine, usually.”

  “I’m not sure,” Embeth said.

  “My teacher at school is like that,” said Ruby.

  “Like what?” Embeth said.

  “Transgendered,” said Ruby.

  “No, it’s not like that,” said Embeth. “My friend is a parrot.”

  “Oh, wow, you have a pet parrot! Can I meet him?”

  At that point, they had reached the entrance, and Jeanne from Embeth’s alumni association approached them. “Mrs. Levin, greetings! Thank you so much for agreeing to do this!” Alumna Jeanne called.

  Jeanne, in her shapeless black cardigan and shapeless black dress, the shapelessness providing a kind of bulwark. Jeann
e, her hair long and unkempt and undyed and washed in coconut oil. Jeanne, in sensible Swedish clogs. Jeanne, who smelled like expensive soap but never used perfume. Jeanne, who splurged on quality glasses and overpriced trips with her alumni association. Jeanne, who had two whippets or perhaps two cats or perhaps raised turtles. Jeanne, who only bought fair trade chocolate. Jeanne, who belonged to a book club where no one ever finished the book. Jeanne, whose primary workout was swimming. Jeanne, who didn’t wear jeans, just loose organic cotton pants. Jeanne, who admired the congressman but would never quite forgive him for what he had done with that intern. Embeth had met many Jeannes. How she envied the Jeannes.

  “Jeanne, wonderful to see you again!” It was always better to assume you had met someone before, though, in fact, Embeth had no specific recollection of having met this particular Jeanne. For whatever reason, it gave less offense to be remembered falsely than to be forgotten.

  “What a wonderful day that was,” Jeanne said.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” Embeth agreed.

  “The weather!” Jeanne said.