My mother gasped.
“That’s not true.” I stopped and faced Beanie Jones. My face was red and hot. My eyes felt like I’d sprayed perfume in them. “You know that’s not true.”
“Mary Jane!” My mother jerked her head forward, like a hen pecking corn. “Watch your manners.”
Beanie Jones pushed her face into a smile. “Darling, don’t be upset.” She put her hand on my arm. I wanted to shake it away but was afraid of what my mother would do if I did. “Sometimes the grown-up world is too complicated and messy to understand until you get there.”
I thought of Dr. Cone looking for his car keys, with no one to help him out. Izzy suddenly removed from the bedroom that was safe from the witch, the bathroom with the footstool under the sink, the kitchen with the window nook to sit in, the dining room with the records on the floor, the family room with the ironing board, and the living room with all the books we’d so carefully alphabetized. My heart hurt. My head hurt. And my pride hurt a little too, in knowing for certain that after the Starsky and Hutch kidnapping, everyone had given up on me.
“These are good.” The salesman was pushing on my toes again. Then he tapped the back of my calf and I sat.
“We’ll take them both,” my mother said.
“Poor Izzy,” I said.
“I heard she’s being enrolled in public school up there.” Beanie Jones said this as if public school in Baltimore County was like special ed for the serial killers in a prison system.
“We reap what we sow,” my mother said, and I knew she was trying to end the conversation.
“Have you heard from any of them, Mary Jane?” Beanie Jones ignored my mother and beamed her giant smile on me.
“Oh no, Mary Jane has nothing to do with any of them now.” My mother motioned with her fingers for me to stand. The salesman was headed toward the register with the two boxes of shoes.
“Of course,” Beanie Jones said to my mother, and then she winked at me, as if to say she knew better.
I turned and started toward the register.
“Mary Jane,” my mother said firmly.
“Oh, sorry.” I turned around. “So nice to see you, Mrs. Jones.” I pushed my mouth into a big, painful smile. I hoped she would think I was pen pals with Jimmy and Sheba, that a day didn’t go by without a fresh letter with fresh news. Beanie Jones was the only person I knew who understood how energized and dazzling it felt to be with Jimmy （and Sheba）。 She was the only witness to my secret summer. But she was someone with whom I wanted to share none of it.
15
A couple of weeks into the school year, Mr. Forge asked if I would join the grown-up choir, which took over the Sunday services once summer had ended （relegating the children’s choir to special performances on holidays）。 At fourteen, Mr. Forbes said, I would be the youngest voice the adult choir had ever had. The only person I wanted to relay this news to was Sheba. I imagined her face, how happy and proud she had looked when she watched me sing at church.
After my first adult choir service, when we were hanging up our robes, Mr. Forge handed me a paper-covered, taped-up box about the size of a brick of cheddar cheese. “This came for you a couple of days ago, Mary Jane. How exciting to get mail!” Mr. Forge clapped his hands twice, I suppose to applaud my having received a package.
The box was addressed to me in care of the church. My heart thudded as I saw that my name and the words Roland Park Presbyterian Church were in Sheba’s neat, perfect cursive. The address of the church and the return address （no name but a building address on Central Park West） were in different handwriting. An assistant? The housekeeper who ironed all Sheba’s clothes? It certainly wasn’t Jimmy’s giant scribbles.
Mr. Forge stood by watching, as if he expected me to open the package in front of him and share whatever was inside. I looked up, smiled, and then turned and grabbed the robe I’d just hung up.
“Thanks for this. So, um, I’ll see you at rehearsal!” I quickly wrapped the box in the robe and held it against my chest. Before Mr. Forge could say anything else, I rushed up the stairs and out the side door to the front of the church, where I stood on the bottom step to wait for my parents. When they finally emerged, my mother was holding the elbow of the blind man, Mr. Blackstone. My father stared off into the distance as usual. It felt like hours before my mother released Mr. Blackstone to the sidewalk with his red-tipped white cane. I leaned in toward her and said, “I’m going to run home. I have to go to the bathroom.”