Free Believe by Sarah Aronson Page A

money, even though it was common knowledge that she would benefit from her parents’ insurance and trust.
    Blah, blah, blah. It was mostly recycled crap. The same questions. The same non-answers.
    Who was Janine Collins today?
    I looked at Dress-Form Annie. “What do you think?” I wasn’t sure. I wondered what they thought.
    At sixteen, Janine’s an average American girl, and except for the scars on her hands, you’d never know she was the Soul Survivor.
    True, but not earth-shattering. It’s what came next that bothered me. Somehow, this writer found out I liked fashion and wanted to be a designer. That I did okay in school, but that I hadn’t bothered to get my driver’s license, which for some reason, the writer found weird. Also, I had a pretty ironic sense of humor. But that I held a grudge. She wrote, “Janine would do anything for her small circle of friends.” There was a picture of me at last year’s prom, right after I ripped the bottom off my dress so we could run through the cornfields. Another in my kitchen, after a night of cooking vegetarian crepes for a French assignment. And one at a football game, waving my hands in the air. That night was so funny. Miriam begged me to go to the game. She had a crush on the quarterback. We waited at the locker room for two hours, just so she could say hello.
    Those pictures were private. They were taken by friends—friends who knew I never wanted them displayed in this magazine—friends who were loyal to me.
    Friends like Miriam. And Abe. And Dan.
    The article ended with a personal note by the writer, a woman who was in high school when the bombing took place.
    I remember following Janine Collins’ rescue, the joy I felt when someone walked out of that terrible bombing alive. I remember thinking that in some ways, she was lucky, but in other ways, her life was ruined, and that nothing for her would ever be the same. I was not alone in my fascination.
    What is perhaps most interesting are the expectations and rumors surrounding this girl. There are a lot of people who believe this girl is a symbol for faith and healing. They admire her. But because of that, there are a lot more people who are angry with Janine Collins. I met many people who think she is wasting her second chance at a meaningful life. They think she was saved for a reason and should do something important. They don’t understand why she isn’t living her life more fully. Of course, there are also people who are angry because they are bored with her story—they will probably complain about this entire issue. They call her shallow. Famous for nothing. They would rather hear about brave people who have sacrificed their lives.
    I had plenty of mail just like this. Plenty of advice. Things like “You should be more politically active.” And “You have let people down.” Lo told me to throw it all away—the people usually just needed an outlet. “Forget about them,” she said. “They don’t know you. They have no right telling you how to live your life. Their problems aren’t your concern. They forget that you were just a little girl at the wrong place and time.”
    Already, this issue was on the grocery store shelves. Tomorrow, the phone would probably ring all day. Every year, people wanted to know what I was doing or thinking. If I were honest, I’d agree with everything she wrote.
    I didn’t have a cause I cared about. I stood for nothing. This woman wrote about her memories because there was nothing else to say about me.
    Maybe I was wasting my life.
    I turned off the lights, lay down in bed, and called Dan. “What do you think my parents would say about me?”
    He didn’t have much to say. “God, Janine. What’s up with you? How am I supposed to know?” When I had no clue, he sounded impatient. “What do you want me to say?” All he wanted to talk about was