Jen/ny

"Oh, Jesus," the girl breathed in surprise. She hadn't expected, when she'd searched for mp3s of this particular song, to find anything. It was mildly obscure, after all. Even so, it was indeed there, and she stared with melancholy gravity at the link flashing blue under her pointer. It had been a long time since she had heard that song. Without really bothering to rationalize her behavior, she clicked the link.

People are always asking me why I do things. . .but what I think they don't realize is that half the time I don't know why I do things. Why, for example, was she doing this? Why was she trying to listen to a song that had essentially allowed her to develop a very strong emotional connection with it, then turned around and bit her in the ass like an inflamed T Rex?

Jen was beginning to become quite sure that nothing in her life had ever or would ever make sense.

She was half hoping that the song wouldn't download, that maybe there would be some kind of setback like when she'd tried to download Bittersweet Symphony or Fields of Gold, but there was no setback. Everything worked like a charm exactly when she wished it wouldn't. Jen cursed at her computer in fashions that might concievably turn the metaphorical air a lovely shade of bright aqua.

Should I try to hide
The way I feel inside
My heart for you?
Would you say that you
Would try to love me too?

A shudder escaped Jen, like what goes through one when one touches raw meat or sees something disgusting, but softer, full of gentle wind.

In your mind could you ever be
Really close to me?
I can tell the way you smile
If I feel that I could be certain then
I would say the things
I want to say tonight

Jen let out one short, painful, unsteady breath, warm and wet and sad.

But till I can see
That you'd really care for me
I will dream that someday you'll be
Really close to me
I can tell the way you smile
If I feel that I could be certain then
I would say the things
I want to say tonight

Jen could feel the abashed, terrified joy she had felt the first time she had ever read those lyrics. Jake had mentioned them in passing, dropping the cryptic, Jacobly hint that they reminded him of an acquaintance of his. Upon reading them, she had known immediately who. She'd printed them out at the school library, late on her way to Spanish class, and had read them in spurts, fearfully, as her teacher conjugated irregular verbs.

But till I can see
That you'd really care for me
I'll keep trying to hide
The way I feel inside.

Lips pursed, Jen contemplated. She was fairly certain that she was no longer in love. Well, there was one sure test, a test only Jen Cashwell had ever put to use. (Of this she was fairly sure.) Off to google.com. She google imaged "magician." No reaction. No faster heartbeat. Not even a sigh. "Rubix cube." Nothing but her sardonic laugh that was really nothing more than an upward inflected cough. Yes, she was certainly not in love. So why did the memories of the whole wretched business bother her so much?

Well, chortled the family therapist in Jen's head, let's examine that further, shall we? Jen wrinkled her nose. The family therapist had a habit of crossing his legs and then twisting the suspended foot back and forth. Once and only once he had asked what she was thinking, and she had replied earnestly, "I'm wondering if your foot will come off." He had not spoken much to her after that.

Nevertheless, perhaps this particular advice was rather more sound than the usual. Let's examine that further, Jen thought caustically. She glanced at herself in the dark reflective surface of the window in front of her computer. A girl with a sloppily, patchily shaved head, eyes that were like tiny black pools in the monochromatic window, bitten lips and gnawed nails, ruddy cheeks, headphones over elfish ears, and an impertinent nose that seemed to be telling the viewer exactly what they could do with their long straight olfactories.

This was Jen.

For no real reason, once more, she pulled up her Photobucket account and sorted through some old photographs. There was one of her with Jacob, the one of them engaged deep in conversation. She had thought at the time that it described their relaionship perfectly. She was looking at him with interest, he was looking at her with mild amusement and a quip just inches from coming out of his mouth. She was in her trademark black, he was in his trademark stripes. (To this day Jen had seen him in no street clothes that did not involve a collared shirt with stripes.) The girl in the photographs, while yes, probably rather pretty, had an innocence and a naivete to her roundish face that Jen was devoid of now. There was a softness to her that Jen had lost somewhere along the line.

That was Jenny.

The old song came off her mp3 player, fading into Franz Ferdinand.

Oh well I woke up tonight and said I
I'm gonna make somebody love me
I'm gonna make somebody love me
And now I know, now I know, now I know
I know that it's you
You're lucky, lucky
You're so lucky!

Jen remembered when her mother had seen her shaved head, her own handiwork, almost bald spots running through it like veins of pale virgin silver, she had breathed, "You're not still mourning him, are you?" The idea had struck Jen as preposterous. Mourning? Why should she mourn Jacob, she'd asked her mother. He's not dead. "Maybe a little bit," her mother had replied, "dead inside." Jenny hadn't argued, mostly because she wasn't sure if she agreed.

But was she mourning him? The answer came as easily and simply now as it had then. No. No, she was not mourning Jacob. But perhaps she was mourning Jenny, the soft, gentle, easily embarrassed girl she had been eight months ago. She could go through old emails, read old diary entries or blog postings, hear songs she had loved then, and was almost shocked that they still existed. It was as though when the girl who wrote them disappeared, she had expected them too to disappear off the face of the earth, or in some cases, the Internet.

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?

The music played a pounding backdrop to Jen's musings. So who was she now? She was Jen. But who was Jen? Jen glanced in the dark widnow again, then thought to herself, Oh yeah. Her.

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?

It was all remarkably simple, once you understood it.

Well he's a friend and he's so proud of you
He's a friend and I knew him before you, oh yeah
Well he's a friend and he's so proud of you
Your famous friend well I blew him before you, oh yeah

What was it about this song that was so conducive to learning to forget Jenny, to live with being Jen? Well, it had bite, Jen considered. Attitude that Jenny wouldn't have dared to have.

Oh well I woke up tonight and said I
I'm gonna make somebody love me
I'm gonna make somebody love me
And now I know, now I know, now I know
I know that it's you
You're lucky, lucky
You're so lucky!

It was just a matter of finding a person who'd love Jen, after all.

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?

And after that? Well, she'd just have to try Jacob's method. Just to run. To run. Did she want to? Fuck yes. Why did she want to? No reason. To get away from obligations. To find her obligations. To fulfill her obligations. To see how far she could get before she had to stop.

Oh lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Oh lucky lucky
You're so lucky!

Jen grinned. "Lucky, lucky, lucky," she whispered through soft, bitten lips. "Lucky lucky lucky," Jen said again, and turned off the computer, her thin finger illuminated by the glow of the pulsing power button.

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?

Quote of the Day

"To be idle requires a strong sense of personal identity."

-Robert Louis Stevenson. Dear old Bobby Lou.

Your good friend,

Sidhe Todd