Free Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume

Davey.”
    “Sure. Okay, Davey. Have a seat. Anywhere isfine. We’re reading Dickens’ Great Expectations . Have you read it?”
    “No.”
    “Good. You can pick up a copy after class. And get the notes from somebody smart. Let’s see …” He looks around the room. “Try Jane. Jane, raise your hand. There she is,” he says to me.
    Mr. Vanderhoot seems flaky. I like him already.
    After class Jane comes up to me. “That’s why my parents named me Jane,” she says.
    “What?” I am confused.
    “You know … that Davis-Davey business. With a simple name like Jane you never run into trouble.”
    “Oh, that,” I say. “I’m used to it.”
    “You can take my notes home tonight. They’re good.”
    “Thanks.”
    We discover that we both have second period free and we walk outside together. Jane is tall and blonde and she would be beautiful except for her chin, which is practically non-existent. We cross the parking lot, then the walking bridge over Diamond Drive, and go into a sleazy store, where Jane buys V-8 juice and pretzels. I don’t like V-8 so I get a can of grapefruit juice instead.
    Outside the store a group of boys wearing cowboy boots and ten gallon hats call lewdthings to us. Jane ignores them and mutters, “Stomps.”
    We cross back over the walking bridge and sit on the grassy area in front of the high school. There is a cool breeze and Jane pulls her poncho around her while I zip up my jacket.
    “Where’re you from?” Jane asks, guzzling V-8 juice from the can.
    “Atlantic City,” I tell her.
    “Where’s that … California?” she asks.
    “No, New Jersey.”
    “Oh, right … New Jersey.”
    “Yes,” I say, amazed that she thought Atlantic City is in California.
    “I guess I was thinking of Studio City. That’s in California.” She nibbles on a pretzel. “Atlantic City … that’s where the Miss America pageant is held … right?”
    “Right,” I say.
    “My sister was a state finalist one year but she lost out to this girl who could whistle Beethoven.” Jane polishes off the rest of the pretzels, brushes the crumbs from her hands and says, “So you just moved up here?”
    “Yes. A few weeks ago.”
    “Is your father a physicist?”
    “No,” I say. “My father’s … dead.” It is the first time I have said that to anyone.
    “Oh,” Jane says. “I’m sorry.”
    “He died over the summer,” I tell her. “Of a heart attack.” Once I get started I can’t stop myself.“He died in his sleep. Everyone says it was a good way to go. That there was no pain. He was only thirty-four.” Why am I doing this? Why am I telling her this story?
    “I don’t know what to say,” Jane tells me. “It sounds terrible.”
    “My uncle’s a physicist,” I say. “We’re living with him, and my aunt.” I want to change the subject now. I want to get away from how my father died. “Where are you from?”
    “Me … I’m from right here … Los Alamos.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. I was born here. I’ve never lived any place else. But I’ve been to Kansas. That’s where my grandparents live, and I’ve been to Tennessee. My father worked at the lab there … at Oak Ridge … for six months. It’s a lot like here.” She smashes her V-8 can and tosses it up into the air, then catches it. A few drops of juice trickle out and land in her hair.
    “Where’re you living … White Rock or The Hill?”
    “The Hill,” I say. “The western area. How about you?”
    “Bathtub Row,” she tells me. “Look, I’ve got to run now. I’ve got another class. I’ll meet you later and give you my notes, okay?”
    “Sure. Okay.”

    A t dinner I tell Bitsy and Walter about Jane. “She lives on Bathtub Row.”
    Jason laughs and spits milk out of his mouth and nose at the same time. “Is that near Toilet Terrace?” he asks. “Or Sink Street?”
    Bitsy explains that Bathtub Row is the most prestigious area in town. The houses there are on the grounds of what used