        Standing in her bra and panties in the sliver of morning light that slipped through her bedroom curtains, Jane stared at the clothes her mother had laid out for her, frowning with dissatisfaction. For one thing, the clothes were new, and that just seemed stupid to her. New clothes for a funeral? Great, now she’d think of Jill being dead every time she wore them. Thanks, mom! The second thing that made the outfit completely inappropriate was the ankle length skirt. Or, maybe mom never figured that part out. Had Jane been the only one to notice that Jill had never worn a skirt again, after what had happened? Jane had a vague memory of seeing Jill in a long skirt like the one laid out on the bed, except it had been white with a green and purple floral pattern swirling all around it, not the color of death. In fact, Jane was familiar with every skirt her big sister had owned, because they were all in a box in Jane’s closet. Jill hadn’t packed them or taken them with her when she’d left for boarding school over ten years ago. Jane was pretty confident that her memory of Jill holding her hand and leading her to Sunday School was the last time Jill had worn a skirt of any kind, and it just seemed wrong to wear one to her funeral.
        Jill’s funeral, Jane thought and frowned, ignoring the way her ribs seemed to clutch together and ache at the thought. That was the third reason the outfit was stupid and inappropriate. They were for a funeral for someone who wasn’t dead. Almost automatically, Jane groped for her phone on the dresser and glanced at it to check for messages. Some part of her, a large part of her, expected Jill to call at any moment, or send an email or a text message. She checked her phone every few seconds, and though a small part of that large part of her died each time there was nothing from Jill, the feeling didn’t diminish. Or, didn’t diminish by much. She set her phone down, then picked it up and checked again, died a tiny death in her heart again, and put the phone back down a second time.
        Jane crossed her arms, scowling at the outfit on her bed, wishing she could go tell her mom exactly what she thought of the outfit, and the funeral, and all their stupid friends who had decided that Jill being dead must mean they had spontaneously forgotten how to cook for themselves. If she saw another pyrex dish filled with unidentifiable casserole and someone’s name sharpied onto masking tape on the bottom, she was going to scream, smash the dish, and then be physically sick over the resulting carnage, in that order. 
        Immediately, Jane felt guilty. Mom had enough to deal with. She didn’t seem to understand that Jill wasn’t really dead, so her grief was real. Jane already felt guilty for the way she’d just watched her mother cry, seemingly unable to cry herself. She knew she should have joined her in her grief, or at least comforted her, but she’d felt paralyzed. Paralyzed by the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Of course Jill wasn’t dead. And yet, here she was, getting dressed to go to a memorial service where the guest of honor hadn’t even bothered to show up.
        Decisively, Jane stepped forward and swatted the offending skirt off her bed and onto the floor near the door. She picked the black blouse up and held it in front of her, frowning at it. She didn’t have any other black tops that would be appropriate, so she supposed it would have to do. She bit the tag off and pulled it over to her head, then grabbed a pair of clean black jeans out of her dresser. She wiggled into the denim, buttoned the fly and around her tail, then checked her phone. Slipping the phone it into her pocket, she turned to dig through the top drawer of her dresser.
        She had to pull out several boxes to find the one she was looking for way in the back. Each time she opened something and discovered that, no, the box she was looking for was even deeper, even further neglected, she berated herself, until by the time she found the correct box, she was in the darkest, most dismal mood she had been in since first hearing of Jill’s supposed ‘death.’
        Jane withdrew the necklace inside the box. A heavy tooth as long as Jane’s index finger hung from a leather cord. It had been coated in a clear lacquer to protect it, so it shone faintly in the shard of morning light. Staring at it, Jane could remember the light and excitement in Jill’s eyes, even over Skype, as she had explained the gift’s importance. Jane could barely remember what Jill had said now. Something about smilodons and the emergence of omnivorousness in precivilization. Jill’s excitement, though, her passion for the research, that’s what Jane remembered. She also remembered being a stupid fourteen-year-old girl and thinking the tooth was ugly and stupid and letting it get pushed, forgotten, to the back of her jewelry drawer. Then, it had seemed more important to Jane that Jill still refused to visit Roosevelt City to see them, even on Jane’s birthday, even though she’d begged her to come for days. To Jane, it had seemed as if Jill had found yet another way to tell her that her research and career was more important than her little sister. She hadn’t realized Jill had actually been trying to share a part of her life with Jane in the only way she could.
        Jane sniffed and wiped the rogue tear from her eye. She was crying for how stupid she’d been then, two years ago, she told herself. She wasn’t crying about her sister being dead. Because she wasn’t, so that would be stupid. Wiping her other eye, she looped the thin leather cord around her head and then slid the knot so that the tooth hung right at her clavicle, where it would be impossible to be missed.
        She checked her phone. No messages. Then she pulled out her phone again and checked the time, just as she heard her mom yelling for her from downstairs. Time to go. Time to act sad and nod gravely at the stupid, empty things a hundred people she had never met would say about her sister who wasn’t actually dead. It was going to be terrible and awkward and she’d have to say something back to the awkward strangers because her mother would surely be crying too hard to say anything herself. Jane sighed, checked her phone, and then hurried downstairs to her mother.

        ***

        Jane did her best not to sigh as an older couple, teary-eyed, recounted what an energetic student Jill had been in Toronto. Her mother smiled at them through her own tears, nodding emphatically, and Jane had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. They were trying to connect with her, trying to share something of Jill’s life. Truly, they were being charitable. Somewhere in her head, academically, she knew that. But she couldn’t find it in herself to accept their kindness. A cruel part of her mind kept whispering that Jill would have been an even better student, a better big sister, if she could have stayed in Roosevelt City. In the last hour, she’d listened to a hundred stories, and the one point that kept being driven home over and over again was that Jane had missed out on what a wonderful person Jill had been. There were far more people from out of town than anyone had expected. Apparently, Jill had made an impression in many peoples’ lives.
        Jane checked her phone, though she tried to be discrete, but the old man must have noticed because he somewhat abruptly ended his story and escorted his wife toward the chapel where the service would begin in just a few minutes. Jane looked up, noticing that no one had flowed into the spot that the older couple had vacated, no one demanded the next piece of her mother’s time and hers, no one had another heartwarming story of what a wonderful person Jill had been queued up and ready to spill forth into the next silent moment.
        The anteroom of the church’s sanctuary was nearly empty. A few people stood around in pairs or small groups, lingering and talking in hushed voices rather than seating themselves for the memorial service, but for the first time that day, no one felt the need to inflict their presence on Jane and her mother. Jane spotted Bill Keating, one of the few people attending she actually recognized, listening to a middle aged jerboa gentleman who was gesturing animatedly with his hands as he talked. Nikki lingered awkwardly at Bill’s side, fingers intertwined with Samantha’s. Having been just born when Jill had left Roosevelt City, Nikki wasn’t actually here to pay her respects so much as she was there simply because she was Jane’s friend, and Samantha likewise was only here to support her girlfriend, Nikki. Nikki’s parents and the rest of the Keating clan hadn’t come, as only Bill had had any kind of relationship with Jill. That had been news to Jane, who had actually looked up from her phone to listen to Mr. Keating tell the story of the few weekends Jill had spent working for him at his ‘old business.’ Jane still had no idea what the man did for a living, and this was the first she’d ever heard of Jill working for him, but her mother had nodded and smiled knowingly. She made a mental note to ask her mother about that later.
        Of everyone she’d talked to today, Nikki and Samantha somehow seemed the most selfless to Jane, the most honest about their reasons for attending, and Jane did her best not to examine the feelings other than just gratitude she felt toward Nikki for coming. The young bunny caught her eyes and smiled wanly, raising her hand in a little wave from across the anteroom. Jane ignored the way her heart lurched sideways and smiled and waved back before having to distract herself into looking elsewhere to keep from staring. She pulled her phone out and checked it again.
        Finding a further distraction wasn’t difficult, though, as the doors opened to let in one last guest, someone arriving just a few minutes before the actual service was set to begin. A young catgirl, somewhere in age between Jane and Jill, stood in the doors with her head lowered, her face hidden behind a mop of damaged, mousy brown hair.
        Jane stared in disbelief. Beside her, she heard her ever-composed mother take in a quiet gasp of disbelief. 
        “You. . .” Jane said in a low, dangerous voice, making the feline’s ears swivel forward, indeed, turning everyone’s attention toward her. “. . .have GOT to be kidding me.”
        “Jane--” her mother said, clutching her arm. But Jane wrenched her arm free, taking a step forward toward the nearly-late arrival. The entire anteroom had gone quiet, and across the room she heard a soft squeak of confusion from Nikki. As she advanced, Jane caught a faint whiff of scent from the young feline. Rum? Some kind of alcohol, anyway. Jane’s disbelief simmered toward fury.
        “You have the nerve to show your face here?” Jane snarled at the woman standing in front of the doors. The feline didn’t raise her head, just stood there motionless, shoulders slumped, accepting the abuse Jane flung at her.
        “Jane!” her mother all but shouted, a warning in her tone, but Jane didn’t care.
        “No, mom. She deserves it. I’ve kept my mouth shut for ten years and if she has the nerve to show her face here, then she deserves to hear exactly what I think about her!” Jane advanced, and as she did so, the woman looked up, startled, as if she was afraid Jane would attack her.
        That’s when Jane saw what the mousy brown hair had been hiding. Oh, it was Melissa, alright, the girl who had lied about getting raped by Jill when actually the reverse had been true, the girl who was the reason Jill hadn’t shown her face in Roosevelt City in ten years, the reason every skirt Jill had ever bought was stuffed in a box in the back of Jane’s closet. But it was the grown-up version of Melissa Watkins. And she had changed, just a little. She had holes in her cheeks where dimple piercings would have gone, and holes in her eyebrows, nose, and ears as well. A dozen piercings, perhaps two dozen, were missing from her face. Jane suddenly realized the why the woman’s hair--the mousy mop she remembered so vividly from her childhood--looked so damaged. It had been dyed, thoroughly and often, and it was only in that moment that Jane recognized Melissa Watkins as Mitzi, the proprietor of Studs and Stockings who had humiliated her and essentially blackmailed her into putting on a show for her pleasure.
        Jane’s face flushed with humiliation and rage. She remembered the events only muddily, having passed out from lack of oxygen at the end, but it wasn’t the actual things she’d done that enraged her but simply the knowledge that Mitzi hadn’t changed. Ten years later and Mitzi was still using sexual abuse to get whatever she wanted.
        “You’re the reason we’re here,” Jane screamed this time, lunging forward. She shoved Melissa hard in the shoulders and the feline was knocked off her feet, falling hard into the heavy wooden doors of the church. “You’re the reason we’re here and Jill’s not! You’re the reason I haven’t had Christmas with my big sister in ten years and YOU’RE THE REASON JILL’S DEAD!”
        Jane launched herself forward as she screamed, ready to kick the cat while she was down or slam her head into the doors or simply strangle her until she no longer felt the rage, but a pair of immense arms, thick as tree trunks, wrapped around her before she got very far. She kicked and felt her heels contact a pair of even thicker legs and realized she was being held over a foot off the floor. She turned, clutched two big handfuls of a nice, tailored suit jacket, and sobbed into Bill Keating’s chest as he carried her away from the anteroom. 

		***
		
        Ten minutes later, Jane sat in the front row of the church with her mother and the rest of her close family. She was bent forward, her forehead on the paneled divider between the pews and the chancel. The fur of her face was soaked and every now and then, a tear gathered, ran down her muzzle, and dripped from her nose to the floor below. Her grandfather sat beside her, saying nothing but resting his hand comfortingly on her back as the pastor spoke about Jill and their family and delivered a brief sermon to those who had gathered for Jill’s memorial. Jane didn’t hear a word of it and part of her regretted missing it. Reverend Jacobs had always been an insightful speaker, and Jane usually appreciated his sermons even though she had been questioning her own faith for years.
        Jane wondered if, somewhere in the pews behind her, Melissa had chosen to stay or leave after being attacked. Part of her hoped she’d stayed, but she wasn’t sure if that was because she wanted as many people as possible to remember Jill or if she wanted as many people as possible to recognize Melissa and realize she was responsible. On the other hand, her skin crawled to think of that vile woman mere feet behind her. Jane shuddered, and another tear dripped from her nose.
        Her regret over missing the sermon and her conflicted feelings about Melissa’s presence were distant thoughts in her head, though. Everything seemed minute and unimportant before the towering, crippling realization that. . .Jill really was gone. Something about seeing Melissa had shattered Jane’s last thin illusions of denial. The fact that Melissa was here and Jill was not--Jill never would be--had finally ended Jane’s ability to keep up the hope-filled charade. She thought of all the extra heartache she’d put her mother through and sobbed softly. Beside her, her mother heard her and gently put her hand on Jane’s back, joining her grandfather’s, and that little token of sympathy just made the contrast of Jane’s cold denial the last week even sharper. Jane clutched her belly, aching from grief and self-loathing, and she sobbed again.
        In her pocket, her phone buzzed, and Jane’s grief waned just far enough for her to feel a moment of rage. Who could possibly be calling? The thought of a telemarketer or scammer calling her in this most inappropriate of moments made her gut boil with fury. Jane held her stomach, ignoring her phone as it buzzed, then buzzed again as whoever it was called back, and each time the thing vibrated in her pocket, her fury built, growing until it equaled the grief inside her and she swore she would smash the phone right there in front of the entire congregation if it buzzed again.
        It buzzed. Two short bursts this time, not the long pulses of an incoming call. A text, then. Whoever it was, it was someone she knew, not some telemarketer. A friend. Or, she thought darkly, a former friend. The text alert buzzed again and Jane thrust her hand into her jeans pocket, fully ready to smash her phone on the tiled church floor, but she barely, fleetingly caught a glimpse of the text alert on her phone’s screen.

        [Unknown: Dodo]
        [Unknown: Answer the phone]
        [Unknown: Please]

        Jane stayed her hand, clutching the phone in a deathgrip beneath her hunched body where hopefully it wouldn’t be noticed. Fumbling, she unlocked it and opened the text messages from the unknown number. She stared at the first text. Dodo. Only one person in the world called her Dodo. Really, she wasn’t Dodo at all. Dodo was two people. . .Jane Doe and Jill Doe. Dodo. Ten years later, it was a pretty stupid nickname, but it had seemed hilarious when she was six, and she and Jill had called each other that ever since. No one else would even know, at least no one who wasn’t already in the memorial service with her.
        She checked the numbers, first on the text, then on the missed calls. The numbers were different, both too short to be proper phone numbers, so they had probably come from some sort of internet service. Just then, her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her so bad she yelped, interrupting Reverend Jacobs just as he was preparing to invite Jane’s mother up to deliver a eulogy. Jane stood abruptly, covering her eyes as if she was crying uncontrollably again, and rushed out of the sanctuary, nearly tripping over her uncle’s knees as she pushed past him out of the pew. 
        Jane ran down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of the bathrooms, then started running again. She turned a few corners and then pushed into the girl’s bathroom at the further end of the church, near the Sunday School classrooms. She had to flip the light on as she entered and felt reassured that she wouldn’t be interrupted or overheard. Still, she locked herself in one of the stalls. Sitting on the toilet, she stared at her phone, willing it to ring again.
        She only had to wait a moment before her phone hummed in her hand. Her hands were shaking so bad it took her three tries to answer the call. She raised the phone to her ear and whispered.
        “H. . .hello?”
        “Oh, Dodo, thank god,” came the voice at the other end.
        “Dodo? Jill? Is that really you?”
        “Yes, Jane, it’s me. I’m sorry I’m calling from a weird number. I, uh. . .let’s just say I lost my phone.”
        “Jill, for fuck’s sake, I’m at your funeral!”
        “. . .”
        “Your funeral, Jill. Everyone thinks you’re dead. MOM thinks you’re dead. Some adjunct from the university came by last week and told us your boat capsized. They said they looked for you but the area was so remote they didn’t have many resources, and then your friend washed up dead on a different island and pieces of your boat and. . .”
        Jane’s throat closed and she had to stop, stifling a sob that she knew Jill could still hear over the phone. Fresh tears poured out of her eyes and for a moment, the silence between her and her not-dead sister was so profound she could hear the teardrops hitting the dirty tile floor.
        “Oh god, Jane. I’m sorry. I. . .but. . .no, no this’ll work. This is perfect. Listen to me, Jane, let me be dead, okay?”
        “But Mom--”
        “No, Dodo, this is serious. I’m in trouble, okay? A lot of trouble.”
        “Jill, we can--”
        “Jane! Just be quiet, and trust me. Don’t tell anyone you heard from me. That’ll keep you and mom safe while I figure what to do with--. . .while I figure out what to do. I just need some time to figure out how to do something safely. All you need to know is I’m in New Zealand, and I’m not dead. God, I probably shouldn’t have told you where I am. If anyone asks, I’m dead. Alright?”
        Jane sniffled quietly for a while, just listening to Jill breathe on the other end of the phone. She smiled, feeling something unknot deep in her stomach.
        “I knew you weren’t dead.”
        Jill laughed and Jane felt her heart lift at the sound of it.
        “There’s one other thing. . .” Jill said reluctantly.
        “You need money,” Jane said for her.
        “I hate to ask. . .”
        “Shut up. You’re dead. How are dead people supposed to make money? I have a lot saved up from babysitting. Well, it was a lot for me. . . I dunno if it’ll be enough. Jill, if you’ll just tell Mom, she can--”
        “No. Mom can’t know, not yet. The less she knows the better. And the money can’t come from her account anyways. It’ll look too suspicious. Too obvious.”
        “The Keatings will loan me as much as you need. I think. It would be a lot easier if I could tell them why.”
        They spoke for a few minutes more and Jane saved a Western Union account number to a note on her phone. Jane even managed not to sob when Jill quietly said, “Thanks, Dodo. I love you,” just before hanging up.
        Jane stood, tucking her phone back in her pocket and taking a deep breath. Stepping out of the stall, Jane took her time washing her face and smoothing back her hair. She dried her fur as best she could and took another deep breath. She didn’t quite feel ready to go out and face the aftermath of the the memorial service, but she did feel that facing anything would be easier, knowing Jill was alive.
        The bathroom door opened just as Jane was about to exit and Jane found herself face to face with a young mare with a lustrous, shiny black coat and gold-rimmed glasses. She was dressed in a feminine-cut suit that was only gray, not black, which was made obvious by the contrast to her natural color. She smiled disarmingly and even though she was about the same height and build as Jane, managed to use her body to force Jane back into the bathroom, letting the door thump closed behind her. Jane backpedaled, feeling irrationally threatened by this smiling young woman. She wasn’t aggressive or even unpleasant, but something about her made Jane’s fur bristle.
        “Oh, hi! You must be Jane, right? I’ve been looking for you. I’m. . .I was a colleague of your sister.” The equine’s eyes drifted down from Jane’s and at first, Jane incredulously thought the mare was checking out her cleavage and bristled with indignation and disgust. Then, almost too late, she realized the mare’s gaze had been drawn to the heavy smilodon tooth hanging between the top open buttons of her blouse.
        Jane swallowed, trying to look nonchalant. “Oh?”
        “Mhm! I’m Natalie. Your sister and I didn’t work together, but we worked for the same professor. Surely she talked to you about Professor Whytham?”
        Jane didn’t say anything, just looked at the mare expectantly.
        “Anyway, I just wanted to give you my condolences. Jill was a wonderful asset to the research community. Which is actually, kind of why I wanted to find you.”
        Jane’s fur bristled again. The way the woman just glossed right over her so-called ‘condolences’ made Jane uneasy. It was almost like she didn’t believe Jill was really dead. Again, Jane just kept her mouth shut, letting the equine do all the talking.
        “We’re--and by we, I mean the other members of her research group--we’re looking for. . .some of her research that we haven’t been able to recover. Has she sent you anything? Or said anything about where it might be?”
        Jane frowned at her. “Well, we haven’t exactly talked much since she died,” she said acidly.
        The mare flushed, though it was barely visible through her dark fur, but the insides of her ears practically glowed with it. Jane couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or mad. “Oh, you know what I mean. Some scientists have a sort of safe-keeping for their most important research. Some way of making sure it gets collected and passed on if something happens. Usually it’s a way for a colleague to find it, but sometimes it’ll go to a family member. You wouldn’t know about where she--. . .I mean, where it might be, do you?”
        Jane stared at her.
        “Because, if you know anything, it would be a lot better for the university--and for your family--if you were to just tell me.”
        Jane narrowed her eyes. Was that a threat? Was this petite little equine scientist of all people threatening her for information about Jill, like this was some sort of cheesy primetime cop drama? Jane knew it was Jill she was really after. Whoever this woman was, she knew, or thought she knew, that Jill was still alive. And she was desperate to find her. ‘I’m in trouble, okay? A lot of trouble.’ Jill’s words echoed in the back of her head, warning her against giving this woman anything she wanted. Instinctively, Jane suppressed the urge to cry. But, realizing suddenly that crying might be just the thing, she stopped resisting and let out a sob. The mare looked startled.
        “I’m sorry,” Jane cried. “I know it must be important if you’ve come all this way to ask. Jill was so important to all of us.” Jane held her face in her hands and sobbed again. “If I find anything, I’ll let the university know immediately. I’m sorry.” 
        Keeping up the act was difficult, as she’d nearly cried herself out in the sanctuary, but she didn’t have to keep it up for long. The mare, threatening and confident a moment ago, turned flustered and embarrassed, and anxious to leave. She shoved a business card at Jane.
        “If, uh, if you find anything,” the mare stammered. “I’m sorry. For. Your loss. I’m sorry.”
        On the second apology, the mare backpedalled out of the bathroom door and Jane could hear her hoofsteps retreating. The equine’s pace sounded angry and Jane wondered if she was angry at her or angry at whoever had put her up to confronting bereaving family members in bathrooms. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, then swore at her own slovenliness and went back to the sink to clean herself up a second time.

        ***

        The ride back home was quiet and awkward. Jane’s mother hadn’t said a word about Jane’s behavior at the memorial service, which was remarkable considering all the different ways Jane had managed to make an obnoxious scene of herself. Jane worked hard not to smile. Her mother was bravely managing to hold back tears, so Jane could only imagine how mortified she would be to see a smile on Jane’s face right now. But, with just her and her mother in the car, the quiet drive, the lovely afternoon, and the knowledge that somewhere across the Pacific, her sister really was alive, Jane felt at peace. Jane was surprised to realize that she hadn’t been at peace for a long time. Not just since that man from the university had come to tell her that Jill was ‘dead.’ The unrest started long before that.
        Jane probed her feelings like they were a sore loose tooth. It hadn’t been until she’d met Nikki that her life had flipped ass over tea kettle. Everything since then, her relationship with not just that one intoxicating girl, but irresistible dalliances with. . .how many others? She blushed deeply as it occurred to her that she’d lost count. Not to mention her then-anonymous encounter with Melissa or ‘Mitzi’, her wild and abrupt relationship with Kailee, the. . .thing with the Keatings, and everything else besides. Jane shuddered. The year had been dangerous and unbridled and there were so many moments when she could’ve lost herself, or lost everything.
        She closed her eyes and sighed, praying--for she did still pray from time to time--that that stage in her life was behind her.
        “Jane?” her mother asked, sounding concerned.
        “I’m okay, Mom. I’m. . .uh, well, this might not be worth much, but I’m sorry.”
        “It’s okay, sweetie. We all handle grief differently.” Her mother sounded very, very tired, but genuinely sympathetic. Jane smiled at her weakly and she smiled back, and they fell into comfortable silence for a while.
        “Of course,” her mother added a minute or so later, “You’re the first person I’ve seen handle grief by stubbornly refusing any sympathy for a whole week, starting a fistfight, bawling inconsolably in front of a hundred people, then running out on the eulogy to take a phone call.”
        Jane stared stricken at her mother, mouth agape. Her mother watched the road, eyebrows raised but her face giving away nothing. After a long moment, Jane only managed to mutter, “Uh. . .” and that was all it took for her mother to start laughing. After staring for a while, Jane started laughing, too. Their laughter was the uncontrollable sort, perhaps slightly forced, slightly wild, bubbling out of them without restraint until they were crying with it, an edge to laughter that only comes from far too much grief. They were pulling into the driveway by the time they managed to get themselves under control again. 
        “It’s gonna be okay, Mom,” Jane said as they got out of the car, once they could both breathe again. Mom smiled that same tired, understanding smile at her.
        “I know, sweetie,” she replied simply, hugging her. Then, “Oh! With everything going on. . .and the way you’ve been acting--I nearly forgot. I saw this hanging in the church last Sunday and made a copy for you.”
        Jane’s mother took a crumpled black and white piece of paper from her purse and Jane took it from her. “A casting call?”
        Jane’s mother nodded proudly. “You mentioned you wanted to do something else with your time other than just babysitting, and when I saw this, I thought of when you were in that play in kindergarten. You just made the most adorable little president I’d ever seen. Plus, Peter Pan was one of your favorite stories growing up! I just thought you’d be interested.”
        Jane pursed her lips and read over the flyer again. “Acting, huh? I guess that could be fun.”
        Jane’s mom smiled. “That’s the spirit! I just think of all the interesting new people you’ll meet!”
