I take my backpack off my back and find my phone again. There is a text from Milorad.

  Walk from front of building all the way to end of walkway. Across street is tennis courts. I am parked there.

  I follow his directions. Someone yells, “Hey, new girl!” out of a bus window. “I liked your answer in Rothenberg’s class!”

  I keep walking and smile. It was a good answer and it made Rothenberg say, “I think you’re going to fit in here just fine, Jane.”

  When I get to the street and look across, I expect to see Milorad parked on the street next to the tennis courts. But he is parked literally on the tennis courts. Some other students are pointing at him and saying stuff. I panic and fast-walk to the passenger side door, get in, and say, “You have to get off the tennis courts. You can’t park here.”

  “I did not know about the bus situation!”

  “I know. Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Seat belt.”

  “Just go and I’ll get it on.”

  He waits until I have it on.

  “Give phone back,” he says.

  I give him his phone back.

  When I get home, Vernon stops me at the door and asks for my school-provided computer. He puts it into a small safe and scrambles the lock.

  “How am I supposed to do my homework?” I ask.

  He shrugs and walks into the kitchen.

  Postmarked January 22, 2025

  A Picture of the Dragon Bridge in Ljubljana, Slovenia

  Dear All,

  This is now one of my favorite cities in the world. Ljubljana is so hip! Our shows in Austria were good, but not as good as Amsterdam/Antwerp. Vienna was a bummer. The crowd was really stiff—just like the Baroness Schraeder from The Sound of Music. ☺

  It was really great to see your faces the other day when you called. Jane, how is school working out? I hope you have an easy time. If not, know you have choices. We can always find a good school for you nearby if you don’t like this option. Henry, I hope algebra is a bit easier now that we arranged a tutor. Love to you all, Mina/Mom

  Day Two

  Addi meets me in the office again. She’s perky. I match it. A random secretary waves at me from behind the big desk. I wave back. I hear a familiar whirring noise from somewhere in the office, but I know it can’t be what I think it is.

  “I need to stop here,” I say when we’re outside the bathroom where Gretchen Brown told me to meet her.

  We walk in together, but then Addi turns and says, “I’ll wait outside.”

  Gretchen and KZ are here, putting on eyeliner in the big mirror above the sinks. “I can’t believe that shit,” Gretchen says.

  “Hey, Jane,” KZ says.

  Gretchen nods. “But seriously. I’m going to refuse to take it.”

  “Hey,” I say. “What are you refusing?”

  “Some mental health quiz they want to give us,” Gretchen says.

  “It’s supposed to help them figure out if we need more help than the exactly zero help we get in this place,” KZ says.

  I pull out my makeup bag and start with eyeshadow.

  “It’s bullshit,” Gretchen says. “Like—why offer a screening if they can’t actually help with the result of said screening?”

  “What color shadow do you think would look good with this?” I ask.

  They look at me.

  “You can get away with anything.”

  “Yeah, you’re gorgeous, you know,” KZ says.

  They go back to talking about the mental health quiz. I decide on yellow and red shadow. Bold, but it matches my yellow-tartan-pants vibe. KZ shifts the topic to how they don’t know what they want to do with their life. Gretchen agrees and adds, “If I marry rich, it could work out really well.” They look at me.

  “I require enough time in artistic seclusion to express my full disdain for the origin of this query,” I say, dipping my head in Victorian respect as if I was asking them a favor. They find it funny and I’m relieved because the Victorian Jane act has never left my house before and when it was coming out of my mouth, it sounded prissy.

  “But serious, like—how are any of us supposed to know what to do with our lives?” Gretchen says.

  “Capitalism will be picking meat off our bones by the time we’re thirty,” KZ says.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” someone says as they enter the bathroom. It’s Porter—the best kickball shortstop you ever saw.

  “Where have you been?” KZ asks.

  “What happened to your hair?” Gretchen adds.

  Porter throws her stuff on the floor and puts her face close to the mirror and breathes on it until there’s steam enough for her to write Got laid in the steam.

  “Whaaaat?”

  “Giiirl!”

  I stay quiet. I don’t know what to think about Porter getting laid. Last time I hung out with Porter, we were gluing macaroni to pieces of cardboard in fifth grade art class.

  “It’s seven thirty in the morning!” Gretchen says.

  “My dad dropped me off at six,” Porter says. “And my mom thinks I’m at the gym.”

  “Wait,” KZ says. “You legit had sex this morning?”

  Porter nods with her eyes closed. Gretchen and KZ grill her on details and she says she’s not sharing. She’s mid-mascara when KZ says, “You’re so lucky to have parents who hate each other.”

  Lunch / Regrets

  By the time lunch comes, I am thoroughly regretting my decision to send the ransom note to the school district. Biology is a monster. I will need a tutor as soon as possible. Geometry is doable but so boring my eyelids flutter the minute I sit down. By the time lunch comes, I feel a deep need for Marta’s espresso. At least I was allowed to bring a packed lunch.

  There are approximately nine boys shark-circling our table, eyes on me.

  “This whole fresh meat thing is getting old,” I say at lunch.

  “You can tell them to fuck off,” KZ says.

  “Or pick one,” Porter says.

  I go back to eating my Cornish pasty—homemade from Marta who is trying new fillings. Today is chicken, leek, and potatoes done in some magical cheesy way. Not magical enough to help me tell my friends that I do not like boys, though.

  Gretchen tells a girl I never saw before about how I’m Mina Placenta’s kid. The girl says, “Who?”

  “Placenta?” Gretchen says, in a tone like the girl is a dolt for not knowing. Accurate.

  The two of them look at me. I wave and go back to reading my mother’s old Twitter feed, which I located only this morning on Milorad’s emergency phone. She’s completely badass.

  @MinaPlacenta: ABORTION IS HEALTHCARE. MOTHERS ARE DYING.

  @MinaPlacenta: FORCING 11-YEAR-OLD RAPE VICTIMS TO GIVE BIRTH IS THE NEW PORN. YOUR SENATORS ARE JACKING OFF TO IT ON YOUR TAX DOLLARS!

  @MinaPlacenta: NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO PAY TO BLEED. MENSTRUATION RELIEF NOW!

  @MinaPlacenta: I guess I should plug the new record. [link to and picture of Run, Jane, Run.]

  I stare at the album cover again. The white steampunk feel. The nondescript feeling of the same System Mother has lived in since December 2018.

  The boys circling the table have asked Gretchen if I am free tomorrow night, as if she’s a booking agent of some sort. One of them leans in to sniff my hair.

  “Fuck off!” I snap.

  The lunch teacher on duty walks by when I say this. We meet eyes. She gives me a thumbs-up.

  An hour later I’m in Rothenberg’s history class and he’s talking about the Enlightenment and no one in the room is talking about anything but Europe and Europeans, and yet they keep saying the world when they answer. Like the world was experiencing an increase in culture and education. I raise my hand.

  “We need to stop saying the world was experiencing the Enlightenment. It was only rich Europeans. The rest of the world was dealing with terrible things, really.”

  Everything goes still.

  And then the bell rings and no one even cares what I said except Rothenberg who fist-bumps me on the way out the door, and says, “Nice!”

  ACT II, SCENE 6

  The library is quiet and Marlon is nowhere to be found, so I find a corner, sit down, and write what comes to me. Sometimes when I write the opera, it comes out as a film script. This song won’t work as is, but that’s what revision is for. Or maybe I can create the illusion of a pool center stage.

  Song: “Actual School”

  Composer notes: This is a fast punk number. Mostly screaming. Tight drum and bass, with a slight ska or reggae feel.

  INT. VARIOUS SCHOOL HALLWAYS, THEN THE POOL (final verse)

  The BAND is wearing inflatable pool arm floaties and swimming rings around their hips.

  JANE

  THIS PLACE IS FULL OF PEOPLE WHO JUST DON’T CARE.

  THIS PLACE IS FULL OF PUSSIES WHO’D NEVER DARE

  TO BE UNLIKE THE COOKIE CUTTER BREAD AND BUTTER

  EVERY OTHER SCHOOL, AND THEY STILL WANT US TO THINK OF THEM AS COOL.

  THIS PLACE HAS BELLS AND BELLS AND BELLS AND BELLS AND BELLS

  A THOUSAND POTENTIAL MURDERERS AND HUNDRED DIFFERENT HELLS.

  THIS PLACE HAS NOTHING NEW AND NOTHING OLD AND EVERYTHING

  IT’S GOT EVERYTHING YOU NEVER WANTED TO KNOW.

  DON’T WANNA BE A FOOL?

  DON’T GO TO ACTUAL SCHOOL.

  DON’T WANNA BE A DOLT?

  REJECT THIS STUPID CULT.

  (Fast guitar solo)

  JANE

  THIS PLACE IS FULL OF YOU PRETENDING TO BE YOUR PARENTS

  AS IF YOU DIDN’T NOTICE CHILDHOOD’S CLEVER DISAPPEARANCE

  AND DESCENT INTO A CHAOTIC SERIES OF QUESTIONS YOU CAN’T ANSWER

  STOP PRETENDING YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN; YOUR NODDING HEAD WILL CAUSE YOU CANCER.

  THIS PLACE IS ALMOST OVER; THEY’VE REMOVED THE BOOKS AND TEACHERS

  MAY AS WELL CALL IT CHURCH AND BRING IN THE FUCKING PREACHERS.

  THROW ALL THE OTHER LEARNING SHIT INTO THE INDOOR SWIMMING POOL

  BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT YOU GET AT ACTUAL FUCKING SCHOOL.

  Song ends with a fast and tight outro.

  JANE and her bandmates all jump into the pool. Her mascara and liner run the whole way down her face and neck while she screams in the foreground while the band plays beach ball volleyball behind her.

  ADDI comes through the door and tries to get Jane’s attention so she can take her to the next class.

  Addi

  By the time Addi walks my weary body toward my locker at the end of the day, I want to cry. All this reading about Mother makes me miss her more.

  “You’re doing great!” Addi says.

  “I didn’t understand eighty percent of what was said today.”

  “It’ll get better,” she says.

  I open my locker and feel like climbing in rather than taking out my coat and putting it on and filling my backpack with homework stuff. Addi helps me and tells me again that it will get better.

  As I walk toward the road where Milorad and I agreed to meet, I pull out the cellphone he gave me again this morning.

  Have a good day at school!

  I am having a Cornish pasty as well for lunch! followed by a goofy picture of him and Marta eating lunch together.

  It will take a few weeks to feel comfortable, do not worry!

  I will be at our meeting spot early!

  When I can see our meeting spot, he is standing outside the car, even though it’s below freezing. He walks to my side and opens the door for me and I get in. When I do, I find Henry in the back seat with me. When Milorad arrives back in the driver’s seat, he gives me a look like he wants to cheer me up.

  I hand him his phone, and he says, “Let’s get some ice cream!”

  WHO IS BRUTUS TODAY?

  INTERMISSION

  An audience never knows what’s really going on behind the scenes. It’s one of the most delicious things about human beings. You could sell them a car without tires during anything that feels like a break. They’re so blinded by the houselights, they’ll believe you love them, when in reality, you could be trying to kill them.

  Humans are easy to fool because they’re tired all the time. The more tired they get, the easier it is to control them.

  For example, no one has realized yet that I am so much more than a rat who chases my tail and makes them laugh. I am a world traveler. A jack-of-all-trades. I am the villain in this story twice over—shape-shifters have all the fun.

  Out of a million crimes, I’ve been caught a thousand times, only to leave the handcuffs empty, the jail cells abandoned. One time, I disappeared right in front of a jury. I looked into the eyes of the man whose wife I murdered as he smiled at the guilty verdict—poof!—I vanished. Sometimes you have to stick around for effect. It’s no fun if it doesn’t hurt.

  As I watch Jane, Henry, and Milorad eat ice cream cones through an empty produce box thrown in the corner of the shop, I hear them talking about me.

  “She’s not my mother,” Jane says to Milorad.

  “Of course,” he says, “but I—”

  “She’s always looking at her phone,” Henry says.

  “She is reading news,” Milorad says. “She is concerned for the world.”

  “She just wants everything Mother has—including Vernon, the house, me, and Henry,” Jane says.

  “I do not think you are correct,” Milorad replies.

  “Does she pay you to lie?” Jane asks.

  “It is just logic,” Milorad says. “She is—eh—rolling rock traveler, yes? She cannot be a mother or wife and also move back to Brazil.”

  “So that’s a yes? She does pay you?”

  Milorad waves off the question. He hates lying. I knew that since New Year’s Eve 2006—the night I met him under Chicago’s Dearborn Street Bridge. He hates lying and he hates running. And every day he’s forced to do both. Poor bastard.

  ACT THREE:

  Real School / The Truth About Everything

  Cast in order of appearance:

  Babies

  Babies

  So many Babies

  LESSON EIGHT: BABIES

  Today is Thursday, January 30, 2025

  The History of Placenta

  In history class, we have to write a five-minute speech on a cause we care about. I choose Mother and head to the band’s Wikipedia page.

  Formed in 1996, with its roots in a basement near Swarthmore College in Philadelphia, Placenta is a punk band with influence. Mina Placenta (formerly Vandermaker) was looking for “a band that could play loud, fast, and feminist.” The band is as well known for their music as they are known for their social justice, especially their dedication to free menstruation products for all and domestic violence awareness.

  Placenta started rehearsing in the summer of 1996, mashing up classic punk covers and their own songs. By January 1997, they were playing Khyber Pass, the North Star Bar, and other small venues in Philadelphia as well as occasionally playing live singles on WXPN, the radio of University of Pennsylvania, where Mina was taking a graduate class—Sociology of Capitalism. Her experience on the Penn campus, paired with her rising notoriety as a performer, led her to change her name legally.

  “What does a placenta do?” she asked Rolling Stone. “It feeds and nurtures a baby.”

  The band’s fans are known as Babies. [external link]

  How did I not know that Placenta fans were called Babies? I’ve listened to all the albums. I know all the lyrics. I live with the founder. I am her literal baby. And yet, it was this-very-second o’clock when I found out that the band’s fans are called Babies.

  I don’t even take a minute to think about how genius that is, and just go back to reading once I wipe the always-the-last-to-know tears away.

  In the summer of 1999, soon after her marriage to Vernon Cook, Mina was contacted by the band GWAR, complaining that her blood-spattering live performances were a rip-off of theirs. The dino-themed band expected an apology. Mina became an icon with her very public response. “We’re nothing alike. You use fake blood. I don’t. Get anywhere near me with your legalistic capitalist bullshit and I’ll drown you in the menses of a million real, good, punk women.” [external link]

  Placenta still sells Real Good Punk Woman merchandise on-site at shows and through their website. All proceeds go to organizations that work for menstrual equity and education. The band gives away menstrual cups at their concerts and has so far claimed to have given away more than two million. [external links]

  By the year 2000, the band had more than thirty original songs, but Mina Placenta and her longtime band-partner bassist, David Placenta (formerly Rocco), refused to cut an album because they didn’t want the music to cost money. Late-Stage Capitalism was released, finally, in 2002, by Virgin Records, with Mina saying she would use at least half of her earnings to help women and children escape from abusive homes. The release was delayed by the 2001 death of Mina Placenta’s parents, in a traffic accident. By 2020, Placenta band members had donated more than fifty million dollars to programs that help menstruating people in one hundred countries, and that help families in the US recover and rebuild after violence against women and girls.

  2018’s Safe House, the band’s seventh studio album, and their best-selling, went platinum and sold more than four million copies worldwide. Spin said of the album: “Another love song to women helping women, Placenta is a feminist archangel of compassion.” The band members made fifty thousand dollars each that year, and the rest of the profits from Safe House went to an amalgam of charities.