But it was the end of the world. Friends were few and farbetween. And to be honest, Clara didn't have a lot to pick from. There wasBlake the deaf guy, Mort the homeless dude, Lou the serious black man, Katiethe whatever-the-hell-she-was psycho chick, and then a bunch of people that shestill thought of as essentially kids in the form of Amanda, Chloe, and Rudy,not to mention the poor little girl curled up in a ball to her left, Jane, thesole-survivor of her family. The pickings were slim for best friends.
"Ok, what about you?" Clara asked.
"Umm... I'd want to see Titanic."
"Titanic? What for?" Clara was incredulous. Shecouldn't believe Joan's answer. It only served to underscore just how differentthey were.
"What's wrong with Titanic? Titanic is a greatmovie. It's the love story of our time," she said, defending her choice.
"Titanic is a pile of crap. Think about it. Howwould you feel if your grandmother or great-grandmother or whatever died onthat boat, and some asshole came along and made a fictional movie out of it,turning one of the biggest disasters of the last century into some cheesy lovestory to make teenage girls melt in their seats? Doesn't that disgustyou?"
"Well, I never thought of it like that."
Clara felt mollified.
"But I don't care. I'd still want to seeTitanic."
Clara threw her arms up in the air.
From across the way, Blake said, his voice a littlelouder than it needed to be, "I'd watch The Grey."
Joan looked shocked. She stood up and walked over toBlake, and knelt down before him. She snapped her fingers next to his ears, butthere was no response. "Can you hear us?"
Blake shook his head. "Huh?"
Joan spoke louder and slower this time. "Can youhear us?"
"I can make out some words, but not all."
"That's great," Joan said, clapping Blake onthe arm. Clara thought she seemed genuinely happy for him. She knew it stillgnawed at her that she hadn't been able to fix the damage that was done to hisears. She had lost count of the times Joan had begun a sentence with thephrase, "If only." If only she had the proper materials. If only shehad the proper tools. If only she was still at the hospital.
In his too loud voice, Blake looked up at her and said,"Titanic sucked."
They all had a laugh, except for poor little Jane, curledin a ball and squeezing her eyes shut and wishing she could do the same to herears.
Chapter 2: The Tale of Little Jane
Little Jane, that's what she had been called since beforeshe could even remember. For the first thirteen years of her existence, her familyhad lived a charmed life in Portland's Pearl District. They lived in a penthouseat the top of a twenty-story building.
The walls were plain white, jutting up out of brighthardwood floors that shone in the sunlight that poured into the east-facing apartmentin the morning. The apartment consisted of three large rooms, one for herparents Brian and Sarah, one for her sister Ruby, and one for herself. Thefurniture was all high-end, modern stuff, chosen for its uniqueness. Each piecewas a one of a kind inspiration from local artisans.
Her room was a fifteen-by-twenty foot palace filled witheverything that she could ever want. Little Jane's bed was massive, soft aspuppy fur, and had more pillows than an entire family would need. Her desk wasan ornate antique that her mom said, "Cost a lot of money." Itsancient wood surface was covered in scars and scratches, some of which she haddone herself when she wasn't paying attention. On it sat her laptop, her cellphone on its charger, and her iPad. The walls were covered with posters ofsingers and pop stars that her dad claimed would never last as long as theBeatles had, but she didn't care. She loved them now, and she would always lovethem she swore to herself.
Scattered amidst the posters were pictures of her ownart. She had been painting since she was little. One of her first memories wasof her mom guiding her hand around the canvas with her own soft hands. They hadseemed so big when she was little. Little Jane had grown up drawing. She coulddraw anything, and her walls proved it. Here was a picture of Sir Furgus, hermom's elderly cat that had passed away a couple of years ago. She still smiledat the picture. It was almost perfect, except for the eyes. Over here was apainting of her sister when she was five and smearing her birthday cake on herown face. She had recreated it faithfully from a photo. Here was a picture ofLloyd Andrew, the dreamiest member of the boy band N2U. She had recreated hishair just right, the little spikes jagging this way and that. His chipmunkcheeks and upturned nose were perfectly formed, but still, there was somethingabout the eyes that she just hadn't gotten right.
On her 14th birthday, she had invited her friends over tohang out in her room. School had just gotten out, so she was only able to havea handful of friends over, as many of them had already taken off on vacationsto various locations around the world, like Miami, Paris, and Tokyo. Hannah hadeven gone to Africa to go on a safari, although that didn't sound like much funto Little Jane. She didn't like the thought of anyone shooting animals.
The excitement of that morning was still fresh in hermind, as her mother buzzed around getting everything just right, inflatingballoons, hanging streamers, and putting together colorful
