Jenna's Diaries: Denial Ain't Just A River in Egypt

    "Jen, wake up. Wake up, Jen." 

    I awake to the hissing voice of someone half-whispering, half-yelling my name. Opening one eye, I scan the room, trying to locate the person that voice belongs to. But it’s pitch-dark and I can’t see a damn thing.

   Then I hear it. Rock against glass. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Noise so familiar it’s like music to my ears. 

   Immediately, I fly out of bed and rush to the window. The shutters are closed, but I can see her standing there. She’s waving gaily at me, a huge beam across her face.

   "You woke up! Ah, finally, Jen, I thought I was gonna wake up the yuppies! Get down here!" 

   Meg still doesn’t call my foster parents by their real names. I think she finds it really hilarious that they’re, you know, rich and all. She can’t wrap her head around it. Neither can I sometimes, but I’ve gotta respect them now. I brought her over one time, and she kept cracking up over the furniture. She said the couch in the living room costs 5 grand, because she saw it in Floors herself. Meg works at the McDonald’s around the corner, so she doesn’t earn a whole lot of cash, but she likes entering expensive stores and trying to fool salespeople into thinking she’s an oil heiress. 

   "Hold your horses, I’m coming!" I yell back. 

   Quickly, I switch on the lights, grab my jeans from the armchair and put them on. I give myself a once-over in the mirror. My hair is a complete mess, and the black tank top I have on is creased, but I don’t have time to iron. Mike doesn’t wait over twenty minutes.

   Ten minutes later, I’m out in the garden, but Meg isn’t there. Uh-oh. 

   "Meg?" I call out, keeping my voice down. I highly doubt that I’d wake up old Marge, but I don’t want to take my chances. If Marge starts hiding the keys somewhere I can’t find, I’m gonna lose it. Most of the gang are night owls. We hang out at the witching hour. That’s the deal. 

   Slowly, I start walking towards the gate. Man, I can’t even see her shadow. This is getting a little weird. 

   "Meg, where are - AAAAGH!"

   The scream escapes out of me before I can stop myself, and almost right-away, a firm hand is placed over my mouth.

   "Stop screaming, you ditz, you’re gonna wake them up!"

    OK, that voice so doesn’t belong to Meg. It’s . . .

   "Jack!" I cry out, not knowing whether to slap him or give him a hug. I decide to go with the hug. I can abuse him later.

   "You should’ve seen your face." His shoulders are shaking with laughter, and I push him away from me, a little peeved.

    "What are you doing here? And why are you wearing that creepy mask? You almost gave me a heart attack."

    He takes off the mask and stares down at his feet, embarrassed. The moonlight is reflecting on his black hair to the point where it’s glossing. He’s wearing an old sweater that I think is green, but it’s hard to tell from where we are. More importantly, his arms are filling out the sleeves in a way that used to be impossible for his scrawny shape. Has Jack been working out? He looks . . . he looks good.  

   "I’m here to see the movie," he replies eventually, with a shrug. "And . . . to see you." He utters this so very softly I almost don’t hear him. I sort of wish I didn’t. 

   "Oh, erm, it’s great to see you, dude!" I say, punching his shoulder lightly.

   He nods, and his eyes suddenly look droopy. I know I said the wrong thing. But I can’t lead him on. I accidentally did that once when we were all stoned, and I was feeling kind of flirty. Well, I always feel flirty when I’m stoned. But Jack kind of misinterpreted where I was going, and he tried to stick his tongue down my throat, and I socked him. I couldn’t help it, I just felt disgusted. The poor dude apologized for an hour straight, with an ice patch over his eye. And I forgave him for that, but ever since he’s been trying to keep his distance. And I didn’t really mind, because I had a lot going on so I didn’t have time to think about it. But seeing him now, I realize I’ve missed him. I still do. 

   "Jenna, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and, well. . ." He digs his right hand inside the pocket of his jacket. Holy crap, he’s not going to take out a ring now, is he? Oh, OK, he’s just feeling shy, I guess. Good, because I’m really not ready to get married. Not that I would say yes if Jack proposed to me, but still. 

   "In the past couple of days, I’ve realized that, um. . ." 

   OK, this is straight out of a movie, this scene right here. Complete with the cliché dialogue. He’s going to tell me he loves me, and I’m gonna have to break his heart. Then I’ll tell him we can be friends, and he’ll say sure, and we’ll hug in silence so painful you’ll want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. And we won’t ever be friends again. Oh God. Please don’t tell me you love me. Please.

   "Are you two coming or what?" Meg’s tiny head pops in from the iron gate. "We’re gonna be late, you know."

   Phew. I was not looking forward to breaking his heart. Only, if I’m being perfectly honest, it can be cool to have that kind of power over someone, right? To have the ability to make them cry, that is something. Nobody can affect me that way, though, because nobody is worth it. People are suckers. I mean, it’s not my fault that Jack gets his heart broken because of me. I don’t think it makes sense, but Jack does. That’s his problem. Not mine. I can’t help that I don’t like him and he decides to hang on like a lovesick puppy.

   We hurry out to meet our crew, and Mike gives me a little wave in the driver’s seat. "Hey, sugar." He winks at me, and I almost shudder. I don’t know what it is about Mike, but he just scares the pants off me. He’s like, you know, a scaremonger, except that he doesn’t really need to say anything. It’s in his sunken eyes and hollow-cheeked face. My English teacher would have been impressed by the words I just used. I don’t get scared often, and if it weren’t for Mike, I’d probably be fearless. But he just looks like the kind of guy you know you shouldn’t be alone with. And I haven’t been so far.

   "We’ll talk later, OK?" Jack whispers in my ear.

   I don’t have time to answer as I hop into the backseat of the car, squashing myself between Reggie and Meg. 

   "Hey, Reggie." I smile at him, and he smiles back. Reggie is a nice dude. It’s always important to get along with your best friend’s boyfriend, because when you don’t, it can make things a little tense. More than tense. Let’s just say I haven’t had pleasant experiences with this before. 

   Speaking of which, Meg is shooting me one of her usual, knowing, save-me-the-deets-for-later glances. I nod at her, even though I’m not sure why I’m playing along. I don’t have any deets to share. I probably would have, though, if she didn’t cut in, to which I’m grateful for, by the way. It’s just... you can’t blame a girl for being a little curious. 

   "What are we watching?"

   "Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Reggie got us tickets."

   Jack sits beside me at the theatre. I would have sat at the end next to Meg, but she and Reggie were fooling around and it’s not really cool to have two people basically slobbering over each other when you’re trying to concentrate on what you’re watching.

   Halfway through the picture, Jack lets out a yawn and stretches his arms until he’s got them on my shoulder. I hate it when boys pull that trick. I guess they’re too much of chickens to admit that they like us and want to put their arms around us. Nah, they have to try to make it look like the touching was an accident ... and continues to stay an accident until the credits roll in. Lame.

   "So how’s it been with your new folks?" Jack asks me once we’re out of the theatre. We’ve been taking a walk down the street and already a discussion about the movie. Well, it wasn’t so much of a discussion as it was two lines, but that’s beside the point. 

   It’s been about three weeks since I’ve stayed with Margaret. And Greg, but he’s always at work, so I don’t really feel we live under the same roof, let alone have him as my foster dad. 

   Well, except for when we have breakfast together. But that doesn’t count because when I show up to the kitchen he’s holding up the newspaper so I don’t exactly get to see his face. And we don’t really communicate. Well, unless he wants something. Then he gives his usual piglike grunt, which, after our first meal, I discovered means "pass the cheese." I don’t think grunting qualifies as communication, though. Or maybe it does because he gets his message across. I don’t know.

   I still haven’t asked Marge about Julia. I mean, I really want to, but I’m kind of afraid she’s going to start crying again, and I’m not sure I feel comfortable with that idea. Not because I care so much about her feelings, which I guess I do. Sort of. It’s just that, well, I can’t handle open displays of emotion. I act like a bitch and can come across that way to the other person, even though I am actually a bitch and don’t just act like one. And sometimes, when they’re spilling their guts out, and expressing their pain, and you know that they’re awfully hurt, I have to try really, really hard to stop myself from laughing. So, I thought it would be best for me to wait until the right moment before I ply her with questions. And the right moment hasn’t happened. Yet. 

   But of course I don’t say all of this to Jack. Or any of it.

   "Fine." Nothing wrong with a brief, perfectly safe, one-word answer. I’m not big on the whole sharing-your-personal-stuff thing.

   "Yeah? They treating you okay?" He’s gazing at me with sincere eyes, full of concern, and I can’t help but respond with a smile. Cute. Jack is very cute. But I don’t like him. Not that way. And I’m not sure why, but you can’t make sense of everything in life. You just can’t. It is what it is, and that’s that.

   "Yeah, it’s been good. So how are things with you?" 

   The minute the words leave my mouth, surprise dawns on his face. I can’t blame him. I never ask him about his life, because I’ve never really been interested. I guess he’s noticed.

   "Great," he says. "I’ve been interning at my dad’s company and things are going really well. I’ve also been seeing someone."

   And that’s when it comes. This strange, unfamiliar tinge in my stomach, like my muscles are locked in a heated box. OK, this is a little odd. It’s probably just a tummy bug.

   "Someone? Like a therapist, you mean?" I ask. I don’t know why I say that. I mean, I know he means a girl. Don’t ask me how I know. I just know. But I say that anyway. 

    He chuckles. "No. Someone like a girl," he teases, confirming what I already knew. 

    See? I told you. I was right. Instincts don’t fail me. 

   "We’ve been going out for a few months." 

   The air around us suddenly grows very, very hot. I never thought it was possible for the climate to make such a drastic change in under thirty seconds, but this is living proof. 

   "Man, I’m hot. Are you hot? It must be like 90 degrees out here," I ramble, but I don’t think he hears me. He has this dreamy, far-off look in his face, as if he’s picturing the girl with us right now. 

   "I have to introduce you to Penny, J, she’s just great," he starts gushing. 

   OK, my muscles are officially on fire. 

   "She’s beautiful and talented and - man, I thought you were funny, but she’s just hilarious."

   My heart is beating so rapidly I swear it’s gonna explode out of my chest. Am I having a heart attack? What the hell is going on?

   "I think I need to be taken to the hospital," I blurt out. 

Jenna's Diaries: If Walls Could Talk

   I jump out of my skin, almost letting out a scream. Margaret sure knows how to make an exit. 

   OK. So that wasn’t the scenario I anticipated. Not the jumping-out-of-my-skin part. Or the almost-letting-out-a-scream part. But the Julia-taking-her-own-life part. 

   Margaret must have loved this girl. She sobbed as if she was her real mom and not a foster parent. And I ... watched. Great move, J. Ten points on kindness! 

   But it’s not my fault. She’s a stranger to me. A stranger who happens to my new foster mom, but still. I couldn’t hug her. I don’t really know her yet. I don’t even know why she chose me.

   Unless . . . unless Julia and I shared some kind of resemblance? That had to be it. That was the only explanation that made sense. We probably look like twins. Well, except for the fact that I’m ten pounds heavier. Which would make me ... an overweight sub for her fake dead daughter? I don’t know whether I should be insulted or flattered. I’m not sure I care enough to feel either way.

   I look around the room, trying to see whether it could give me some kind of information about Julia. Oh man, if walls could talk. What kind of stories could they tell me?

   Madonna is pouting at me with red lips and bleached hair. So Julia must have been a fan of Madonna. I wonder what else she was into. 

   How old was she anyway? And what kind of life did she lead? She probably had a story before committing suicide. Otherwise she wouldn’t have done it. I mean, ordinary people don’t just decide to kill themselves for no reason. They always have a reason. 

   At least that’s what they tell you in care. For instance, everybody thinks I tried to kill myself at ten years old and they think the reason I tried to do that is because I’m an orphan. But my social worker Sandra found me before it was "too late." That’s what she says. I asked her what I was going to be late for but she didn’t tell me. Instead, she said I needed to talk to someone. I told her I just had fun playing with the knife. She didn’t believe that. 

   I think most people don’t believe me when it comes to that stuff, because it’s not supposed to be "normal." But if I was someone who did normal things, I would just be like everyone else. And who wants to be like everyone else? So, this is why I don’t really care to be normal. I also don’t really care what people think. Because people don’t know what they’re talking about half of the time. 

   Like Gina my therapist said I’m still "harboring issues" from the time my mom died. But she’s wrong, because, A) My mom didn’t die, and B) I don’t really remember much about that time, on account of the fact that I was so young and all. I only remember how her breath stunk of whiskey a month before that. Gina said it’s not a coincidence that whiskey is the one alcoholic "beverage" I refuse to drink, but she’s wrong about that, too. It’s not true. I just prefer beer. And vodka. And maybe tequila. But so what? Whiskey has, like, barley and rye, and I hate the way that tastes.

   An hour flies by. I paint my toenails black. Another hour drags on.

   Old Marge hasn’t called me for dinner yet. I hope she didn’t go take her own life, too. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I think. Man, things can sure get awry when death is involved.

   I need a cigarette.

Ambrosia's Diaries: Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows

   There is no sense in arguing with Father. I vaguely recall an episode from my childhood when I first became aware of this fact. I had been playing happily in our orchard with the chef’s son, a boy I had charmed very innocently one fine summer. It was a time of ignorance, the blissful kind where I hadn’t the faintest idea what was in store for me. Father had instantly called for me upon bearing witness to our growing friendship.

   "You are not to play with that boy any longer," he had said, crossly, pointing a firm finger. 

 

   Puzzled by this order, I frowned at him, and questioned him for asking me to follow such a request. Not quite so eloquently, I might add. In all fairness, I was only seven, and my wording couldn’t have possibly been as articulate as it is now.

   Regardless, Father had responded - silently - but with a stare, long and hard. He paced around the room for a moment or so, and then he turned to face me again, with ice in his eyes.

   "Ambrosia, this is not a request," he had said through gritted teeth. "This is a command. You will always do as your father says. Always," he repeated, more firmly than ever, and I gulped in alarm. 

   I have since, more or less, obeyed his word. Until now.

   "I will not marry Mr Gilbert, Mama," I cry in dismay, as she waves her hands despairingly in the air. "I will not." 

   I am well aware that Father is in the room, for even a blind man will be able to recognize him amidst a crowd of twenty. He is so very large in his presence, and yet I refuse to look at him thus far. It is an act of defiance, and while I am not sure what it is I am defying precisely, I continue to ignore his looks of steel, coldly burrowing into me. 

   Well, as best as anyone can ignore Father, especially as he shoots me daggers with his eyes alone.

   "I find him to be a highly disagreeable man," I carry on, knowing very well that my words will not be taken to kindly. "He is most assuming." 

   Mama gasps at this and holds a hand to her forehead, almost as though I have engaged in an activity as criminal as theft, or worse, a kiss.

   "Ambrosia, you will not defy your parents’ wishes," she informs me, after recovering from her brief but theatrical moment of shock. Really, you would think that she is being made to marry a man she can not even tolerate, let alone love.

   "So don’t ask me to marry him, then," I retort.

   "Well, I never! The cheek of this girl ... " She looks at Father for assistance, but he does not abide. Mama frowns for a moment, unsure of how to handle this turn of events. 

   I cannot help but stifle a laugh as I observe her stumped expression. She will have to choose her next choice of words carefully, for it is up to her to take control of the situation. And taking control is, undeniably, not one of Mama’s strongest suits. That is, if she has any. Why, this evening has proved, rather surprisingly, to be one of much amusement.

   "Your betrothal shall be made official in a week from today," she says at last, doing her best - which isn’t much, if you ask me - to mimic the affirmative tone Father adopts when instructing others. Which is very often, and, to his credit, in a far more effective fashion. 

   "Well, seeing as you’ve assumed the role of Father now. . ."

   Another gasp.

   ". . .you can be the one to inform Mr Gilbert he is to cut off all ties with me."

   With a turn on my heel, I stroll out the room. . .

. . . and hover outside the door. I absolutely reject the notion of not being privy to discussions about my own future. 

   For a minute, I can barely make out the faint muffling of voices. And then I hear my father very clearly say, "We will leave her alone."

   Excuse me?

   A long pause follows. It seems as though Father has stunned Mama into silence. 

   Good God, my feet are growing cold. I know I cannot wait any longer for her to answer. 

   "But for heaven’s sake, Bernard..." she speaks, almost as though she had read my thoughts. Now, that would be an enchanting experience for her. I chuckle at the image. 

   "The child is being quite unreasonable!" 

   Unreasonable? I only just resist the urge of snapping back. Assuming that I am the child, of course, I find this comment rather rich. How is it unreasonable, I wonder, to not desire a husband one does not feel even slight affection for? It is a principal right in marriage, surely, to choose your own spouse. 

   "Oh, she is being unreasonable. I have never doubted that," Father agrees gruffly. "No matter, though. We will leave her, and Mr Gilbert will not call on her for a while. And then," he adds, his tone changing into one of - roguishness? Was that possible for Father? ". . . she will approach us, regretting her choice, for we will reject all potential suitors that ask for her hand."

   Oh, I shall deeply regret the choice of not being married to an imbecile. And all the other imbeciles that decide to come crawling after that. Certainly.

   "Mr Gilbert will not let go very easily," Father is mumbling.

  

   How sweet of him to be so attached. There is nothing more appealing than a man that latches onto a woman like a leech.

   "He is quite smitten by her; he does wish to marry her so. . ."

   My whole body stiffens upon hearing this ridiculous lie. 

   Mr Gilbert is not smitten by me. I have acknowledged that about him the same way I have acknowledged that about the other suitors. He does not even know me. He does not know that I loathe marmalade on bread, nor that I love the mornings. He does not know that I ride my horse, Lucky, every day at sunset without fail, and take a specially longer ride on Mondays. He does not know that I dislike being an only child, and often dream of being in a house with siblings. He does not know any number of things about me, because he has never asked. He does not care to ask. And he does not, I think with outrage, wish to marry me. He wishes to marry my heir. 

Jenna's Diaries: First Day on a Brand New Planet

1986, May 22nd. 

   "OK, this is where you’re going to sleep," Margaret is saying to me, unfastening the door to a large bedroom. The walls are lilac, with a bunch of paintings and a poster of Madonna. Sweet. I spot a vase of lilies and - holy crap, is that a painting by Monet? These people are yuppies.

 

   I take a minute to process this. I mean, my mind is still adjusting to the fact that I am now going to live in what is, to me, basically a mansion. The people that I am meant to stay with call it a house. Go figure. 

   "You can put your clothes in there." Margaret gestures towards an open cabinet besides the dressing table. 

   My jaw drops when I take a peak inside. There is an entire wardrobe here, complete with blouses, night gowns, leggings, dresses, purses, and about a hundred pair of jeans. I turn to Margaret, ready to express my thanks. "These clothes - "

   "Oh, this all belongs to Julia..." she mumbles, seemingly to herself.

   Julia? Who the hell is Julia? Am I going to have a foster sister? How come nobody told me about this? 

   Margaret stares at me, her brows furrowing. I think this is supposed to tell me she’s making a decision.

   "Well, you know, Julia was slightly - um -  more slender than you," she adds, nodding approvingly at her choice of word. "But not to worry, we can buy you clothes for girls with, um, a healthy size as yours."

   I flush a deep crimson. I know what ‘healthy’ actually means in her dictionary. She thinks I’m large. To hell with what she thinks.

   "Dinner will be ready in about. . ." she glances down at her watch, "two hours, I should say. Make yourself comfortable." She makes her way to the door. 

   "Margaret, who is Julia?" I blurt out, before she leaves. I have already decided that I don’t like this Julia person. I bet she’s a schmooze who is skinny and attractive and uses phrases like ‘gag me with a spoon.’ Oh God, my foster sister is going to be a total dipstick. This thought scares me and cheers me up at the same time. 

   Margaret looks over her shoulder at me. And keeps looking.

   Erm, OK, this is not how I expected this conversation to go. What, does she think I’m going to freak out if she tells me I’m not the only person she’s fostering? Come on, I’ve been in a house with so many kids I don’t even think my foster parents knew who I was half of the time. I was always called Judy. I gave up correcting them after the first two months.

   "Julia was our foster child for a few years," she explains finally, her expression unreadable.  

   Oh. OK. So I’m not going to have a total dipstick for a foster sister. Or any foster sister, really. Hmm. I guess that means all the attention will be on me. Is that a good thing? I mean, it’s definitely going to make sneaking out of the house a little harder without all the distractions. Crap.

   "Julia was quite troubled," Margaret says, snapping me out of my thoughts. 

   Did they send her away? Yeah, of course they did. Heck, they probably foster children to keep themselves entertained. Then when they realize we’re actual human beings with needs they send them back to the orphanages. Everyone knows that yuppies don’t have feelings.

   "What happened to her?" I ask, knowing perfectly well I’m not gonna like her answer. 

   Margaret takes one look at me and bursts into tears. I am so surprised by this I don’t even make a move. I just watch her as she buries her face in her hands, crying so hard I swear she’s gonna barf. I take a step back just in case I’m right. Because, you know, I’m usually right about most things. I’m not bragging. I wouldn’t do that. I’m not the bragging type. I just know what I’m good at. And I’m good with instincts. 

 

   Except that one time I went to a Guns n' Roses concert with a friend of mine, and I thought this guy was kind of cool, so I had a drink with him, because he asked, and well, he seemed nice. But he tried to force himself on me, which wasn’t very nice. Anyway, I basically sucker-punched him and knocked him out, the way Carrie showed me to treat the pervs. Apart from that one time, though, I’m great at judging people.

   OK, I’m getting a little sidetracked here. Margaret is still crying. I bite my lip. I’m kind of uncomfortable around people who openly show emotion, to tell you the truth. Can’t they just wait until they’re alone to blubber and have snot running from their noses? It’s not something pretty to look at. It’s like, you know, pooping! It should be done alone. OK, maybe not to that extent, but you get the picture. 

   I don’t know if Margaret is expecting me to hug her, because that’s the last thing I plan on doing. I feel kind of bad for her and everything, but not enough to have her puke all over me.

   "Julia died last year. She took her own life." 

Ambrosia's Diaries: The Search for Something More

   He asked to see me this afternoon. I had prepared myself for his visit, draping the shawl tightly around my chest before he arrived. I would not risk my honour by misleading him, filling his filthy mind with ideas he was prone to entertain the moment he took a look at me.

   "Miss Ambrosia." 

   There would never come a time where I would not be able to recognize that hoarse voice, the way in which it unpleasantly boomed out in the room as he stepped inside. I nodded curtly at him, stealing a quick glance at his appearance. He looked as strapping and smug as ever. Was it possible for the air to grow thick with my sheer disgust at his pretentious manner? 

   "Good afternoon, Mr Gilbert," I said, plastering a faint yet charming smile I had been forced to fake many a time during social affairs.

   He sat himself beside me, inches too close, and I edged away from him, reminding him of boundaries he dare not cross without my consent. 

   Foolish man, I thought with a sneer, as he clasped my hand and lifted it to his foul mouth. It took every ounce of dignity in me to not shudder at the touch of his dry lips against my skin. I would have to cleanse myself later.

   "My lady, my Ambrosia," he whispered, his calloused fingers intertwining with mine. 

   "Mr Gilbert, with all due respect, I am not your lady," I exclaimed, standing up in haste. "You seem to forget yourself before me." 

   "Miss Ambrosia, your ties with me..." he began to protest.

   "Whatever ties you speak of, Mr Gilbert, have not been permitted by my father as of yet," I replied, barely hiding my fury. "It would do you well to remember that on the next occasion you choose to shamelessly affront me."

   "I beg you, Miss Ambrosia - "

   "We remain strictly acquainted, Mr Gilbert," I interrupted brusquely. 

   At my last word, he was on his feet, and I almost breathed a sigh of relief.

   "I deeply apologize, Miss Ambrosia," he insisted, his voice softening at the mention of my name. I could not bring myself to meet his gaze, dark and piercing my eyes for a hint of longing he must have realized, surely, he was only delusional to hope for. "Do forgive my error of judgement. I have been so - " 

   "Very well, Mr Gilbert. I am sure you have made other arrangements for the day," I murmured, looking away.

   He nodded, disinclined to correct me. As he bowed down, I wondered suddenly what would become of my future, to join in marriage with this man. To attend dinners and balls on his arm as his ... his wife. How could Father allow that for me? How could he seal my fate with an ignoramus? 

   "Good afternoon, Miss Ambrosia. It was, as always, an absolute pleasure," he gushed.