Marilyn Brant - According to Jane

“That’s right.” I sighed. It was crash-and-burn time for Type #4 (yes, I had categories for the men I dated), but a woman had to know when she couldn’t fake it anymore. Since Sam had already guessed the truth, I’d been defeated on all fronts. No use pretending.

Dominic sputtered out a few incoherent syllables, but he finally managed to say, “What the hell?”

I let out a long, slow breath — one I’d been holding for about four years. “I’m sorry, Sam,” I said.

Sam’s eyes met mine. He half nodded and whispered, “Me, too. Really.”

I then returned my attention to Dominic, who was staring at me like I’d just sprouted horns and was brandishing a sharp-’n’-shiny pitchfork.

“I’m not your chauffeur, your mommy or your meal ticket,” I told him. “Get yourself a job and buy your own damn beer. And, in case there’s any doubt, no, I’m not driving you home and, yes, this is goodbye. Have a nice life.”

“Wait! Is this because I didn’t buy you a birthday gift?” Dominic demanded. “Ellie, I told you I’d take you out to dinner. We were just running a little late tonight. It’s not like we won’t go sometime soon — ”

I lifted my hand in a parting wave to Sam, who returned it. Then I gave Dominic the finger.

“Happy birthday to me,” I said to myself as the bar doors swung shut behind me. I inhaled the warm Chicago night air and escaped into my car, planning to drive only a block or two so Dominic couldn’t find me. I needed to sit somewhere for an hour and let everything wear off.

Happy birthday, Ellie, Jane’s voice echoed in my mind. And good for you. Your life is just beginning.

Yes, it was. Finally.

I blinked back a tear, hummed a few bars of Boston’s “Don’t Look Back” and hit the gas pedal.

There is nothing like dancing after

all…one of the first refinements of

polished societies.

— Pride and Prejudice

To know what, exactly, I wasn’t looking back on and to understand the intricacies of my relationships with my sister Diana, my brother Gregory and my cousin Angelique, you’d need a detailed chronicle of our family dynamics. I don’t have the patience (or the lifespan) to be that comprehensive.

Let’s just say, though, that while Jane’s appearance added a new zing to my home/school existence and bestowed upon me an amazing best friend, it made life instantly tougher for me, too.

The weekend after Jane’s arrival, I was awakened early by a jostling — or, more accurately, a violent shaking — of my rib cage.

“Get up, geek,” Di said, moving away from my body to flick up the window shade and flood my room with unwelcome sunlight. “Aunt Candice, Uncle Craig and our freak-show cousins are coming, remember? Get your butt outta bed.”

I groaned. Yes, because Di’s method of rousing lacked finesse, but also because any amount of time spent with our Indiana cousins was, and always had been, a trial of the highest order.

I tossed on some clean sweats and stumbled into the family room. My mother, already coiffed and lipsticked, raced between the kitchen and every other room in the house issuing commands. “Girls, get rid of this clutter on the kitchen table. Now! Throw that garbage out. And, for God’s sake, Gregory, put away that stupid Rubik’s Cube! They’re going to be here in twenty minutes.”

We, thus, began a frantic attempt at picking up our stuff. As we worked, my brother warbled a version of The Music Man ’s “Gary, Indiana” under his breath followed by a few choruses of “Pick-a-Little, Talk-a-Little.” The former was a depiction of my aunt’s hometown, the latter, her conversational style.

Di countered his thirteen-year-old notion of musical coolness with her own seventeen-year-old version: Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” Normally, I would’ve tried to zone out, but Jane’s newfound residence inside my head made that an impossibility.

Jane, ever the witty conversationalist, remarked, Transcendent talent is not so rare as was once believed. Apparently, everyone these days has been blessed by the muses.

Yeah, I’m feeling real inspired right now, I said to her.

She laughed. Oh, do not judge them too harshly, Ellie. They would have been great proficients…

… if ever they’d learnt , we finished together in a sentence reminiscent of one of Jane’s more obnoxious book characters.

I giggled aloud. Unfortunately, I was within Di’s earshot.

She elbowed me. “Don’t laugh at me, geek.”

“Diana, try not to call your sister names,” our mom bellowed from the kitchen.

“But she is a geek,” Gregory offered. “She’s so damn boring, no guys like her.”

“Gregory, honey, it’s not polite to swear.”

Need I mention that in both instances of sibling abuse Mom neglected to demand an apology on my behalf or discount the Geek label? Didn’t think so. Being the middle child (most ignored, least liked) was chock-full of touching family moments like these.

“Your sister’s not a geek,” Dad broke in, stuffing a box of snow hats and gloves into the closet and safely out of sight.

Ah, thank goodness for dear old Dad.

“She’s just an intellectual,” he added. “It takes awhile, sometimes years, for guys to learn to like that in a girl.”

Terrific.

Such stunning words in your defense, Jane mused, the likes of which I have heard but rarely.

Well, they’re commonplace enough around here, I told her.

“’Course, she’s nothing like Angelique,” Mom said.

“No one’s like Angelique,” Dad admitted.

My cousin, Angelique Lawson, is a Genius , I explained to Jane. And my Dad’s posh sister, Aunt Candice, never tires of telling us so .

How delightful , Jane said. There is nothing like geniuses when a party is in want of enlivening .

Angelique’s sixteen but already a junior because she skipped a grade. And very musical. She takes her cello with her everywhere and will probably play it for us today , I added. And she’ll never pass up an opportunity to speak French .

Ah, très bien. I consider myself well warned , Jane countered.

Mere seconds later, the Lawsons’ distinctive canary-yellow Cadillac pulled into our driveway. Angelique breezed cheerily into our house. On her heels was her mother, who swept inside like an empress inspecting the servant quarters.

“Bonjour!” Angelique declared at the earliest possible moment. She flicked her long tawny-blond ponytail behind her and beamed a pretty grin at us so bright I had to squeeze my eyes shut.

“Oh, fuck,” Di murmured next to me.

“I’m so glad to see you all,” our cousin exclaimed. “We have so much news! ”

“Aw, crap,” Gregory whispered.

Di and I actually laughed at the same time to the same thing.

“Be nice,” Mom hissed. So I clenched my jaw and steeled myself for all the fun I knew was coming. “Where’s Craig? And Aaron and Andy?” Mom asked Aunt Candice, referring to our uncle and the five-year-old Twin Terrors.

“The flu claimed them,” our aunt replied. She sniffed to indicate poor health was something she considered an inexcusable offense. “Angelique and I are on our own today.”

“But they’re on the mend, so please don’t worry,” Angelique hastened to assure us in that sweet, mature voice our genius cousin was known for.

Di rolled her eyes, and I, admittedly, was grateful not to have to deal with the little demons. Aunt Candice presented work enough just by herself, and Angelique, well, she was sweet but…draining.