No.
Angie wouldn’t write a book about me.
Mrs. Vega’s saying something more, but it’s muffled, like I’m inside a glass ball. I’m consumed by thoughts of all the things people have said that didn’t make sense until this very moment.
Grandma mumbling, “Some truths aren’t mine to tell.”
Dad saying Angie would have something to share with me about being famous.
Dylan saying it was a “good call” not to search for myself on the internet.
“I did some writing.” Angie’s own words. “It made me feel closer to you.”
She left out the part about writing a whole freaking book with me as the subject. And here I thought we could rebuild our friendship. “I can’t think of anything else you need to know,” she said.
“Jenny?”
Mrs. Vega’s voice breaks through. I look down. I’ve shredded multiple sheets of notebook paper, creating a snowscape on the table.
I have to see this book now. I stand.
“Jenny,” Mrs. Vega says again.
I’m getting sick of my name, the way people feel entitled to it. Like they know me. News flash, Jenny: Angie is the reason everyone knows your name.
But I need to find out how much they know about me. Besides, apparently, my fear of spiders and aversion to partying.
“I have to go.” I pull what’s left of my notebook out from under the shreds, flip it shut, and stuff it into my backpack.
“Go?” Mrs. Vega echoes. “It’s the middle of the school day.”
“I feel sick.”
She looks at the rest of the class, like she’s torn between her responsibility to them and to me. She leans close. “Okay. You can go to the nurse. But I’m here if you want to talk later. I have a free period at the end of the day.”
I don’t look at anyone else. I’m sure Ashling’s mentally recording every reaction for her Jenny Waters exposé. Maybe she’s even taking notes. Forget the school paper; she could write an article for the New York Times.
“Thanks, Mrs. Vega.” My voice is strangled as I leave the room. I don’t head for the nurse’s office. I march for a side door near the band room that I know lets off beside a walking path. I stride into the trees, toward answers.
Leaving school without permission is the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my life. I laugh through my nose. I was so determined to get to the library for a newspaper, to figure out what everyone’s been afraid to tell me about the world. Turns out what they’ve been hiding is a lot more personal. I’m sweating when I arrive, and I wish I’d chosen Keds instead of cute sandals this morning, as a blister’s forming on the outside of my little toe. But I’m here, and I will discover how royally Angie’s screwed me over.
The automatic doors swish open, and I’m greeted by the familiar smell of books and musty carpet, which appears to be the same carpet the library had the last time I was here. I’m so grateful I’m tempted to get on my knees and kiss it.
To my right are the bathrooms and meeting rooms, just like before. I turn left instead, toward the main area where the stacks are. But I stop. Because right through the security sensors, beside the book return desk, there’s a display: “Everything You Need to Know About Flight 237.” This is why Mom and Dad didn’t want to bring me here.
My first instinct is to grab every single book on that shelf and make a run for it, but I wouldn’t make it to the street before somebody caught me. There are, like, twenty of them. I cover my mouth, and my feet carry me toward the display as if an invisible rope is tugging me forward. I scan the titles—The Unsolved Mystery of Flight 237: Facts and Theories, A Timeline of Flight 237, Missing Mid-Flight, Left Grounded. Where’s Walter?—so I’m not the only one who has a whole book about me. Poor Walter. But I can’t let it distract me. Right in the center, in prime position, is the book I came to see—Jenny and Me.
The cover features a picture of me and my former best friend, our cheeks pressed together, the camera close up. I don’t remember this specific shot, but we look happy. It’s my Angie, the one I left behind. I don’t consciously tell my hands to reach for the book, even though that’s why I came. I clutch it to my chest, hiding my face against my T-shirt as I search for a private place to read. It’s pretty quiet, as I’d expect at this time of day.
The children’s section is out; there are a couple of moms with small kids in there. I move away from the display, along the stacks. The book scent reassures me. I claim a padded armchair at the end of a row.
I smooth my hand over the book’s cover and breathe deeply before opening it. I check the copyright: 2001. So this was published six years after I disappeared, when Angie was twenty-three and just out of college. When she should’ve been in her first year of law school. She’s listed on the cover as Angela Russell Graham, so she and Steve must’ve gotten married during college or right after. And it’s nineteen years ago, so before Dylan and JoJo.
I flip to the next page. For Jenny. I will always miss you. If there are any typos in this book, I’m sure you’ll catch them from heaven or space or wherever you’re reading this.
I sigh. It’s just so Angie. But it’s also devastating. Everyone really did believe I was dead. Years trudged by for Angie while hours passed for me in the air. It’s inconceivable, and there’s still no explanation. I hope some of Art’s theories include a reason why this happened to us, how we lost twenty-five years of our lives—or maybe it’s more like our families and friends lost twenty-five years of us. It’s all so confusing, especially since I’m positive I wasn’t anywhere but on that plane.
There’s a table of contents, but I skip over it and go straight to the first chapter. And I read.
Angie starts at the beginning, when we met in second grade after she moved to town. We were in the same class, and I begged Mom to invite her over for a playdate. She wanted to play with Barbies, while I wanted to put on a show for my parents. We compromised with a play acted out by the Barbies. I wrote the script; she figured out where they’d all stand and what they’d wear. I barely remember that, but I guess it made an impression on her.
I curl into the chair as I move through our childhood memories. She’s included pictures of cards I made for her, snapshots of us together. It’s like an Angie-and-Jenny scrapbook. And yes, the spider story is there. Based on how that guy in English approached me, I expected it to make me out as outrageously arachnophobic, but Angie actually tells the story more comically while still conveying that we were both scared.
These early chapters are actually pretty sweet.
It’s when I get to the last couple of years that I want to throw the book across the aisle. I can’t believe I was so wrong about Angie and our friendship. Like in chapter twelve, where she talks about the incident Ashling referenced earlier.
Jenny had more integrity than any seventeen-year-old you’d ever meet, and I loved that about her. But it sometimes meant I held certain things back. For example, the summer she disappeared, we had jobs at a frozen custard shop. Jenny had an amazing eye for detail and an unusually heightened sense for a story. But at the same time, she also saw the best in people. So it escaped her notice that two of our coworkers were selling pot to anyone who walked up to the window with a code word. If Jenny had known, she’d have probably felt obligated to turn them in to management.
I thought Ashling was making that up just to get under my skin, but now it seems more like she only twisted the current story to get in a dig at me. I rub my temples, too weary to untangle it.
But it bugs me that Angie kept all that from me. Because she thought I would report them. Like some sanctimonious tattletale. Would I have? I honestly don’t know. I don’t think I could’ve just ignored Jeff and Cory selling drugs (of course it’s obvious it was those two, now that I think about it). I mean, it could’ve shut down Frosty’s if they’d gotten caught in a sting or something. Maybe I would’ve talked to them. Although, what kind of awkward conversation would that have been? Hey, guys. Are you selling drugs? That’s wrong. Just say no! Yeah, that would’ve gone over real well.
But Angie lied. To me. I thought we told each other everything. Apparently that wasn’t true for Angie twenty-five years ago or now.
But chapter thirteen is evidence that I, in fact, did tell Angie everything.
Jenny was an incurable romantic. She had a bookshelf full of romance novels, and she dreamed of being swept off her feet someday. She’d signed a pledge when she was fourteen to wait for sex until marriage, but in the meantime, she really craved a spectacular first kiss.
I can’t believe she included my pledge! My friends knew about it, and I’m not embarrassed about the pledge itself, since it’s my body and my decision, but I wouldn’t have chosen to publish it in a book, for all potential boyfriends to read about before we can discuss it one-on-one. It explains maybe-Lana oversharing about her hookup and calling me a prude. I don’t know why everyone always assumes I’m going to judge them based on what I’ve decided to do.
But the real kicker is a particular conversation Angie included next. I can’t believe nobody has brought it up, because it’s somehow even more embarrassing. It seems like exactly the sort of tidbit Drew or Ashling would delight in torturing me with.
Right before she left for New York, we were sitting in the food court at the mall, taking a shopping break, when Jenny said, “Do you think birds have sex?”
I sprayed Coke all over the table. “Whaaat?”
“Because if they do, it’s really sad [my boyfriend] hasn’t kissed me after two months.”
I mopped up the Coke with a brown Sbarro’s napkin. “Where did this come from?”
Jenny shrugged. “Some birds moved into our bathroom vent. I heard them making a racket this morning. I’m pretty sure they’re having sex.”
“Uh … no idea how to respond to that, but I’m pretty sure the problem with you and [your boyfriend] is that you’re both too shy to make the first move.”
“Maybe.” She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “But since the birds aren’t shy and we’ve all heard that spiel about the birds and the bees, stay tuned for baby news from our bathroom vent.”
“Are you serious about the birds?” Because she was funny that way, saying whatever random thought was in her head and turning it into some sort of extended metaphor. I always loved how she could relate the most random thing to her life or mine.
“I guess we’ll see.” She tapped two fingers against her lips. “I wonder if the baby birds will come before I get my kiss.”
Unfortunately, they did.
She thought it was funny how I blurted out random thoughts? My cheeks are flaming. There’s nobody around, but it doesn’t matter. Countless people have read this passage. People I know. Oh my gosh. My parents. Why did they let Angie write this? And I notice how she doesn’t list Steve by name, but people would’ve known. Steve would’ve known. She also left out the part where she dared me to kiss him first, sweetening the deal with an offer of free chocolate milkshakes on her for a month. Did she forget or leave it out for Steve’s sake? I bet he would’ve found it funny.
I’m speeding through the rest to see what other embarrassing moments she’s included when my name echoes through the library. “Jenny!”