Wake Page 0,24
ground. She reads. The handwriting is barely legible. Crooked. Written with a blind hand.
Dear Janie,
Thank you for my dreams.
From one catcher to another,
Martha Stubin
P.S. You have more power than you think.
Janie’s heart stutters. She draws in a breath. No, she thinks. Impossible.
The director picks up the small rectangle of paper from the floor and hands it to Janie. It’s a check.
It says, “for college,” in the memo line.
It’s five thousand dollars.
Janie looks up at the director, whose face is beaming so hard, it looks like it’s about to crack. She looks down at the check, and then again at the letter.
The director stands and gives Janie’s shoulder a squeeze. “Good job, honey,” she sniffles. “I’m so glad for you.”
3:33 p.m.
There is a phone call for Janie.
She hurries to the front desk. What a strange day.
It’s her mother.
“There’s this hippie on the porch, says he ain’t leaving until he talks to you. You coming home soon? He wants to know, and I’m going to bed.”
Janie sighs. She writes her schedule down every week on the calendar. But she is amused. Maybe because she got a check from Miss Stubin. Maybe because her mother calls Cabel a hippie.
“I’ll be home a little after five, Ma.”
“Do I need to worry about this character on the porch, or can I go to bed?”
“You can go to bed. He’s…ah…not a rapist.” That I know of, anyway. They hang up.
5:21 p.m.
Cabel is not on the porch.
Janie goes inside. There’s a note on the counter, underneath a dirty glass, in her mother’s scrawl.
Hippie said he couldn’t stay. Be back tomorrow.
Love, Mom.
It said, Love, Mom.
That was the most notable thing about it.
Janie rips the note into shreds and throws it in the overflowing garbage can.
She changes her clothes, pops a TV dinner in the oven, and pulls out her college applications.
Five thousand. Just a drop in the bucket, she knows. But it’s something.
Just like Miss Stubin’s note.
That was really something.
Janie can’t wrap her mind around that one yet.
She looks over everything in her piles of papers. It all looks foreign to her. Financial aid forms, scholarship applications, writing a request essay? Jeez. She needs to get moving on this.
She has no idea what she wants to do with her future.
But science, math…maybe research. Maybe dream research.
Or not.
She really wants to forget that part of her shitty, shitty life.
She calls Carrie. “What’re you doing?”
“Sitting home. Alone. You?”
“I’m wondering if there’s a party somewhere at one of your rich friends’ houses.”
Carrie is silent for a moment. “Why?” Her voice is suspicious.
“I don’t know,” Janie lies. “I’m bored. Can’t I get in with you? As your date or something?”
“Janie.”
“What.”
“You don’t want to go there.”
“What? I’m just bored. I’ve never been to one of those organized ‘Hill’ parties. You know, where the parents are gone and leave all the booze and shit for the kids to drink.”
Carrie is quiet again. “You’re looking for him, aren’t you. I’m coming over.” She hangs up.
Carrie arrives ten minutes later with her sleeping bag. “Can I stay over?” she asks sweetly. “We haven’t had a sleepover in forever.”
Janie looks at her skeptically. “What’s going on?” she says. “Just tell me.”
Carrie throws her stuff on the couch. “You got munchies? I haven’t eaten.” She sniffs the air and opens the oven. “Eww. Can’t we cook something real?”
“Fine,” sighs Janie. She rummages around in the kitchen. The refrigerator is surprisingly full today. “Fajitas okay?”
“Perfect,” says Carrie gleefully. She mixes two vodka tonics, adds a splash of orange juice, and hands one to Janie.
“Would you stop that, please?”
“Stop what?”
“That whole syrupy sweet-talk thing. It’s really grating on me.”
Carrie blinks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, give me some friggin’ veggies to chop.”
They work up a meal, making guacamole from scratch and everything. Janie takes the TV dinner, wraps it in tinfoil, and puts it in the refrigerator. Her mother will probably eat it. Cold. For breakfast or something.
By the time the fajitas are ready, Janie is buzzing from her second drink and Carrie is doing shots from the bottle.
They move into the living room and flip on music videos.
“So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on, or not,” Janie says.
Carrie sighs and gives her a sorrowful look. “Oh, Janie. Are you still thumpin’ for Cabel or what?”
Janie takes a swallow of her drink, and lies. “I…I’m getting over him. I’m not speaking to him.”
“I saw him here, on your step this morning. Were you working?”
“Yeah. I guess he was here all day.