“I need a minute,” I say. I get up, touch my cheek again, which still hurts, and walk upstairs to my room. I close the door quietly and lock it. I see the red swelling on my cheek in my vanity mirror, and this tidal wave comes out of me. I can’t remember the last time I sobbed like this. I stay as quiet as I can and shove my face into my pillow; eventually, I flip onto my back and try to breathe, but I can’t stop.

  I check in with why I’m sobbing so much and these are my two main thought-trains:

  My letter worked and I might be going to actual high school. → I’m scared to go to actual high school even though I’m the one who actually put plan-actual-high-school in motion.

  Vernon slapped me really hard. → Vernon slapped me because Vernon is really mad at me. → If Vernon is mad at me, then I have no one.

  I thought the tubes and the System were only hurting Mother. But those tubes hurt me, too. Mother feels, when I think of her, encased—embalmed on the outside. I don’t know what to do with this feeling. I stop heaving and breathe shallow. I have no mother. And I remember that I have a mother. Only she is translucent. I have no mother. Like a wax-paper doll. No one rolled that thin could possibly be somebody’s mother. Punk Rock Jane and the Wax-Paper Mothers. I’m programed. Like some sort of robot. Mina isn’t wax paper. She’s hugs and postcards even if Vernon hides them from us. She’s a wad of foreign money and carefully wrapped Christmas presents when she can’t even be here to watch us open them. → I have a mother. Someone around here has to work. → I will soon tell her everything.

  Free Jane

  It is dinnertime—seven hours after Vernon slapped me. I have come to a place of satisfaction now. First, the slap is a keepsake. It could prove useful. Second, I can barely hold in my excitement about going to school, and yet, I must.

  Dinner is quiet except for the sound of the slap, over and over again in my head. Vernon is fretting so much, Marta’s mashed potatoes don’t even make him smile. Finch doesn’t look up from her plate—I suspect her neck may be permanently fused this way from phone use.

  Henry eats his food quickly and asks to be excused for bed. He looks genuinely sleepy, and I know he spent most of his day with Milorad starting to build the hothouse.

  As I excuse myself from the table, Vernon says, “Sit down.”

  I sit.

  He says, without looking at me, “I won’t be teaching you anymore, Jane.

  “You can do with your days what you like,” he says. “But you must stay in your room and away from Henry. Forget Susan or any art classes. Forget suitors.

  “Marta will send meals to your room. Until your little visitor from the school district comes, you’re not going anywhere and no one is coming to see you either.”

  He gets up and walks into the foyer and then through the passage to the pool house. Finch looks at me and smiles. “You okay?”

  I nod.

  “If you need to talk, I’m here,” she says.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Don’t forget I’m on your team,” she says.

  “I won’t.” As if I’d fall for this old trick.

  I get up and move to the kitchen, where Marta is measuring steel-cut oats into a slow cooker. She looks up and smiles.

  “I’ll make sure to put extra pecans on the side,” she says.

  “It’s all very draconian.”

  “What time will you want breakfast?” Marta asks.

  “Same as always.”

  “You get a week of vacation! Sleep in!”

  “Do you think he’d let Gemma come over?”

  “Definitely not,” she says.

  “Probably for the best,” I say. “And how about nine? Seems right.”

  “I’ll send it up right at nine,” she says.

  “I feel like I’m going to jail,” I say.

  “You’re not,” Marta says.

  The back door opens. It’s Vernon. He slams it closed quickly to keep the wind and cold out. “You’re supposed to be in your room,” he says.

  “We were working out meal stuff,” Marta says.

  “If you’re finished, go to your room,” he says, not looking up as he walks into the study. “I don’t want to see you.”

  Marta takes a deep breath. I decide six days in my room will be good for me. I will gather proof. I will write the opera. I will manifest a free mother. I will manifest a free Jane.

  Postmarked January 8, 2025

  A Picture of a Whimsical Machine in the Museum Tinguely

  Dear Henry and Jane,

  We’re in Basel, Switzerland, now. It’s such a cool place. One show here tonight and then to Salzburg. I hope you got the bulbs from the NL, Henry. Jane, I can’t believe I’ve been away since October. I’ll be home next for your birthday. I can’t wait. Miss you both. Love, Mom

  Postmarked January 10, 2025

  A Picture of the Mozart Museum

  Dear Jane and Henry,

  Salzburg is my favorite city. Not just because of all the music connections from Mozart to The Sound of Music but because it’s just so cool. The people here are great. And the food is delicious. I hope to bring you both here one day. Jane, I have found the ukulele, but I will bring it for your birthday. Henry, how’s the hothouse coming along? I hope you can take me on a tour when I’m home in March. Love you, Mom

  Six Days and Six Nights

  On night one, I look for movies from the year I was four and look for Mother running through the house toward the kitchen. Instead, I find other similar scenes…

  03.15.2012 / Foyer / Mother sprints into the foyer and looks behind her. She is out of breath. Vernon can be heard approaching and she doesn’t have time to unlock the door, so she exits through the other doorway, and into the downstairs hall. → 07.04.2012 / Patio / Mother runs across the patio, takes a left at the pool fence, and hides behind the north wall of the pool house. Vernon arrives soon after, looks all directions, then doubles back. → 09.10.2012 / Patio / Mother runs from the garage area to the back kitchen door. When she gets to the door, she pounds on it until Marta opens it.

  None of them are the day I’m looking for, which is the alleged stabbing Vernon told Henry about, but the exercise of looking for it made me realize that I will never have enough time with Mother to actually show her all of these home movies. Some of the best ones are more than five minutes long, and the entire plan to show her overlooks the fact that she’s confined to System. I decide to format my list differently—shorter snippets, rapid-fire—and call them mixtapes. I use the three of Mother being chased as my first one and title it “Chasing Mother.”

  The mixtapes get better as the days go on. Saturday, I gather fifteen instances of Finch telling me that Mother often told me I look ugly when I cry—fifteen. That’s how much she tells this story, yet I still can’t find the actual footage from when this happened. Then I find this:

  07.30.2020 / Patio / “You tell me this story a lot. Were you there?” I ask. Finch answers, “Of course I was there.” I ask, “Where did it happen?” She answers, “The study. Right by the French doors.” And I look so skeptical. I don’t remember being that skeptical. Age twelve. I am elated that I was that skeptical. I put it in the mixtape list and call it “Ugly Cryer Story” mixtape.

  By Saturday night at 2:00 a.m., I have reviewed all footage of me and Mother in the study. No telling me I look ugly when I cry.

  Sunday, I figure it’s time to look at my birthdays. I’ve been saving my fifth for when I’m having a bad day because I know it was my best birthday. So, I start with 2009, the year I turned one.

  I watch myself eat pieces of cake with my hands and smear icing on my face. Marta and Mother sing to me the loudest. Vernon seems to never take his hands off me, as if I’m some sort of home base and he’s playing a game of tag.

  I watch myself turn two, three, four, six, and seven, and I grow sleepy. It’s a rainy January day and Marta sent a double-decker grilled cheese for lunch. I nap for four hours, wake up, eat half my dinner, then go back to sleep.

  Monday, I decide to organize the opera. I am bored looking at my family being dysfunctional and weird.

  On Tuesday and Wednesday, I add four new mixtapes to my list—my favorites are “Mina Doesn’t Even Hurt Spiders”—10.24.2016 / Foyer / “Jane, open the front door quick! It’s crawling up my arm!” → 03.10.2017 / Patio / Mother unfolds a sweater and a fishing spider crawls out. “It’s so big!” I say. → 06.06.2021 / Patio / I scream upon seeing the size of the wolf spider Mother plucks out of her hoodie pocket. “Go find a new home, friend,” she says. And “Vernon’s Weird Love Similes”—02.13.2001 / Foyer / Vernon and Mother hold each other and while Mother smiles and hums a little, Vernon says, “I love you more than the sunrise loves the dew.” → 06.14.2006 / Sitting Room / “I love you like static loves sweaters.” → 09.17.2009 / Study / “I love you like flies love…uhh…” Mother finishes for him, “A carcass?” They laugh.

 

  Sometimes they look in love. It’s very confusing.

 

  12.03.2012 / Sitting Room / “I love you like a whale loves plankton,” he says. “Can you simply just say it?” Mother asks, a lazy smile on her face as she leans on his shoulder. Vernon scowls directly at the camera. “Am I not good enough again?” he asks. Mother sits up. “Vernon, please. I love you. I have always loved you just the way you are.” Vernon continues to pout. “I do love you like dogs love chow or like mosquitoes love blood or how crickets love to sing,” he says.

  On Wednesday night, as I eat Marta’s lasagna, I decide to look at recent home movies for fun. As I scroll through the last two months, I see Finch disappearing in the foyer after she says goodbye, disappearing in the sitting room when she’s left alone. I see her appear twice, as well—poof!—out of the blue.

  In one movie, where she suddenly appears on New Year’s Eve in the well-lit study, I stop the footage, rewind, and watch again. I enlarge the video on my iPad and look closely at the dark hardwood floor. I play it four times to make sure.

  Listen. I do not lie to God. It’s a rat.

  And it’s not just any rat either.

  I save the snippets and time stamps, but I don’t know what to title it yet because I don’t know what it means. I call it “Shape-Shifter” mixtape for now.

  * * *

  —

  I survive six days and six nights in my room. I feel a little isolated, but not much more than usual. I’m looking forward to the meeting tomorrow with whoever the school district sends, simply to see how Vernon handles it. I sleep like Marta roofied my dessert.

  Thursday Visitors

  The meeting is in ten minutes and Vernon is dressed in a three-piece suit—his navy pinstripe with the tight legs. His pocket watch chain has been polished, as have his teeth. He even made Henry brush his hair—though Milorad has been tasked with keeping Henry busy this morning while the district representatives are here.

  Vernon hasn’t told me what to expect and he didn’t share anything with me after he called them. I was able to watch the Home Movie yesterday, though, so I got his side of it.

  Home Movie—01.14.2025 (Two Days Ago)

  Vernon paces in the study. He stops to look through the back door window.

  “Yes,” he says, “I’ve been holding for Dr. Love.”

  He waits as the other person talks.

  Nods.

  Waits more.

  “Ah, Dr. Love, it’s brilliant to meet your acquaintance. I do wish I could have come into the building but these days I’m still trying to be careful.”

  Waits.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Waits.

  “I do appreciate your attention to detail on this matter,” he says. “Of course I’ve sent my lesson plans already so you can see the type of work we’re doing.”

  Waits with impatient look on his face.

  “I opt the children out of all standardized tests, I’m afraid. I simply believe that teachers are better at telling me how my child is doing than a test. And I— Well yes, I know they haven’t seen teachers in a few years but—”

  Waits with his jaw jutted out.

  “She’ll still graduate,” he says. “Those years of the school shutdown, they didn’t even administer those tests anyway. Even the Keystone.” Waits. “Oh. They did?” Waits. “Well, she can make that one up, right?”

  Waits.

  “Algebra shouldn’t be a problem,” he says, but if you look close enough at his forehead, you can see tiny beads of sweat forming. “No need for that. She’ll do fine.” Waits. “Though a tutor would also work. We can administer the test here, yes?”

  Waits.

  “Oh,” he says. “Biology isn’t something she’s ready for, I don’t think…but she might be.”

 

  What a diabolically shitty liar Vernon is. The man hasn’t even said the word biology to me. And I’m supposed to have passed a grade-level state-administered exam in it last year. And algebra the year before. And this spring—English. All I’ve done is repeat geography lessons for five years. I am braced for not graduating until I’m twenty, but at least I know where Eritrea is.

 

  “Okay. We’ll talk about it then. Thank you.”

  Waits.

  “Of course. I’ll have it all ready for your people when they come to the house.”

  Waits.

  “Indeed. A pleasure talking with you. Have a lovely day.”

  He presses the hang-up button, slams the receiver on my desk, and then gives it the finger with both hands.

 

  Thursday Visitors (Cont’d)

  “Why are you dressed like that?” Vernon asks as I come down the staircase into the dining room. I am wearing what I wear most days—leggings and a T-shirt with a sweater over top.

  I note his pinstripes. “Not all of us are prepared for the queen.”

  He points back up the stairs. “Go change.”

  “Into what?” I ask. Then the door opens and I hear the clip-clop of high heels. I wait. It’s Finch. Dressed up like she’s some kind of—“What is that?” I ask.

  “What is what?”

  I gesture to her outfit, which is a garish yellow that makes her skin look gray. It’s like someone dressed her to look like a short, squat Coco Chanel. What I really want to ask is why are you here?

  “CHANGE!” Vernon yells. I run upstairs and look in my closet. I decide on the closest thing I have to dressy is an evening gown. This one has sequins on it and the spaghetti straps pop my clavicles cleverly and I always considered it my Tony acceptance dress. I put it on and look at myself in the mirror and realize that if Gemma were here, she wouldn’t let me through the door without makeup. Not in this dress.

  I rummage through my makeup drawer and find my rub-on foundation and I rub it in. I throw on some stick blush and rub that in, too. The doorbell rings. I rush to get some eyeliner on, and Vernon says—quite kindly from the bottom of the steps—“Jane, we’re ready for you.” I decide against eye shadow or mascara, but I think it’s a shortsighted decision. I hold my hair upside down and hair spray it for body, and then flip my head back up again.

  Nailed it.

  Shit. I don’t have the right shoes. Shit. I do have the right shoes, but they’re the skimpy little sandals I wore to the concert with handsy Todd from the library.

  I hear Finch clomping around at the bottom of the steps. I hurry.

  When I walk down the stairs, Vernon looks pleased at my choice. Finch’s eyebrows are so high, they meet her hairline.

  “Hello, Jane,” a familiar-looking person says to me.

  For the record, there are two of them here. The familiar one, a woman about the same age as Mother, who is wearing a pair of flowy pants, a black cardigan, and a pair of slip-on Doc Martens, and a very tall younger woman with stark black hair that hangs straight down her back. She’s wearing a pink blouse and a pair of business trousers and black leather clogs—the kind nurses wear.

  I shake their hands, and the familiar one says, “Do you remember me?”

  I squint. “I do, but I don’t know from where.”

  The tall one speaks. “I’m Dr. Love and this is Mrs. Constance. I’m the principal at the high school.” She maintains eye contact. These women have seen my ransom note. That’s what her eye contact says to me.

  Mrs. Constance says, “You remember me now?”

  I give an embarrassed smile and shake my head slowly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a school,” I say. “And I was in the elementary then!”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Not a big deal. I helped you every year when you were in the opt-out room.”

  I snap my fingers. “You’re the one with the cool smelly markers!”

  She smiles. “That’s me!” She turns to Vernon, smiles, and says, “I’m the school social worker.”

  Then silence descends. They look at Vernon, who looks very nervous.

  “Where’s the best place to talk?”

  Vernon shows everyone to the table in the study.

  “This room has been my classroom since fifth grade,” I say. I say it enthusiastically because I want Vernon to believe I didn’t send the ransom note, and I’m also scared I’m about to get ratted out.

  Dr. Principal asks Finch who she is and why she’s here.

  “Mina’s sister,” he says. “She may as well be Jane’s mother.”