Why, I am Miss Austen, of course, the voice replied. But you may call me Jane.


As you can well imagine, Jane’s manifestation in my life created some complications for me at school.

Since I was reasonably sure I’d be sent off to a psych ward if I didn’t figure out what was going on, I ignored Mrs. Leverson’s structured reading assignments and inhaled the whole novel in two days, snatching moments to polish off a chapter or two between classes, at lunch or late into the night. I was a girl obsessed.

Jane’s voice in my head, instead of lessening, grew stronger with every page turned. While she insisted it was too early to explain why or how she’d chosen to inhabit my mind instead of, say, Sam’s, Tanya’s or Mrs. Leverson’s, she sure was right about that Mr. Wickham character. What a prick he turned out to be.

And — fine, call me crazy — I went along with it all. I asked her endless questions, of course, about her sudden appearance in my previously silent mental world. I responded skeptically, sure, to her reticent but ever-proper replies that there was “a good reason” for her being with me (one I was frustratingly unable to pry out of her ghostly lips). But I was an egocentric teenager. I expected to be Special. I expected the Universe to have a Grand Plan for me. And I supposed this Jane thing was part of it.

Or, maybe, I was just really lonely.

Regardless, I got used to Jane being there, real fast. I rejoiced in the secretiveness of our conversations and started to enjoy the company. To count upon it.

As for Jane, she chatted, not constantly, but pointedly. She had her figurative index finger aimed in full accusation at human folly. According to her, there was plenty to criticize about her nineteenth-century era and homeland, and she didn’t exactly spare me her sarcastic opinions of my time period.

Take gym class, for instance.

Young ladies engaged in sport with the gentlemen? Jane said that first day, her tone incredulous. How barbaric.

I stretched in my assigned spot, wishing I were anywhere else. “Barbaric” is the word. It’s downright gladiator-like. Gym is an endurance test to see how much humiliation you can tolerate before you die.

I see, she replied, but I didn’t think she had any idea. Gym was my daily nightmare. Having Jane with me, though, made those forty-two minutes of hell pass far more quickly.

On her second day, she turned her dry wit to the world of academia. And, more specifically, to my place in it.

Our history teacher asked, “Who can name the three-word motto the people of France chanted during the French Revolution?”

I’d read the chapter and could answer this, but I didn’t want to be the one to raise my hand. Sam, who was sitting across the aisle from me and knew the answers to everything, ignored the teacher completely and played with the Velcro on his Trapper Keeper. Our teacher, however, shot us pleading looks, and, to me, it felt cruel to refuse to offer him some kind of lifeline. So, I made brief eye contact. Big mistake.

After another twenty seconds of silence, the teacher sighed and said, “Okay, Miss Barnett. Why don’t you tell us? We all know you know the answer.”

The class snickered as I murmured my now obligatory “liberté, égalité, fraternité” and some smart-jock buddy of Sam’s whispered, “She can remember that, but she can’t remember to ‘bump, set, spike’ in volleyball?”

Sam laughed loudly at that one, as did most of the class, and I vowed then and there never to bail out our history teacher again. But Jane, at least, came to my defense.

Do not be embarrassed, Ellie. Let them enjoy their amusement now. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?

Her confidence grounded me and helped me remember not to take myself so seriously. It was a reminder I desperately needed throughout high school.

And then there was Stacy Daschell, the girl I despised most in our entire sophomore class. On day three, while changing back into our regular clothes after gym, an item Stacy wore beneath her red-and-gold cheerleader’s sweater snagged Jane’s attention.

Pray, what is that? Jane inquired, her voice horrified.

I didn’t own such an item myself, but I’d heard about Stacy’s purchase ad nauseam that week. It’s a lavender Victoria’s Secret demi bra. Heavily padded, I answered silently.

The slender, pointy-nosed Stacy, who’d recently returned from a trip to San Francisco where she’d encountered the first of these soon-to-be-famous stores, swept a cascade of blond curls off her shoulder, giggled seductively at her mirror image across the room and showed off her orthodontically perfect incisors right along with her enhanced cleavage. “It’s called the ‘Emma,’” Stacy informed her friends. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Jane sniffed. Strumpet.

My good friend Terrie, in an independent assessment at her locker next to mine, used the modern American equivalent. “Slut.”

I laughed at their comments and, consequently, was rewarded with an extra-nasty sneer from Stacy.

Then she, with her Victoria’s Secret uplift and her cheerleader’s outfit snugly back on, adjusted her leg warmers, slipped on her gold-glittered Nikes and blotted her hot-pink lipstick with a tissue as she tracked my far-less-fashionable footsteps down the hallway toward algebra.

Unfortunately, coming from the opposite direction strode my other worst nightmare.

A gaggle of senior girls materialized like a firewall, blocking our path. There were four of them — all big hair, big boobs, big attitude. The leader crossed her arms over a thin, low-cut sweater, which emphasized her abundant chest, and nudged one of the other girls to speak.

A leggy blonde — more specifically, Stacy’s older sister — turned to Stacy. “Where do you think you’re off to?”

“Math,” Stacy said with a weary flip of her hair. She tossed a disgusted look in my direction. And, though she was failing algebra, she added, “Anything’s better than gym class with losers.”

The seniors cackled and broke the human wall open just wide enough to let Stacy pass through.

“Well?” another girl said, expecting me to defend myself.

I kept my mouth shut. There was no way to win this kind of battle. I could only wait it out.

Their leader finally stepped forward, shaking her head so the long ash-brown strands brushed her shoulders. Her squinty eyes glittered with general malevolence, her expression pure scorn.


“Ellie, Ellie, Ellie Barnett,” she said. “What exactly is your problem? How is it that you’re so competent with classroom shit, so very responsible in your stupid little academic life, but such a fuck-up in everything else?”

Jane chose this inopportune moment to chime in. This young woman hardly seems a paragon of virtue. What manner of conduct is this?

I clutched my algebra notebook and pencil a little tighter, but I didn’t answer either of their questions.

“You’re becoming quite a legend at school,” the leader said with her trademark mockery. She scanned me up and down, rolled her eyes and burst out laughing. “Just look at you! Scraggly hair. Dressed like a geek. No makeup. Digging yourself into a hole of permanent unpopularity. Sometimes I can’t stand to be in the same hallway with you. Make an attempt to get with it or I’ll make you sorry. You know I can.”

Oh, yeah. I knew.

The two-minute bell rang and, with a taunting shove to my shoulder, an “accidental” treading upon my left toes and an intimidating parting glare, the leader and her gang finally let me go. I hobbled the rest of the way down the hall.

How deplorable, Jane whispered, and I could envision her pursing her thin lips with disdain. Who is this individual?

Oh, she would be last year’s Homecoming Queen and this year’s titleholder for Most Likely to Get Laid on a First Date, I said. The leader had been away for two days on a college scouting trip and Jane hadn’t encountered her before. I envied Jane that, inhaled deeply and tried my hardest to laugh off the incident.

But, even this early on, Jane had developed an unnerving habit of persistence. By what proper name is that young lady called?

Ah, well, if you must know, most people call her Di, but her full name is Diana Lynn Barnett. I paused for dramatic effect. Otherwise known as my big sister.

Just then, I saw Sam on the other side of the hallway eyeing me strangely before breaking into one of his smirkiest grins. With his index and middle fingers, he made a V for victory, which he held above his head, since his team had just annihilated mine in volleyball. Again. Then he switched the fingers around — index and thumb — to form an L for loser, which he directed at me.

God! Why did I still like that guy? He was too competitive, too arrogant, too intense for me, or so I tried to tell my bruised ego. He added too many distractions to my already complicated life but, stupidly, I couldn’t quite let go of my fantasies about him.

At the same moment, this other guy, a hotshot basketball player named Jason Bertignoli, walked by, too. He’d been on my losing volleyball team, but he didn’t blame me or mock me or ignore me. He turned around and said, “Don’t worry about the game, Ellie. We’ll get ’em next time.”

I smiled. Jocky Jason was nice. Then again, he was new to the school and still being nice to everybody.

Sam saw Jason talking to me, and he sent us the evil eye, which did not go unnoticed by either Jason or by Jane.