In the background, I heard a faint beeping. I ignored it. I couldn’t stop dancing, couldn’t stop singing. Though I tried not to stare, I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Sheba and Jimmy. How could anyone look away from them? How could anyone shut their ears off to them? How could anyone not stare at these shimmering, gyrating people who created a power of sound that ran through my body and filled me up so I was laden with it? Sated with it. Happy.
When the song ended, I could hear the beeping more clearly. It was the kitchen timer. The meatloaf was ready.
5
I’d never heard so much conversation at a dinner table. Mrs. Cone told everyone about her first kiss, and then Sheba told everyone about every boy she’d dated up to Jimmy. Jimmy told a story about a rock star friend （Dr. and Mrs. Cone knew who he was, but I only barely recognized his name） who’d joined him on his last tour. The rock star cried and played sad songs on his guitar every single night because he was heartbroken over a woman Jimmy and Sheba swore was a real live midget who was mean as anything. Izzy was very interested in this story and had lots of questions about midgets, the first one being if a midget could drive a bus. Then Sheba, right there on the spot, made up a song about midgets that was so good and catchy, everyone sang the chorus the second time she hit it. The opening line was Midgets, they’re just like us, / they drive in their cars and they can sure drive a bus. . . . I was a little worried that people were being mean about midgets, but the song made it seem like the grown-ups, or Sheba, really, wanted Izzy to know that the only difference between most people and midgets was their height. When we were done singing, Dr. Cone explained to Izzy that just because that particular midget was mean, it didn’t mean all midgets were mean. She was an aberration （and then Dr. Cone had to explain the meaning of aberration）。 Every now and then Sheba—who was sitting beside me—reached out her hand and squeezed my shoulder or arm, as if to make sure I knew I was included.
When it was time for dessert, Izzy and I put all the sherbet bowls on a blackened cookie sheet as a tray （I had tried but failed to unblacken it）。 I carried the cookie sheet and circled the table as Izzy pulled off a bowl and placed one in front of each person, saying Madame or Monsieur as she did so. I had taught her how to say this when we were getting the dessert out of the freezer. She only had to repeat it three times before she had it memorized.
Over dessert, the conversation shifted to Jimmy’s treatment, with Sheba recapping what he’d gone through and what the future might bring. Izzy was deep into her sherbet and no longer paying attention. I was rapt, as I’d never heard anyone discuss a private issue so openly.
“Richard,” Sheba said, “I just think if he’s going to eat so much sugar, which can’t be good for him, he should be allowed a little Mary Jane as well.”
My back stiffened. My heart pounded and I felt burning in my cheeks. I looked from Jimmy to Sheba to Jimmy again. What did she mean?
Jimmy glanced over at me. I felt like his eyes were shooting lasers at mine. Then he burst out laughing. Everyone looked at him.
Jimmy dropped his head over his sherbet. He couldn’t stop laughing. Izzy said, “Jimmy! Why are you laughing?”
“Mary Jane!” Jimmy gasped at last.
Sheba looked at me. “Oh, Mary Jane! Did you think I was talking about you?!”
“Is there another Mary Jane?” I asked.
Sheba leaned over her chair and hugged me. She smelled like lemon and lilac. My heart calmed. The heat left my face. “It’s another word for marijuana.”
“Oh!” I laughed nervously. Was Sheba actually asking a doctor if her husband could smoke marijuana? What about the law? Wouldn’t Jimmy go to jail if he got caught? Didn’t Sheba worry about Jimmy doing something that was against the law?
Dr. Cone said, “Some people find marijuana relaxes them, Mary Jane. It isn’t the terrible drug your school may have made it out to be.”
“Oh okay,” I said automatically. I must have looked confused, because Sheba patted my leg as if to comfort me.
She said, “It’s illegal, but the government doesn’t know best about everything. Marijuana can be a lifesaver for someone like Jimmy, who needs to find some way out of his whirly-twirly-creative-genius brain.” Sheba spun both her pointer fingers in the air, like sign language for Jimmy’s brain.
I nodded. It had never occured to me that something that was against the law might actually be okay to do.
“It’s better than lithium,” Jimmy said. “The lithium makes me feel like my head is stuffed with wet cotton batting.”