“Wait.” I jerked upright, like my spine was being pulled on a cable. “Is that marijuana?!”
The lighter popped out. Jimmy took it and touched the glowing red coil to the tip of the cigarette. He inhaled deeply, held it, and then hissed out a long conic cloud of smoke. “Mary Jane, meet Mary Jane.”
“Just call it a joint.” Sheba reached out her hand and took the joint from Jimmy. Then she put it to her mouth and inhaled.
I felt like my brain was short-circuiting, like my hair might burst into flames. What if the police found us? Would Sheba and Jimmy go to jail? Would I go to juvey hall? But this was Roland Park. The only time I ever saw the police here was when someone called them. Which was very, very rare. The twins’ parents never even locked their doors. The Rileys, next door, kept their car keys on the floor of the car.
“Mary Jane?” Sheba reached her long arm back over the seat, offering me the joint. I shook my head. I did like the smell, though. It was sort of like a school eraser, but sweeter. A green and rubbery smell.
Jimmy took the joint from Sheba and inhaled again. We were at a stop sign now, on the corner in front of Beanie Jones’s house. Sheba punched in the emergency brake with her foot, put the car in park, and turned off the engine.
“Are you in a hurry?” Sheba turned so she was sideways in the seat. She pushed her hair back and I could see that some of it had fallen out the window.
“No. I don’t think so.” I knew my mother would be sitting in her chair in the living room working on something—her dinner menu for next month, the needlepoint pillow she was making for the TV room sofa, her lesson plan for Sunday school—while waiting for me.
Sheba took another hit, and then offered the joint to me again. Jimmy took it from her hand before I had time to say no.
“Tell me more about your parents.” Sheba took the joint from Jimmy.
“Hmm. They’re both from Idaho.”
“Do they like rock and roll?” Jimmy asked.
“No. My mom and I love show tunes. And the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. And my dad has one Marine Corps band record that he’ll play every now and then.”
“That’s cool. Like a lotta horns and shit. That stuff’s totally cool when you sit down and really listen to it.” Jimmy sucked on the joint again, shutting his eyes as if he needed to concentrate. I watched his face relax; the folds in his forehead melted. Maybe he really did need Mary Jane to calm his whirly-twirly-creative-genius mind.
“Mary Jane sings in the choir at church,” Sheba said to Jimmy. “And at Sunday school.”
“Ah, that’s where you trained that gorgeous voice.”
“I guess.” No one had ever used the word gorgeous when talking about any part of me. I could feel the word inside me like a warm liquid. Gorgeous. I knew I was blushing but figured it was too dark in the car for Jimmy and Sheba to notice.
Jimmy took a smaller hit, handed the joint to Sheba, and then started singing. “Jesus loves me, this I know. . . .” Little tufts of smoke puffed out with each word. “For the Bible tells me so. . . .” He took the song at a slower pace than it was usually sung. With his twangy, cello-sounding voice, he made it feel sad and lonely. Like a love song Jimmy’s rock star friend might have sung about the midget who broke his heart.
Sheba joined in, and the song filled out. Now it sounded so beautiful and pure that I could feel the notes landing on my skin like feathers. My eyes teared up and I worried I’d start crying.
“Take the third part of the harmony,” Sheba said to me, and this stopped me from crying. I cautiously entered the song—slowly and wistfully—in the next verse. “Jesus loves me, this I know, as he loved so long ago. . . .”
Crickets were chirping in the trees and even that felt like part of the song. Jimmy and Sheba each leaned toward me, so our heads were together in a triangle that almost touched as our voices braided together. We sang slowly and deeply until the moment was sliced open by another voice.
“Hello?” It was Beanie Jones. She stood just outside Jimmy’s window.
Sheba threw the joint to the floor of the car and Jimmy turned in his seat.
“Hi, Mrs. . . . uh, Mrs. Beanie.” I lifted my hand and nervously waved.
“Mary Jane, what are you doing?” Beanie’s head was moving from side to side like a bird’s. She had an enormous tense smile on her face. I could see that she was as confused as if Jesus Himself had been parked in front of her house.
“These are my friends from out of town,” I said quickly. “We were practicing for church.”