Whatever Happened to Janie? (7 page)

The black-and-white kitchen TV, tuned to CNN, droned stories of politics, earthquakes, and federal funding for art projects.

The noise and the chaos were incredible.

Janie sat at the kitchen table, untouched homework spread in front of her. She had wedged herself safely into a corner, where she could hear
and see everything but was not in the direct line of traffic. It was probably just as well she could not telephone Sarah-Charlotte to describe this place. It was not only a zoo; now that Nicole had arrived, Janie was the chief exhibit.

Nicole was dying to hear about the kidnapping. “Have you been to the mall yet, Jennie?” she said. “You know. The one where—well—you know.”

Janie shook her head and pretended to write in her science-lab notebook.

“Here, Jennie,” said Nicole. “I’ve threaded a needle for you. Start sewing this row of cars onto the dress. There’s room at the table for all three of us to work on it. I’ll never get it done without you.”

Janie had never held a sewing needle in her life.

She could possibly imagine sewing a torn hem. But she could not believe that her first sewing project involved tacking a two-inch car onto a mini-dress.

It was remarkably hard. You had to wind the thread around the tiny axles of the car, or through the little windows. The car had to be attached in at least two places to keep it from sagging. Janie concentrated. When she had sewn on a royal-blue car, she sorted through the rest of the cars and picked out a miniature ambulance to go next to it. Then she added a red convertible.

“Try it on,” commanded Jodie, thrusting the dress back into Nicole’s arms.

Nicole had already tried it on three times. But she obligingly tugged it on again. What had seemed pitifully ridiculous when there were just a couple of cars sewn on was now so weird that it was fabulous.

“I like it!” said Janie, laughing. “It’s going to be like armor. You’re a medieval knight, except on the interstate.”

“Was the interstate built when you were kidnapped?” said Nicole. “Did that woman drive you away on 1–95?”

Mrs. Soring, despite phone, crosswords, Nintendo songs, CNN, and address book, was paying attention. “Nicole,” she said sharply.

“I’m just asking.”

“Just wear your dress, Nicole. If you feel the need to ask another question, fill your mouth with a cookie.”

Suddenly, like the next act of a play, or perhaps a different play altogether, the scene changed. Mr. Spring kicked Stephen, Mark, and Drew out of the living room so he could watch sports on television; a parent arrived in a van and siphoned off all the twins’ friends; Mrs. Spring got off the phone and began preparing spaghetti sauce. This consisted of browning some hamburger and sausage and onions and throwing in two immense jars of store-bought sauce and then adding—over the twins’ moans and protests—a big freezer box of broccoli.

“Stir this,” she said to Janie, and Janie stood up right where she was sewing, reached across the small kitchen and stirred slowly with the wooden spoon.

I wonder if I’ll ever get used to this, she thought. The way they live. The noise they make.

And Janie Johnson realized, with a sick lurch, that she was used to it. She was enjoying herself. The family was still something to watch rather than
take part in, but these people were no longer aliens from outer space; they were nice and bumped into each other and cooked spaghetti by the vat.

She couldn’t start liking them! How would her mother feel if Janie had a good time?

The twins came into the kitchen to sample the sauce, letting no vegetable contaminate their spoonfuls.

“You should have covered your dress with plastic horses, Nicole,” said Brendan. “Remember how you used to own twelve thousand My Pretty Ponies?”

“Six,” said Nicole. “I had six of them.”

Everybody laughed. Mrs. Spring went down the hall. Mr. Spring turned up the volume on the TV so he could hear over the kitchen laughter.

“I used to ride,” said Janie, feeling that she was acting dangerously by participating at all; this was like bungee-jumping, to join the Springs in conversation.

“Real horses?” said Jodie, amazed and impressed.

Janie nodded. “I took lessons for three years. I entered lots of shows. The way the stables do it, so that everybody triumphs, they make sure you’re in a riding class with very few others. That way you’re bound to get a ribbon. I got tons of ribbons but I was never much of a rider. The third horse I owned was hard to manage and I lost interest.”

She had said something wrong. They were staring at her.

“I thought you said you took gymnastics and flute,” said Stephen.

He was angry. Janie could not imagine what made him angry. “All the girls took flute. Sixth grade,” said Janie. “Every girl I knew started flute and every boy started drums or trumpet.”

“How did your parents afford all those lessons?” said Brendan.

“Her parents were rich,” said Brian.

“They were not her parents,” said Stephen. “Stop calling them that.”

“They were my parents,” said Janie. “I didn’t have any others.”

“Here!” said Stephen, stabbing the kitchen-table top with his index finger. “You had parents
here.”

“I didn’t know anybody was here,” said Janie.

“Of course you did!” Stephen’s anger spilled over. “You had to have known! You had to have said to these wonderful perfect rich terrific Johnsons—Oh, by the way, my name is actually Jennie Spring, mind taking me home?”

He had touched on the evil in the story. He was right. Why hadn’t she argued? Why hadn’t she told them her real name? And if she had,
why hadn’t the Johnsons listened?
“I don’t remember. It’s a long long time ago. I don’t know what I said to anybody.”

She wished Mr. or Mrs. Spring would come into the room. She wished Nicole were not there, with her eyes hot for gossip.

“You were three,” said Stephen. “That’s old enough for complete sentences. That’s old enough for arguing. That’s old enough to make it clear who you are.”

“I know that,” said Janie. “Do you think I
haven’t wondered why I didn’t fight Hannah? I didn’t scream, or try to break free, or anything. I just went along for the ride and had a good time. Do you think it isn’t awful to live with that?”

Brendan, trying for once in his dumb life to be a peacemaker, spoke up. “It wasn’t your fault, Jennie,” said Brendan. “It was those terrible people. Those horrible Johnsons. You probably told them over and over that they had no right to keep you. They must have lied to you millions of times until eventually you believed them. They probably tortured you. You probably have scars. You’ve just blocked all that out.”

Janie leapt up from the table. Matchbox cars spewed over the floor. Jodie’s glass of Coke tipped onto Nicole’s fashion entry.

“Shut up!” screamed Janie. “They are not terrible people! They didn’t know what was happening! If they had known, they wouldn’t have let it. They are wonderful people. I love them. And they
are
my parents. So there!”

T
he shape of the room in which she had English was different from the classroom in Connecticut. The slant of the sunlight coming through the windows was different. The test, however, was just an English test. One page with thirty easy short-answer questions.

Janie had done her homework last night. In fact, she had done her homework more thoroughly than at any time in her life. Otherwise she would have had to join in.

But at the top of the upper right hand corner of the one-page test was something Janie had not bargained for.

It was her eleventh day in New Jersey, and her sixth day in school. She had not had to pass in homework before, and she had not had to take an exam until today.

No one else on earth, thought Janie, is taking this particular test. No one else on earth has to
pass. No one else on earth has two possible answers to that question.
Name:
_____

The Springs might claim that Janie Johnson and Jennie Spring were the same. Janie knew better. They were two entirely separate human beings, and their lives and experiences had not overlapped in twelve years.

Janie held that pencil very tightly. She wrote a single letter. J.

I’m J no matter what, she thought. That’s all I have left for sure. One capital letter.

She closed her eyes. The yellow angles of the pencil pressed against the soft pads of her fingers. She opened her eyes and swiftly scribbled the thirty answers, finishing before anybody else. Briefly she looked up. Mrs. Fann was studying her with intense fascination.

All eyes looked over and around and through Janie now, as if she were public property, as if they deserved the rest of the answers.

There was only one answer. Janie and the family she loved had agreed on the answer. There were a lot of reasons, but the biggest was to protect Mommy and Daddy from having to go through anything more. From having to think any more about what Hannah did. She could no longer be Janie Johnson. Today she had to admit it. Forming each letter carefully, using her best script.

Name: Jennie Spring

One by one the rest of the students put down their papers. The shaft of sunlight on her desk moved off her pencil. Mrs. Fann stood up. Her lips began to form the letter P, for
pass your tests in.

Janie penciled a wide harsh line through
Jennie Spring
and wrote, carefully, and in her very best script,
Janie Johnson.

Middle school boys’ basketball did not attract crowds.

The Spring family was the largest group there. There were nine more parents of basketball-team players and six cheerleader parents. An assortment of small children climbed precariously up and down the bleachers, or else sobbed with boredom and begged to be taken home. One mother had brought a box of Nilla cookies which she tossed like tiny Frisbees to any child in need of distraction. Half the cookies fell between the bleachers, and two shrieking, pummeling little boys raced around under them, joyfully licking up the crumbs.

Janie had forgotten, from the lofty view of tenth grade, just how pathetic sixth-and seventh-grade players could be. Twice, the “crowd” cringed, expecting a player to head the wrong way down the court and make a basket for the opposition. Twice, leaping, shouting, fist-gesturing coaches managed to stop them. Once, that boy was Brian.

Brendan played well and was in for most of the game. Brian played lousily and was on the bench for most of the game. It was not a comfortable sight for the family. The boys were used to being equal; they came in a set and always ended up in one.

Brendan’s game total was a marvelous twenty-one points. He was slapping backs and laughing wildly, and yet struggling to be blasé.

Brian was finally put back in the game in the
last one and a half minutes of the fourth quarter. Then he played badly. He tripped, as if even his feet were tied up with frustration, embarrassment, and jealousy.

I’m a twin, thought Janie. Janie and Jennie. Twins. Sometimes I’m the good twin, with double-digit scores and people whistling. Sometimes I’m the bad twin, hardly able to remember who’s on my team.

During a time-out, she accepted three quarters from Mrs. Spring to plunk in the vending machine out in the hallway for a soda. She and Jodie and Stephen went together out of the gym to get drinks.

They waited for Janie to get her soda first. When Jodie had her Sprite, she said brightly, “So. How was your day, Jennie?”

Be the good twin, Janie told herself. “Fine,” she said.

Stephen dropped his quarters in and hit the root beer button like a punching bag.

“How was yours?” said Janie quickly to her sister.

“Terrific. I got a ninety-two in Japanese.”

Janie stared at her sister.
“Japanese?”
she repeated.

“Yup. Only eleven of us are in third-year Japanese. Everybody else dropped out along the way. It’s a very very hard language. We have nothing but contempt and scorn for people taking mere French or Spanish.”

“You’re taking Japanese?” repeated Janie. She was amazed and impressed. Somehow it didn’t seem like Jodie.

“If you had ever looked across the bedroom when Jodie was doing her homework,” said Stephen acidly, “you would have noticed she wasn’t using an alphabet.”

I hate him, thought Janie. She gripped the sweating, cold soda can and went back to the gym. Doesn’t he realize how hard this is for me? she thought furiously.

The good-twin half of her thought:
It’s hard for him, too.

She climbed up next to Mrs. Spring again. Stephen wouldn’t say anything in front of his mother.

We’re both protecting our mothers, thought Janie.

In her purse were photographs of Mommy and Daddy. She could open the clasp, unzip the pocket, and shuffle through the familiar, beloved photos of her Connecticut mother and father. But already she did not want to hurt Mr. and Mrs. Spring’s feelings by doing that.

What about Mommy and Daddy’s feelings? she thought.

She did not unzip her purse, but felt the edge of the stack of photographs through the thin leather, playing with the corner as if it were a baby’s pacifier.