The Masochist Boy (7) What makes the entire thing even more heartbreaking is Jenny’s determination to be a ‘good girl’. We really hope Jenny is not a real person, G-d bless her soul. She does not complain to anyone; she does not inform any teachers or call any child abuse hotlines. She seems to believe that everything is her fault, and that if it isn’t fixed it’s only because she hasn’t been trying hard enough. She has personally undertaken it to save her brother, for one thing, and to save her entire family for another. She babysits every other week and keeps the money in a glass jar, thinking that one day she will have enough money to buy a new house for her family. She studies impossibly hard with no help from either her mother or her brother so she will get perfect grades. She is very quiet; very rarely do we hear her speak aloud to anyone except her brother. Jenny is determined not to be weak. It is only very late at night, when her brother crawls up the stairs, that she allows herself to cry. "The Story of Jeanine Ann" ‘s writing style tends more towards poetry than prose; the writer is very concise and he seems to hand-pick his words. The actual length is more towards novelette than short story at eighty-seven pages, and while this places the story in a category not usually covered by D.A. and me, we made an exception for this one. We highly recommend "Jeanine Ann" for those of you who liked Trent Solvier’s short story "Black Box" and Yolanda Wang’s short story/essay "Hate Equals Kriptonite, Sorrow Equals Nirvana, And That Leaves Me With What?" The story can be found on our website at artsandsmarts.com. D.A. made me promise I wouldn’t spoil it for you, but I have just one hint for those of you who are already shaking your heads and saying, "Uh-uh, I’ve read enough depressing stories this month to do me in." At the very end of Jeanine Ann, the writer throws in one little twist, a little one, and while it does not resolve all of poor Jenny’s woes and troubles, it makes your heart rise in your chest with satisfaction, and my friends, the last book I read that had enough magic to do that for me was Mary Stewart’s The Last Enchantment. So, in parting-go on our website and read it! That was the beginning. He sent it into Teen Arts and Smarts in November; the story that he had put so many hours into for so long. He told no one. He didn’t know that it had been published until he received notice by mail, and he thought nothing of it; he went on with his daily life and his old poem-writing until he felt another urge for a story inside him. And so, as it happened, he was the last person to find out about the ‘Jenny Ann’ phenomenon. Things like that happen when you have an information superhighway like the Internet. It’s called ‘the wonder of copy and paste’. Of the select group of teenagers who subscribed monthly to Arts and Smarts, many did not go to the website; and of the select group who did view Rob’s story, many didn’t like it well enough to copy it. But many, many did. For example-a girl named Penny Wayte. Penny was herself an artist, and was known to most for her complete lack of sympathy. Her features were sharp and pointed, and so was her speech, and so was her mind. Penny had few friends, although her paintings were hauntingly beautiful; she was alone except for her art and the magazine which provided the other ten percent of her entertainment. As of yet, none of the wimpy writer’s stories had moved her. She went onto the website before dinner. What the heck, she thought; if they’re raving about it so wonderfully it has to be truly horrible. She clicked on the link; the text flashed onto the screen; she started to read. She never did get around to dinner. Penny printed it out; kept it in her easel. For about a week she was completely dazed, as the meaning of it hit her, in little bits and pieces, at different times and places. Her brother asked her, as casually as possible, what all the fuss was about, and she told him, as simply as possible. And it was going round, she said. People had snippets of it everywhere. She’d seen kids talking about it on chats and she’d seen kids signing into message boards with names like JennAnn or JeanineAnnie. People quoted it in emails and plastered pieces on their web page. In some places you could find entire sites devoted to it. In fact, some people in her school had begun to talk of it too. What was it about? He asked. She told him. He said: I know a girl who’s very into that sort of thing. She’ll love it. And he smiled, and called her up, and made plans to lend her Penny’s copy Tuesday afternoon. Vivien was so excited. She really was. Jason said he had a present for her. She wondered what it could be. She skipped the cracks in the sidewalk on the way to the park; she hadn’t done that since she was eight. The whole thing was so exciting. She wasn’t used to it; she wasn’t used to any boy calling her up and taking her to movies and restaurants. It was just like in all the books. She knew Rob would tell her her head was full of idealist fluff, and she knew it was true, but she didn’t care. She loved it. She loved being flattered. She couldn’t help it; it wasn’t her fault. And all the other girls, the ones who had turned a cold shoulder to her in her first year there, suddenly were all her best friends; so caring. Rob would have told her to be careful of those sort of people. But Rob was jaded and wary; he hadn’t ever had friends. To tell the truth, she was worried about him, in the back of her mind. She didn’t see him so often anymore, except during English class, and she couldn’t talk to him then; stuck next to that annoying jokester Patrick, what chance would she have? After school-well, since Jason liked to meet with her after school, she didn’t get to see him more than once or twice a month. She told herself she would check on him tomorrow, and tried to dismiss it from her mind. Instead, she focused on happier things. Maybe it would be a necklace or something-that would be sweet. She was embarrassed of herself. It was bitter cold out. She huddled deeper inside her coat and walked quickly against the stinging wind. "Vivien!" he cried. "Here, Vivien! Wait till you see what I’ve got for you!" She stopped. "Jason? Where are you? I don’t see you-" He jumped out from behind her and said: "Boo!" She laughed. "You’ve got such a pretty laugh," he said. Flattery. He was flattering her. Somewhere some part of her recognized it and was humiliated. "Well?" she said. "Let’s see." "My sister Penny’s crazy about this," he began, holding something behind his back. "She got it off the Internet, and she was telling me about it and it seems like just the thing for you! I couldn’t wait to show you-of course you’ve got to be careful, it’s my sister’s and she practically treasures it, so you can’t get coke stains on it or anything-" "Of course," said Vivien, only slightly disappointed. "Let me see it." "Here it is," he said, pulling out a binder from behind him. "Ta-da!" She said blankly: "What is it?" He frowned, hurt. "A story, Vivien." "A-a story? You wrote it?" "Me?-oh no. Some kid. I don’t know. But Penny’s crazy about it, and if Penny’s crazy about something like this, I figure it must be pretty good." She blinked. She didn’t know what to say. "Well, if you don’t want it then you don’t have to take it," he pouted. She sighed. "Let me read it, Jason." "Fine." He shoved it at her. "Take it. I’m going home." "Jason, I didn’t mean to insult you, I was just surprised-" He stamped past her. She saw his car outside the block. He hadn’t walked. She sighed. He was like that sometimes. He had a childish streak a mile wide. She glanced at the ugly white binder, and shivered. So cold outside. She’d go home, glance through it, and then hand it back to him tomorrow with a fixed smile on her face and a remark about how wonderful it was. She had so many other things to do, Vivien, that she didn’t get around to it until nine thirty at night. She’d read herself to sleep, she decided. She tucked herself under the blanket, turned on her bedside lamp, and started to read. By the time she reached the fifth page, she knew. Her eyes were wide with horror. The phone was ringing. He rolled over sideways on the bed and yawned. He was still asleep. He was tired, darn it. He told the phone to stop ringing. He said it very politely. Ring, ring, ring. Talking phones…Styrofoam…purple styrofoam…Ring, ring…he buried his face in the pillow. Tired, tired, sleep. The phone was ringing. Stupid phone. Smart phone? Whatever the heck it was couldn’t it go away already, he was tired. He had a right to be tired. It was dark outside still it was night, night, sleep, answer the beeping phone, Ma. Yeah, right, Ma will answer the phone and we’ll all grow wings and fly. Fly to purple Styrofoam on a smart phone… Ok. Ok, get up and answer the beeping phone. He blinked, sat up. Hang the phone, that was what he thought. He had visions of it hanging by its old neck out the window. He stumbled to the telephone in the hall. He wanted to sleep. Phones didn’t have necks. It was three thirty in the morning and he wanted purple styrofoam. "Hello?" he said, or something that could have been interpreted that way. "Rob?" cried the voice. It was stretched tighter than plastic. He yawned, and cradled it between his shoulder and his head. "Who," he said. "Viv-I mean, it’s me-it’s Vivien-are you, Rob, are you alright?" "Alright?" he mumbled slowly. "Vivien, I’m tired." "But you’re not-you’re alright." "Vivien," he pleaded, almost sobbed. "Then you’re ok," she said, more to herself than to him, he thought. "That’s good. Can I-pick you up before school? I really need to talk to you-" "Yeah, fine, Vivien, I want to talk to you too, just not at three thirty in the morning. Damn it, Vivien, I’m tired." "Ok. I just-I have something to show you. I couldn’t sleep until I made sure you were alright." "Listen, you poor girl, take some Benedryl and get the heck to bed." "Yes-yes, I will. Goodnight, Rob-sorry." "You should be, you…" He yawned. "…goodbye, Vivien." He put the phone back on the receiver, stumbled back to his bed and was asleep again before the clock registered three thirty-two. He took a step back, surprised. He hadn’t seen her in such a long time-at least, they hadn’t gone to the park together. She looked different somehow; her cheeks were redder and her smile wasn’t as nervous. Popularity, or at least positive attention, agreed with her, he thought. But now she wasn’t smiling. She looked excited, frightened, terrified. He didn’t understand why. She seemed anxious-she was unusually silent while they were walking, and walked so quickly you would have thought her life depended on it. She held a plastic bag in her hand. He thought about saying something, like "hello." But then, after an absence of half a school year, what do you say? At last they reached the park-the bitter, frozen park. So cold out; the wind bit into their skin. She stalked quickly to the slab of ice that was the lake, and he had no choice but to follow. She stood there by the lake in silence, biting her lips. Apparently she didn’t know what to say either. And then she thrust at him abruptly the plastic bag. He looked to her, a question on his face, but she only said: "Robby." He pulled out of the plastic bag an ugly white binder. He flipped it open and began to read. He said slowly, flipping through the pages: "My story." She nodded furiously. He looked at her. "How did you get this?" "Jason’s sister," she said impatiently, as though it wasn’t important. It wasn’t important! "It’s one of her favorite books. How did you-" "Wait a minute. It’s her favorite book? How-" "Robby-this is about Jenny. The boy in the story is you." "I know that. But I don’t understand how this could be-" "You-you wrote this." "Yes, but-" "Robby," she said quietly, helplessly. He knew that tone. That tone was the one that Vivien used when she had so much she wanted to ask she couldn’t even decide on a question. He knew that tone. He knew that girl. He knew Vivien, darn it. He sighed, sat down on the ice, and motioned for her to sit next to him. "It’s like…reading this, Robby…it was impossible. It was like…it was like you were streaming across…I saw it happening, because I’d seen it happen. But you weren’t writing about you...you were writing about Jenny." She looked at him, her hands clasped in her lap. "I…I…" He felt sorry for her. He said, trying to explain: "It helps me. I love my sister, but sometimes I…I don’t think about her. I never thought about her before, when I met you. Remember? I was always high, always. I threw up in front of her and said things I shouldn’t have and acted like any other bucket of slime from the Schultz family. I couldn’t allow myself to do that anymore. And I thought somewhere it ought to be written down the things she’s forced to deal with. So I wrote this. It makes me think from her perspective, and it helps me…keep track of how she is, and how I am." "Why so bitter?" "Her life is bitter," he said shortly. "And I was bitter when I wrote it." "When did you write it?" "I finished it a few months ago." She blinked. "Then you’ve been writing this during the school year-when did you find the time?" He stared at her coldly. Her eyes widened. She looked away. She wasn’t stupid, he thought. Not even popularity could do that to Vivien. He said, maybe more sharply than he intended: "How’s Jason?" "Jason’s fine," she said mutedly, her head bowed. She was ashamed. Part of him wanted her to be ashamed; part of him reasoned she had no reason to be; part of him knew that either way she didn’t deserve what he was about to put her through. He didn’t understand it himself. All the anger and jealousy and resentment he’d had such control over for months now- "I’m glad. He’s a great guy, Jason. Don’t you think?" "Of course I do. You-you know that." "That’s right. How could I not?" Then, casually: "So he likes this park also. You two usually go to the movies? Seen anything good lately?" "Robby-why are you asking me this?" "No reason." "Why didn’t you tell me your book got published?" "Two reasons. A, I didn’t know anybody was copying my stories; it hasn’t been published. B," he narrowed his eyes at her. "B," he continued, "I wouldn’t want to take up any of your valuable time." Her face turned a very white color. "You…what are you saying?" "I’m saying," he said suddenly, furiously, "that I’m not what you think I am and I don’t need your pity!" He sprung to his feet. "Do you know who I am now?" he cried. "I’ll tell you. I’ve gotten help for my addiction. I’m taking care of my mother. I’m studying for my classes and I’m passing them. I’m trying to raise my sister! I’m not some pathetic case that you must come and see in your spare time because I’ll kill myself if you don’t. I’m not something your conscience makes you revisit that you don’t want anyone else to see! So if you think you’re doing me or yourself or Jason or who only knows who else a favor by seeing me when you don’t want to you’re dead wrong. And I’ve got better ways to spend my time than with a person who only cares about me because I fit nicely on her resume!" He saw her eyes mist over. Not with guilt-with shock. She couldn’t believe she was hearing it. She didn’t believe it. He knew he had gone too far. And then the meaning of his words sunk in. It was a terrible thing to watch. He saw the hurt and pain that he was so used to filter into her eyes and her expression. Her mouth was partly open. There were tears on her cheeks. She took the binder, looked up at him with stupid pain, and ran to the gates. She was crying. She was shaking. He watched her go. Great job, he told himself. Great job. She laid quietly in the bed. There were tears in her eyes; there were tears on her cheeks. She held the teddy-bear in one arm. She hadn’t slept with that stupid teddy-bear since she was six. He hated her. He really hated her. She tried to think. That story, then…he’d been writing this the entire year. When did he have the time? When she was out with Jason. She could see him so clearly. She could imagine him sitting on his bed, writing furiously into his notebook, fuming. All alone. Swallowing his pills. Thinking of ways to kill himself. No-he’d said something else, hadn’t he? "I’m not who you think I am and I don’t need your pity!" He’d gotten help for his addiction. He was taking care of his mother. He was studying, he was taking care of his sister, he was-how could it be? But still-but still it was true; he was doing all the things she’d wanted him to do. Without her. Without her. They were separate now; separate. He lived in one world, and she lived in another. He was part of those trips to the park, of the beauty, of the depth. She was part of shopping at the mall and being taken to dinner with Jason the glamour boy. She had betrayed her own self. She’d become something she hated, and she was spending more and more time with a blood-sucking leech who only cared because she would give him answers to the homework if he sweet-talked her enough. She hated herself and she hated him. "Vivien." Her mother’s trill. "Jason’s on the phone."
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