But before I could move, my mother stepped in beside me and grasped my upper arm. “Mary Jane was the summer nanny for Dr. and Mrs. Cone. They took her to the record store.”
“And what a fortuitious trip that was!” Pastor Fearson released my hand. “I don’t know who that man was, but I loved Sheba’s show. Watched just about every one.”
“Mary Jane! Come see me!” I heard. My mother’s head jerked toward the Cone station wagon. My father stepped between my mother and me. It was like the execution of a military maneuver.
“Pastor,” my father said, sticking out his hand for a shake. “We’ll see you next week.”
My father set one hand on my lower back and linked his free arm into my mother’s. He walked us, chained like that, through the crowd.
A horn beeped twice, quickly, and my mother, father, and I looked toward the station wagon. Sheba was at the wheel.
“Oh no,” my mother said.
My father moved his hand up to my arm. “I’m calling Dr. Cone when we get home. He needs to get his patients under control.”
We were on the sidewalk now. Walking toward our house. Sheba rolled the station wagon beside us. Izzy leaned out the window. “Mary Jane! Why won’t you come see me?!”
“What is wrong with these people?” my mother hissed.
My father’s fingers clamped on my arm. Sheba continued to drive slowly beside us. She and Jimmy were looking straight ahead, as if they just happened to be cruising this same street where we were walking. But Izzy hid nothing. Her arms hung out the window. She stared at us, her mouth open, her eyes wild with confusion.
We turned the corner, and so did the car. Sheba gunned the car so it was half a block past us, and then stopped. Jimmy got out, walked around to the other side, and opened the back door. The engine was still running.
My father squeezed my arm and jerked me forward. My mother gasped.
I looked at Jimmy. He nodded and motioned with his head toward the car
“What do they want?” my mother asked. “Make them go away.”
My father yanked me harder. He quickened his pace. My mother’s pointed pumps made a clicking sound as she trotted to keep up.
And then, where the sidewalk curved around a massive elm tree, there was a raised buckle. My mother stumbled, and my father let go of my arm to catch her.
And I ran.
“GO, MARY JANE! GO!” Izzy shouted.
I darted toward her voice, toward the open door. The car started moving and I dove in headfirst, Starsky and Hutch style. Jimmy jumped in behind me as Sheba tore away. Izzy tumbled on top of me, squealing and screaming and covering me with kisses.
The car zoomed down the street. Past my house, pretty as a postcard. Past Beanie Jones’s house （Sheba’s finger in the air）。 Past the beautiful, messy Cone house.
Out of Roland Park.
Jimmy climbed into the front seat as Sheba got on the expressway. Izzy sat on my lap and I wrapped my arms around her and stuck my nose into her curly hair. I was so happy, I couldn’t speak. The window was still down and hot air blew into the car like a torch.
“I missed you all so much,” I said at last.
“We missed you!” Sheba ripped off her wig and threw it behind her. It landed on the seat beside me and Izzy.
Izzy turned her head and kissed my cheek. “I cried every night. The family wasn’t the same without you.”
“It’s a family af-faaaair . . . !” Jimmy started singing the Sly and the Family Stone song that Izzy loved.
“It’s a family af-faaaaair. . . . !” Sheba jumped in.
And then Izzy and I sang along too.
13
The first thing I saw was my mother, seated on a chair in the Cones’ living room. Her thick orangey-beige stockings looked Velcroed together at her crossed ankles. Then there was the even more startling sight of my father on the couch. Beside him, Mrs. Cone was wearing an untucked gold silk blouse. Her nipples tented out from the thin fabric. Dr. Cone stood near the fireplace, one hand flat against the mantel. The house was only slightly messier than I had left it, so either Sheba or Izzy had been tidying up in my absence.
Our Starsky and Hutch escape had only lasted about twenty minutes, so my parents couldn’t have been sitting there long. Sheba had worried they would call the police, so we’d returned to the Cones’ with the idea that we’d have a quick snack and then Sheba would walk me home and seduce （her word） my parents into a blanket pardon: the escape, the clothing, the lies. We’d even gone so far as to plan the outfit Sheba would wear: a tidy pink sheath that wasn’t too short or revealing. I knew the dress Sheba was talking about, as I’d seen it in her closet. It was something my mother would never wear, but it was the only piece of clothing Sheba had brought that my mother might not criticize.