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June 7, 2004
Janie is sixteen. She buys her own clothing now. Often she buys food, too. The welfare check covers the rent and the booze, and not much else.
Two years ago, Janie started working a few hours after school and on the weekends at Heather Nursing Home. Now she works full-time for the summer.
The office staff and the other aides at Heather Home like Janie, especially during school holidays, because she’ll pick up anybody’s shifts, day or night, so they can take a last-minute sick day or vacation. Janie needs the money, and they know it.
She’s determined to go to college.
Five days a week or more, Janie puts on her hospital scrubs and takes a bus to the nursing home. She likes old people. They don’t sleep soundly.
Janie and Carrie are still friends and next-door neighbors. They spend a lot of time at Janie’s house, waiting for Janie’s mother to pass out in her bedroom before they watch movies and talk about boys. They talk about other things too, like why Carrie’s father is so angry all the time, and why Carrie’s mother doesn’t like company. Mostly, Janie thinks, it’s just because they’re grouchy people. Plain and simple. Whenever Carrie asks if she can have Janie sleep over, her mother says, “You just had a sleepover on your birthday.” Carrie doesn’t bother to remind her that that was four years ago.
Janie thinks about Carson and wonders if Carrie really is an only child. But Carrie doesn’t seem to talk about anything with sharp edges. Maybe she’s afraid they might poke into her and then she’d burst.
Carrie and Melinda are also still friends. Melinda’s parents are still rich. Melinda plays tennis. She is a cheerleader. Her parents have condos in Vegas, Marco Island, Vail, and somewhere in Greece. Melinda mostly hangs out with other rich kids. And then there’s Carrie.
Janie doesn’t mind being with Melinda. Melinda still can’t stand Janie. Janie thinks she knows the real reason why, and it doesn’t have anything to do with having money.
June 25, 2004, 11:15 p.m.
After working a record eleven evenings straight, and being caught by old Mr. Reed’s recurring nightmare about World War II seven of those eleven evenings, Janie collapses on the couch and kicks her shoes off. By the number of empty bottles on the ring-stained coffee table, she assumes her mother is in her bedroom, down for the count.
Carrie lets herself in. “Can I crash here?” Her eyes are rimmed in red.
Janie sighs inwardly. She wants to sleep. “ ’Course. You okay with the couch?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Janie relaxes. Carrie, on the couch, would work fine.
Carrie sniffles loudly.
“So, what’s wrong?” Janie asks, trying to put as much sympathy in her voice as she can muster. It’s enough.
“Dad’s yelling again. I got asked out. Dad says no.”
Janie perks up. “Who asked you out?”
“Stu. From the body shop.”
“You mean that old guy?”
Carrie bristles. “He’s twenty-two.”
“You’re sixteen! And he looks older than that.”
“Not up close. He’s cute. He has a cute ass.”
“Maybe he plays Dance Dance Revolution at the arcade.”
Carrie giggles. Janie smiles.
“So. You got any liquor around here?” Carrie asks innocently.
Janie laughs. “There’s an understatement. Whaddya want, beer?” She looks at the bottles on the table. “Schnapps? Whiskey? Double-stuff vodka?”
“Got any of that cheap grape wine the winos at Selby Park drink?”
“At your service.” Janie hauls herself off the couch and looks for clean glasses. The kitchen is a mess. Janie has barely been here the past two weeks. She finds two sticky, mismatched glasses in the sink and washes them out, then searches through her mother’s stash for her cheap wine assortment. “Ah, here it is. Boone’s Farm, right?” She unscrews the bottle and pours two glasses full, not waiting for an answer from Carrie, and then puts the bottle back in the fridge.
Carrie flips on the TV. She takes a glass from Janie. “Thanks.”
Janie sips the sweet wine and makes a face. “So what are you gonna do about Stu?” She thinks there’s a country song in that sentence somewhere.
“Go out with him.”
“Your dad’s gonna kill you if he finds out.”
“Yeah, well. What else is new?” They both settle on the creaky couch and put their feet on the coffee table, deftly pushing the mess of bottles to the center of it so they can stretch out.
The TV drones. The girls sip their wine and get silly. Janie gets up, rummages around in her bedroom, and returns with snacks.
“Gross—you keep Doritos in your bedroom?”
“Emergency stash. For nights such as these.” Since Mother can’t be bothered to buy any actual food at the grocery store when she goes there for booze, Janie thinks.
“Ahh.” Carrie nods.
12:30 a.m.
Janie is asleep on the couch. She doesn’t dream. Never dreams.
5:02 a.m.
Janie, forced awake, catapults into Carrie’s dream. It’s the one by the river. Again. Janie’s been here twice since the first time, when they were thirteen.
