Chapter 2: Jane
On the way to her next class, Jane's mind was preoccupied with an idea for a new painting about her first day at Lawndale High. Working title either "Sheep" or "Mindless Sheep", she thought to herself sarcastically. Her older brother, Trent, who'd graduated from this dump a few years back had given her an idea of what to expect and her prior experience in middle school stood her in good stead now. Un-like the poor guy who had just offered to shake her hand for chrissakes! On some level, Jane was charmed that the kid had made an effort to actually communicate with her. On second thought, given his physique, he was probably a jock. She'd had about as much success communicating with jocks during her less-than-auspicious career as a student as she had had finding someone her age she could really trust and confide in. He was probably more muscle than personality anyway, end of story.
Besides, she thought as she dodged neatly around a corner, she didn't need any of these people. She had her brother, her art and running. If there was more to life than that, she'd go looking for it if and when she felt like it. Though her encounter with that big guy back down the hall did bring back a certain memory, come to think of it.
Who is he?" she'd asked as soon as she'd seen the opening shots of the movie, long ago as a little girl. Up late, watching television with her family around her. The Lane family wasn't known for it's restraint in terms of preventing it's varied members from doing whatever they considered right for them. So she'd been awake watching "The Marathon Man" from a comfy spot on the floor when first she'd seen the dark man running. The opening sequence of the Dustin Hoffman suspense/thriller, even after all the twists and turns later in the film were what had captivated her young mind. Because, until that point, little Jane Lane hadn't known that someone just moving could be a work of art.
But that was what she had seen as the sequence played out. The black man moved perfectly without any wasted energy, he appeared tired as he crossed the finish line but his form never wavered, never slowed. There was never any hesitation, pain or fear. Abebe Bikila, the Ethiopian distance runner was the man Jane had seen. It hadn't taken her long to dig out everything she could find about the legendary runner on one of the routine trips to the public library with her mother. Mom was occupied with her usual weekly sculpture class, and that made up a lot of what she thought of as her early childhood.
She'd read about his two gold medals' in the Olympic Marathon, the first without the benefit of "shoes" for chrissakes, it still made her pause in awe. Twenty-six miles run the way the ancient Greeks had in the 20th century, unbelievable! From there it hadn't been much of a stretch to discover other running legends like the man she had seen, Paavo Nurmi, known as "The Flying Finn" arrogant but invincible. Emil Zatopek, the Czech great who's form seemed laughable to his competitors but who's spirit made her laugh. She read about how he had gone out of his way to learn enough word's in each of his primary opponent's languages, so he'd be able to taunt them and gain a psychological advantage during his race.
Then the American's, Frank Shorter, a virtual unknown in his own country who was the first (and so far only) American to win gold in the marathon in modern times. Steve Prefontaine, the stereotypical tough guy (and kind of cute she thought) who lost in the Olympics but was remembered for his heart and courage and of then the women legends. Grete Waitz, Joan Samuelson, and Florence Griffith-Joyner, someone Jane always believed would have seen the artistry in running the same way she did, given Flojo's penchant for flashy dress and pizzazz. However, even after all of her reading in the odd free moments snatched between perusing art books and working on her paintings, it had unbelievably enough never occurred to her that she could be like the relatively unknown hero's and heroine's she had read about. Until one specific day.
By itself, there was nothing to mark that one day as other than ordinary other than the fight with her mother that, in itself, hadn't been other than ordinary. She'd been about eleven at the time and even now, she couldn't clearly remember the reason for the fight, or even how it started. The one overriding feeling she could pin down was the urge to move, to be anywhere but where she had been and before she even realized it, she had acted on the impulse. The surge of emotion had gotten her all the way down the block before she even realized that what she was doing actually felt, good, in a way she'd never experienced before. Jane had always been thin and somewhat athletic and she'd done her share of running around and playing with her older brothers and sisters. The concept of exercise for exercise sake, though, had never quite penetrated the Lane clan's gestalt.
It was only when she'd given into an utterly random impulse that she realized how good and right it felt to use her body for a specific task. And, losing herself in that task, find a feeling of peace and stability that rarely, if ever, entered her world at home. That first day, she'd only gone around the block once before heading home but she'd come back with several ideas for new paintings. It didn't take much longer for her to realize that not only could she find peace in this thing she had first seen so long ago, but also a measure of real control and independence outside of her family. At home, she was still generally dependent on her brother Trent, given that both her parents were gone most of the time, but on the road, she dictated the pace and the destination and, just that easily, she had freedom.
So while her contemporaries spent their days mall-walking or doing whatever it was they did (she had been a loner even then). Jane had discovered the heady joys of runner's high and scaring up herds of deer out beyond the Lawndale rock quarry. She'd conquered every hill she could find and played impromptu games of "tag" with the rogue bands of gone-wild house-cats living on the edge of Lawndale's suburban sprawl. Two of whom ended up as permanent residents at her house after following her home. By her thirteenth birthday, running had become Jane's last ditch all-purpose escape route. One more way to define herself and blow off frustration after dealing with the moron's around her and a way to renew her sense of artistic purpose. In fact, she looked forward to her daily run as an island of peace in her life even more so now than when she was younger.
Trent occasionally worried about her disappearing on long runs for hours on end and secretly she didn't mind his concern, he was her big brother. Eventually the entire family (when they were around) had accepted Jane's passion and now she indulged it without comment.
Surprised at the surfacing memories and her own insight, Jane nearly managed to miss the door to her next class on her way down the hall, Freshman History with DeMartino. She'd been warned by her brother about this particular class. She might not be the most dedicated student but there was no point in delaying the inevitable. Pausing a moment to reset her composure and brush an errant strand of hair out of her face, she opened the door and plunged in. DeMartino, the guy Trent had filled her in about, was a fairly tall and thin man in his late forties. The streaks of grey in his conservative hair made him look older. The face reminded her vaguely of Tom Berenger in the movie "Platoon." All the way down to the cobra-like eyes that seemed to lock onto to her, before shifting back to the class as a whole when she dropped into a seat.
As the class attained a vague sense of order, the thin but intense man got to his feet from a chair near the blackboard and stepped to a lectern. "By the book, all right" Jane's mind noted as he started to speak. "Good morning class, I hope you all FAIL!" the last word was neatly punctuated by a bizarre bulge in the eyes that lent a distinctly "freak show" aura to the pronouncement. Luckily, Trent had prepared her for the man. As DeMartino ranted on, however, it became obvious to her that he hadn't been exaggerating at all when he'd described her new history teacher's style. He was obviously a few bananas' short of a bunch. To make matters worse, Trent apparently hadn't been kidding about the man's tendency to shout every fifth word or so and the subject matter didn't look like it was going to make up for the obvious disadvantages of the instructor.
As Mr. D went through a decidedly "interesting" role call, Jane began to pay attention again. She'd planned to have a little fun with the man, once he figured out who she was related too. Jane hadn't been sure whether to catch him off balance by introducing herself at the start of class or letting him come to the right conclusion on his own. Abruptly, the decision took care of itself as Mr. D hit the "L's."
"Well, well, well..... Jane Lane..... That name is oddly FAMILIAR... would you care to IDENTIFY yourself Ms. Lane. If you are here?" Jane had been waiting for this. With a slight inclination of her head, she said, "Present.... sir." while smirking as obnoxiously as possible. Chew on that, oh benevolent dictator. Her impromptu comment elicited some minor snickering from the back of the room as DeMartino's eyes bored into her. Jane would have to watch her step to avoid actually insulting the man. Being too obvious about bucking authority lacked style and getting nailed for it was beneath her. The problem she saw was that the mental gerbil's she was sharing oxygen with probably wouldn't get most of the subtle barbs in her arsenal, but that was about par for the course. Now to see what kind of reaction she'd get.
"Hmmmmm.... surely NOT, you wouldn't perhaps POSSIBLY be related to the illustrious TRENT Lane...Ms. Lane?" Jane smiled slightly as she cocked her head and looked straight into her history teacher's eyes before she responded dryly. "I do have that honor and he told me all about your special contribution to the Lawndale High community, sir." "Psychotic dementia specifically" she thought as she held the ever so slightly mocking smile and waited for his response. Jane might have pronounced it "sir" but she was spelling it "cur." DeMartino had probably picked up on the sarcasm in her tone but there wasn't much he could do. Unless he went off on her in a big way. A possibility, but it didn't seem likely.
"Well, this certainly IS a pleasure, however I think it is only FAIR to ask whether or NOT you share your SIBLING'S commitment to academic achievement?" Jane had to fight a laugh; Mr. D was obviously trying to goad her into saying something openly disrespectful. If this was the best he could do, she wasn't impressed. Smirking and letting sarcasm drip from her tone she said, "I don't know if I can ever fill Trent's footsteps, but I'll certainly give it my best shot...." Still staring at her, DeMartino returned to addressing the entire class. Was it her imagination, or did she thought she saw a small smile play over the shell-shocked countenance before the bizarrely severe expression that generally occupied that location re-asserted itself? Then again, she wouldn't bet on it.
The remainder of class was a boring blur consisting of DeMartino lecturing in between singling out students for his own special form of condescending abuse. The end of period bell was a particularly blessed event as Jane grabbed her things and sauntered out to join the milling ranks of her fellow worker ants. Feeling vaguely unimpressed by her day so far, Jane momentarily perked up when she spotted a familiar face in the sea of humanity. Jodie Landon, all-around over-achiever and former middle-school classmate of hers-truly was in range. An opportunity to rattle Miss super-student's cage was frankly too good for her to pass up. Jane got Jodie's attention in her usual understated and oh-so subtle manner. "YO, Landon, you make Student Council President yet?"