“Why?”
“He told me not to tip him,” Mr. Markus said. “He told me that money probably couldn’t buy happiness, but I’d need all I could get to try, because I was going to be miserable for the rest of my life. Then he drove off with the van, and I drove in the direction of the airport, but I didn’t take the exit. I kept driving.”
We sat there in silence for a solid minute.
“I don’t get it,” I finally said. “And what happened to all your furniture?”
“I have no idea,” Mr. Markus says. “But happiness is a choice. That’s the key. A choice.”
Is it, though? Is it really? Maybe.
Maybe, for the lucky ones.
I am not one of the lucky ones. I can fill my pockets with stones and mark myself everywhere and set the entire universe on fire, but it’s not going to change anything. I am not one of the lucky ones.
So here is what the unlucky ones choose between: prude or slut. Angel or devil. Maybe choice isn’t the right word—you’re always one or the other.
Damsel or villainess. That’s what it comes down to.
I guess the question that really matters is: which one gets the real happy ending?
after
DECEMBER 16
The journal I start is not like hers. There are no magazine cutouts and collages and sketches, there are no plans, there are no promises. There are lists. Words. Sounds. Anything I can remember. Anything that might be real.
Most of them make no sense, or not enough of it. Dewey, punching me. Water, rising. Fire, fire, fire.
I’m failing online school. I spend all day sitting at my desk staring at the journal and trying, trying to put it all back in place.
I write everything down, but most of it doesn’t help much.
Rumor is they’re just waiting on the arson analysis to arrest me. No one tells me anything.
I would say that I wish I cared more, but that is false.
In my journal, I write.
Carrie Lang’s yard. Balloons. Caleb Matthers not in school next day—hives. Allergic to latex.
Janie and Ander flirting across the room. Him looking at her journal and her face going cold.
The apocalypse. Music.
Wrestling. Ander pummeled.
The note on my bed that smelled like coffee. Adults in a tiny-ass boat.
Metaphor disappearing.
Janie in my sweatshirt.
Piper running and crying.
The bonfire. More than one?
Janie’s wings.
I had a match.
Why did I have a match?
Water, fire.
What happened to Janie Vivian?
Why.
THE JOURNAL OF JANIE VIVIAN
Once upon a time, a princess was playing with a key near the water. She threw it in the air, caught it, and threw it again, and caught it again, until . . . she didn’t.
It fell into the water, down and down and down, and the princess supposed she would never see it again.
But then—miracle! A frog leaped out of the water and landed in her lap. He made her dress dirty, but he had her key in his mouth.
“Here you go, beautiful,” said the frog. “I’ve done you a favor. Now you owe me.”
“Well, all right,” said the princess. “What do you want?”
“To sleep in your bed,” said the frog.
The princess said no. She held her breath and pushed him away and ran and locked the palace doors tight behind her. But you’ll notice that the frog ended up in her bed anyway.
before
OCTOBER 16
Please direct your attention to phase ten, step thirteen: candygrams. Ander was supposed to ask me (again—he should have asked me already, but I would have made it very clear to him that I wanted a confirmation) with one of the candygrams that the student council sells to raise money for the dance. It was supposed to be delivered during seventh hour, and the whole class was supposed to watch as I said yes.
Can you imagine?
Yes.
I don’t get a candygram from Ander.
I do get thirty or so from his friends. They come in a pile during calc. It’s enough candy to make all of my teeth fall out, lollipop after heart-shaped lollipop. I unwrap one and sweep the rest into my backpack while everyone watches. I bite the heart in half and look them each in the eye. They all look away, one by one. All because I shouted rape. Funny, right? Because I didn’t. I didn’t, but Wes and Ander tell everyone I did. I decided not to shout anything at all but everyone in school still knows I had sex with Ander, and who the hell would ever believe that I didn’t want to, right?
The note that accompanies the lollipop I unwrap says Janie Vivian is a whore, Janie Vivian is a bore, Janie Vivian has no friends, Janie Vivian needs to end.
Isn’t that cute?
I think it’s adorable.