Jane Air

covers. The press would have a field day. Every time they’d bring it up, she could laugh it off and smile and say, I don’t know what you mean. Oh hey, here’s my hot blind boyfriend and his burned-down castle. By the way, I’m super rich. Nice to meet you!
But that’s not me.
People bring it up, of course, with terrible jokes. Sometimes it’s my students, wondering if Professor Jane Air is named after the book we’re reading.
Ha ha. You spelled your name wrong!
No, I didn’t.
Are you making us read this because it’s named after you?
Nope. And how could it be named after me if it was written hundreds of years before I was born?
Were your parents kidding?
Maybe. But I doubt it. Between Mom’s multiple jobs and Dad’s absence…let’s just say it’s pretty obvious why I spent all my time in the library.
So, here I am. Plain Jane. Professor Air.
I rarely introduce myself with my first name and my last. It’s Jane. Or Professor Air. Jane Air is reserved for income taxes and flight reservations. Why? Well, apart from the terrible jokes, it’s just…sort of a bummer. Every time I introduce myself, I think of what I could be. And then I look in the mirror.
Five foot four. Size fourteen.
Nerd.
Not just plain, but average. Literally the American average.
Ugh. Maybe I’ll move to France. I won’t be average there. Just fat.
But in my next life, sure. Instead of just reading and teaching about them, I’ll be the gothic heroine with flowing locks (mine are mouse brown) and passionate lovers (Ha! Where?) and a secret inheritance. That last one could work out. I mean, it’s a secret from me too, so maybe it’s out there?
Doubt it.
So, I’m Jane, when they ask. Just Jane. Jane the professor. Jane the book collector. Jane who reads a lot.
What was it my mother used to say? Women like us weren’t born special, Jane. We have to make our own way in the world.
Non-special Jane. Jane with the friends.
I do have those, thank goodness.
There’s Kate, corporate tiger who works in the city most days. Honestly, I’m amazed she hasn’t become President or CEO or something like that by now. She will.
Jessica, always campaigning to save whales or rainforests or organic mayonnaise or something. It’s hard to keep track. Let just say that, as much as I hate clichés, every cliché about feisty redheads is true.
Christine, far too good for this world. Spends most of her time volunteering, and we’ve never figured out how, exactly, she pays her bills. I suspect a secret trust fund. Kate says wise investments. Jessica thinks she’s in a marriage of convenience to an Emperor or a Sheikh. No one knows.
Dory, runs our local café, as sweet as the baked goods she sells. So shy, she jumps when a door slams. I wonder sometimes if something happened to her, to make her so nervous.
And Penelope. Free spirit. Artistic genius. Holes up in her hand-built garage for days on end, weaving tapestries and surviving on microwaved burritos. Penelope could build a shed, milk a goat, and sew a wedding dress in the time it takes me to pour a cup of tea and find my glasses.
We’ve known each other for years, and it’s fun to live in the same small town, down the road from each other. It’s a wonderful thing to have such close friends. We love each other, we support each other. When I start going on tangents about traditional depictions of masculinity in gothic literature, one of them knows to swoop in with a joke about action movies or farts. They keep me grounded.
One night, after too much of Penelope’s homemade wine, we talked about surviving the zombie apocalypse. Who would do what. Kate even made a spreadsheet. It’s pretty clear:
Kate: Battle Strategist.
Jessica: Mercenary.
Christine: Zombie Resuscitator. If there is a way to cure them and save them, she will find it.
Dory: Caretaker. Someone has to feed and water the zombie killers when they return from fighting, right?
Penelope: Bard and Armor Designer.
Oh, and me? Kate joked once I’d be the anthropologist, to which I responded that I was actually trained as a textualist, and she just rolled her eyes.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “You’ll record everything, so people can study it later.”
That’s how the world sees me: passive record keeper.
Personally, I think I’ll just get bitten.
I open the windows when I get home, letting the warm evening air waft through my kitchen. Classes are out for the summer, so I only swing past the office to pick up mail or a book I need. Otherwise, I spend most of my days at Dory’s café, working from home, or visiting friends. My plans for a research trip to England were delayed for a few months, so it’s been an unusual change of pace.
I carry plates and silverware to my balcony, setting six places for tonight. The barbecue is heating up and I hope that Jessica has brought her skewers of marinated mushrooms. I never thought vegans could cook, but Jessica does things with vegetables that are downright magical. Kate will have steaks with her, no doubt. Long ago, the two of them agreed to separate any shared cooking surface. I even have a small, green tab on the left of the grill, to remind me which side is only for vegetables.
The student newspaper sits in my bag, next to the stove where corn is boiling. I pick it up and skim the cover page.
Movie Star Moves to Midnight.
I can’t help but smile as I read the effusive article, probably written by a freshman, based on a random blog post that has no connection to reality.
If ever you thought our town was BORING, well IT. IS. NOT. We are OFFICIALLY HAPPENING!!!!!
I take a sip of iced tea and can’t help but wonder why the student editors allowed so many exclamation points.
Rumor has it, David Jacobs, YES, THE DAVID JACOBS, is moving to Midnight!!!!!!! Star of the mega-hit superhero series, Saviors of