Fledglings' Frustration

Chapter II

"Aw, hell."

The neat rows of vaccum-sealed rice crackers and instant noodles stared blankly back at Daria and Jane through the shop window. Even in the bright summer sunshine, the fluroescent lights still glinted from within. The space that had once been Gary's Gallery was now a convenience store.

"The bottom fell out of the reproductions business, Jane," came Gary's dejected voice over the crackle of a bad cellphone connection. "After that big gift store came to the mall, we had no choice but to close down. How am I supposed to compete with limited edition plates and Hummel figurine knock-offs? This is Lawndale!"

"Bummer," Jane muttered.

"I'm working in insurance now. Gotta make ends meet somehow. Sorry, kid."

"No matter, then. Thanks anyway. Send Pavarotti my love."

"Huh?"

"'Bye, Gary."

"So… what now?" Daria asked.

Jane sighed. "Maybe I can join Trent, and spend all my time mopping the aisles of the Payday." She dragged her hands over her ebony bob, trying to push down her rising frustration. "But seriously. I've gotta be smart about this. If I can't get money through painting, then what's the best way for an art student with bugger-all experience to earn some bread?"

"Offer to donate your organs?" Daria suggested.

"Laugh now, princess, but one day Helen and Jake may decide to cast you out in the cold. Alone, starving, freezing…"

"Jane, it's eighty-five degrees. And you had two rounds of sugar tarts for breakfast."

The corner of Jane's mouth curled. "…Whispering Trent's name over and over again…"

"Screw you, Oliver Twist."

The wheeze of an old car horn cut through the muggy afternoon air. Jane looked up.

"Speak of the devil…"

Daria raised an eyebrow. "That better not be Oliver Twist offering us a ride just now."

The look upon Trent's face was disconcerting to say the least. Mouth set in a tight grimace, angular eyebrows knitted together… for the first time in a long time, the young man was genuinely stressed.

"How was your first day at work?" Jane asked delicately.

"Horrible. Get in," he directed, and both his sister and Daria felt no inclination to object.

The decrepit old Plymouth caromed off with a protesting roar, and the two girls in the back seat surreptitiously clung on to the torn grey upholstery. After a few minutes of violently veering through the suburban streets, they screeched to a stop on a familiar patch of road.

The car shook as Trent slammed his door shut. Jane and Daria silently followed.

High mesh fencing had been erected around the borders of a residential lot. At its gate was clustered a small group of construction workers, as well as a tall man in a crisp business suit.

"Hey, I recognise you girls! Brittany's little friends, right? You still keep in touch? She's made it onto the cheer squad at Great Prairie State."

The unctious voice belonged to Steve Taylor, Brittany's father and one of the most vulgar philistines to ever move up into the socio-economic bracket of new money.

"So you're the guy who bought up this plot of land," Trent hissed.

"Sure did. Boy did I score! Did you ever see the rundown, post-war weatherboard thing that was still standing here before? This is one of the most sought-after neighborhoods on the Eastern Seaboard, and some pair of aging hippies were holding onto the old dump for God knows what. We're gonna be constructing a brand new designer home here, all wide windows and multistory columns."

"Great. 'Cause we wouldn't want an eyesore disgracing this neighborhood, would we." Jane retorted, finding herself growing more poisonous by the second.

Steve placed a beringed hand on each Lane sibling's shoulder. "Here's a tip, kids. University degrees are all well and good, but if you learn the ins and outs of the the realty market, you'll be set for life."

And with a supercilious chuckle, he climbed into a nearby BMW sedan and cruised off.

Peering through the mesh, Daria, Jane and Trent dolefully surveyed the chaotic pile of wood and broken brickwork, currently being transferred into large skips by an army of construction vehicles.

"Home sweet home," Trent eulogised, looking his last upon Casa Lane.

DDDDDDDDDDDDDD

Jane wasn't prepared for the shock of losing her childhood home. For so long, the goal had been to get out of Lawndale and begin a self-assured career as a celebrated artist in one of the world's great metropolises. But every time the house surfaced in her memory, it summoned yet another godawfully treasured association. Midnight pancake experiments. Being the test audience for the Spiral's new material. Bitching sessions with Daria. The first ever time she held a paintbrush in her hands.

Greater still was what the house had signified. Even though having all five Lane kids cohabiting under its roof was only tolerable for about half a nanosecond, knowing that it was there as a place to return to, a place that connected them all in their idiosyncratic paths across the world, an anchor of connectivity… Now that it was gone, Summer, Wind, Penny, Trent and Jane were just five disparate individuals. Whose parents had tucked themselves away in some obscure corner of a far-flung desert. The youngest Lane really had underestimated how much how much all this had served as the foundation of her identity. The unconventional baby of an unconventional family.

Now, in every sense of the word, she was homeless.

"Jane?"

"Mmf?"

"Are you feeling okay? You didn't come down to dinner."

"Mmf."

"Can I turn the light on?"

"Whutevr."

Helen held her tounge when she saw how dishevelled the young lady had allowed herself to become. For a number of days, the job hunt had been postponed. The girls had spent long hours upstairs talking, and Helen had tried not to listen in. A few days' mourning was certainly a reasonable contingency, but it had now been almost two weeks.

She perched herself on a chair near the bed, making an effort not to seem intrusive.

"You know, I went back to Texas on a business trip last year. I was able to take a detour through Highland, and I saw that the little ranch house Daria and Quinn were born and raised in—"

"—Had been replaced by some obscene McMansion," Jane finished.

Helen chose to say nothing in response.

"The difference is, Mrs M, they still have a home to return to. Now that Vincent and Amanda have pissed off to build their little desert refuge, they probably won't care if they ever hear from me again. They managed to support most of their kids until they were independent. That was good enough for them, I suppose. Screw the stragglers, right?"

Disregarding the foul language, Helen suddenly felt very touched. This had been the most Jane had ever opened up to her. Perhaps in the absence of a maternal figure whom she was prepared to trust, the girl simply needed a sympathetic ear.

Helen unclasped her hands. "While she was over here, Amanda couldn't stop boasting about her youngest child making it into college."

Jane didn't exactly turn around to face her, but she at least shifted upon the mattress.

"I sympathise with you, Jane, but there is no doubt in my mind that your parents still love you as much as they ever did. In fact, their primary concern about this move to Arizona was wondering whether you and Trent would be alright. Ultimately, their decision was based on their faith in the two of you. You're blessed with talent and passion. They both came to the conclusion that this may be the very push you and your brother need to help you assert yourselves in the world."

Jane flopped over onto her back, face turned to the ceiling. "I guess," she mumbled.

"And this adobe of theirs is going to have two ample guest rooms. Once it's finished, I think you'll have to try pretty hard to stop them from dragging you and Trent down to visit."

Jane felt a light breeze from the open window waft over her face, and indulged in a deep, expansive breath.

"Amanda and Vincent are simply following a shared dream of theirs. And I think a part of it involves pushing you and Trent into following your own dreams, too."

Jane's blue eyes darted in the matriarch's direction.

"As long as it's not one of those dreams involving talking dogs and giant floating eyeballs," she countered.

Helen smiled, taking the sassy response as a sign of revival.

"There's some leftover cob salad in the fridge," she said gently as she rose from the chair.

Jane stretched, hauled herself up and smiled into the darkness.

DDDDDDDDDDDDDD

Pulling the tab on a can of soda, Jane studied the list of want-ads before her. Apart from papier-mâché and lining catboxes, the Lawndale Shopper did have other occasional uses. Most of the job search sites on-line were no good: entering every variation on 'entry level temp' into their search engines resulted in the same old positions of full-time corporate account managers, secretaries, and make-up counter girls at Cashman's. The usual Summertime grunt jobs didn't even get a mention.

Jane was hoping for a part-time position at an art store, but there was only once such place locally, on Dega Street. She would basically have to wait until the married couple who owned it decided to pack it in and pull a Vincent & Amanda Lane on Lawndale.

"Don't apply at the Payday, whatever you do," Trent had warned her. "You have to deal with angry customers all day, and the manager is a freakin' sadistic pedant Nazi." Jane had smiled and nodded, taking this as Trent-speak for somebody organised who owned a wristwatch. Her brother was still not talking to their parents. She wondered to herself how long it would be until he got fired.

"What you need to do," Daria said from across the kitchen table whilst jotting down notes in a ledger, "Is look for the easiest, lowest stress job that involves the least amount of skill. If they're going to pay you minimum wage, you may as well put in minimum effort."

"Now what kind of attitude is that, kiddo?" Was Jake's response from his station at the hotplate. He spent Thursdays and Fridays at home now, and was whipping up a trial batch of Thai red curry for lunch.

"The attitude of a fair day's pay for a fair day's work," his daughter monotoned, for once not intending any irony.

"Now that's more like it!" Jake exclaimed, before singeing his hand on a wok and swiftly turning to curse into the sink.

"Hey…" Jane struck her biro upon a little square of text sandwiched between a wedding announcement and an ad for a conspicuously reputable Asian massage parlour. "What about this…?"

DDDDDDDDDDDDDD

The manager was laughable. At orientation, he tried to give off an authoritative demeanour, but was ultimatley about as imposing as an indignant house fly. He buzzed in Jane's ear about dedication, work ethic and presenting a responsible corporate image, before realising that he believed none of what he was saying himself. He tossed Jane an ill-fitting uniform and buzzed off.

Shaking off the last spells of sleep, Jane set her eyes on the horizon as she entered the small shopping strip. Even at this early hour, fumes of nitrate-laced grease were wafting out of Pizza King, and when she drew them in, a feeling of affection for the place washed over her.

She wondered what sort of deadbeat she'd be working with. Probably some unwashed super slacker who made Trent look like a seargeant major. She wasn't anticipating stimulating conversation, but she was happy to take this option of mind-numbing tedium over back-breaking, spirit-crushing hard labour. Especially at nine dollars an hour.

Indulging in one more illicit sniff of fast food, she walked past Pizza King and entered the Lackluster Video shop next door.

Oh yeah, she'd be livin' la vida Kevin Smith this Summer.

Predictably, it being nine a. m. on a Monday morning, the place was deserted. Her new co-worker wasn't even behind the counter. After a few apprehensive moments of waiting in silence, she decided to make herself known.

"Uh… excuse me? Anyone back there…? I…"

There was a shuffling noise in the back room.

"I assume that you'll be the new college kid temping here over Summer break, because not even the lowest kind of loser would be randomly skulking around a video shop on a weekday morning…"

The other video clerk emerged, and scrutinised Jane's features.

"Ms. Lane? Well well well, saving up for more art supplies, I presume."

No way. No freakin' way.

"…Mister Demartino?"