Young Jane Young(71)

“Why are you so quiet?” he asks.

Because, you want to say, I am a person with an interior world that you know nothing about. But to say such a thing would violate the terms of your relationship. That is not the key in which your relationship is played. If he wanted a person with an interior world, he could just deal with his wife. You are the garbage disposal. You are the golf bag.

“Tired,” you say. “Classes, work.”

He turns up the music. He likes hip-hop, but it always seems like an act. He is somewhat obsessed with staying young.

The song that plays is “Ms. Jackson” by Outkast. You’ve never heard it before. At the beginning of the song, the first-person narrator/singer apologizes to a girl’s mother for how he’s treated her daughter. You cannot think of anything you want to hear less.

“Can we listen to something else?” you ask.

“Give it a chance,” he says. “Seriously, Aviva, you have to open your mind about hip-hop. Hip-hop is the future.”

“Fine,” you say.





92


“Outkast is our Walt Whitman. Outkast is —”

You hear the sound of breaking glass, crumpling metal.

The car’s air bags deploy.

The driver’s side window’s glass is cracked, and through it, the outside world looks like a surreal version of a stained glass scene in a church. Through it you see palm trees and the windshield of the other driver’s car, a petal pink Cadillac, and an old woman with her head slumped over – she might be dead.

“Looks like stained glass,” you say.

“More like cubism,” he corrects you.

The woman will turn out to have Alzheimer’s disease. Her license had been suspended three years ago. Her husband didn’t even know she still had keys. “How she loved that car,” is what he’ll say when he hears the news that she’s dead.

The congressman sprains his wrist. You end up with a neck injury, nothing serious, but you don’t know that at the time. In the moment, it’s terrifying.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice sounding remarkably calm.

You feel light-headed, but you know you need to leave the scene. You want to protect him from what will happen if the cops find out that he is having an affair with a former intern. You think he’s a good man. No, you think he’s a good congressman, and you don’t want him to suffer through a scandal.

“I should go,” you say.

“No,” he says. “You stay here. If the woman is dead, there will be an investigation, and you are my witness. If you leave and your presence is later discovered, it will seem as if we were





93


trying to cover up something. It’s the difference between a scandal and a crime. It’s the difference between a storm that will pass and the end of my career. When the cops come, you are an intern who I am giving a ride home. You can say this confidently because it’s true.”

You nod. Your head feels heavy and light at once.

“Say it, Aviva.”

If you run, turn to page 96.

If you stay, turn to page 110.





110


“I am an intern,” you say. “Congressman Levin is giving me a ride.”

“I’m sorry, Aviva,” the congressman says.

“For what?” you say numbly. “She drove into you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“For what’s to come.”

You wait for the police. It starts to rain.

Turn to the next page.





111


You are in a storm.

You are pelted by rain, and your clothes are soaked through.

Your house floats away.

There goes your dog, but there’s no time to mourn.

Your photo albums are lost or damaged and waterlogged beyond repair.

Your insurance doesn’t work.

You are clinging to a mattress.

You have no one to call for help.

Your family and friends have perished in the storm.

The ones who are still alive are angry that you have lived.

You think the rain will never stop.

But eventually, the rain stops, and when the rain stops, the newspeople arrive.

The newspeople love the story of the GIRL ON THE MATTRESS IN THE STORM.

“Who is this girl on the mattress?”

“Where did she go to school?”

“Was she popular at school?”

“Why is she wearing so few clothes?”

“She should wear more clothes if she’s going to end up washed up on a mattress!”

“Why didn’t she know better?”

“I heard the girl on the mattress was basically a psycho. She was a stalker. She was a storm chaser.”

“Does she suffer from low self-esteem?”

“You’d think the storm would prefer someone thinner and better looking.”





112


“I consider myself a feminist, but if you decide to cling to a mattress in the middle of a storm, that’s on you.”

“Oh my God, the girl on the mattress kept a blog!”

“Stay tuned for an exclusive with the ex-boyfriend of the girl on the mattress! Says Grossman was ‘always pretty needy and clingy.’”