Mary Jane by Jessica Blau (best motivational books .txt) 📕

is to not linger. You just push firmly and slide it alongthe fabric.”

“One mustn’t linger!” Sheba winked at me. She pushed the iron a few times. I watched. Izzy got closer and looked up. The Popsicledripped down her chin. “Now what?”

“Then you do the sleeves.” I readjusted the shirt so there was a single sleeve on the board.

“Firmly. And no lingering!” Sheba raised her voice to sound more like me. She slid the iron around the sleeve, then on thecuff. “Okay. I’m bored.”

“Already?”

“Yup. Let’s go record shopping.” Sheba put the iron on the shirt facedown. I righted it quickly before the shirt burned.

“I wanna go record shopping!” Izzy jumped up and down, waving the Popsicle.

“I don’t even know where the record store is.” There were no record stores in Roland Park, and none on the regular routesI went with my mother: to the Elkridge Club, Roland Park Country School, Huxler’s for clothes.

“Richard will know. I’ll find the keys.” Sheba sauntered out.

“Can I get a record too?” Izzy asked.

“Yes. I’ll buy you one.” I quickly finished ironing the shirt.

“You will? You have money?”

“Yeah. I’ve been saving all the money your parents pay me. But I’ll use some of it to buy you a record.”

Izzy ran to my legs and hugged me. I rubbed her head. Then I unplugged the iron and neatly folded the shirt.

 

Jimmy wanted to go too. He didn’t wear a wig and neither did Sheba. They both put on sunglasses. Jimmy was wearing a tanktop and a Johns Hopkins baseball cap that must have been Dr. Cone’s. Sheba tied a color-block scarf around her head. It coveredher forehead and draped down the back of her hair like two red and orange tails.

Dr. Cone walked us out to the station wagon. Sheba got in the driver’s seat, and Izzy and I got in the back. Sheba rolleddown the window and Dr. Cone leaned on the window frame with his hairy forearms. “You remember how to get there?” he asked.

Sheba said, “Left on Cold Spring, right on Charles, stay on Charles awhile, left on North Ave.”

“That’s right. Cold Spring, Charles, North Ave. You can’t get lost.”

“Mary Jane is going to buy me a record!” Izzy said.

“She is?” Dr. Cone looked up from Sheba’s window, then came around to Izzy’s. He reached in and tousled her hair, then pulledout a folded bill and tried to hand it over to me. I waved him away. “What kind of record?” He tried once more to hand methe money. I shook my head, smiling. Dr. Cone shrugged and stuck the bill back in his pocket.

“I dunno. Mary Jane, what kind of record?”

“What about a Broadway soundtrack?”

“MARY JANE’S BUYING ME A BROADWAY SIDETRACK!!” Izzy leaned out the window. I grabbed her waist so she wouldn’t fall out. Dr. Cone kissed her and then backed away as Sheba pulled the car from the curb.

“You have fun at the record store!” Dr. Cone laughed at his daughter, who seemed perilously close to dropping onto the pavement.

“Bye!” Sheba yelled.

“GOODBYE!” Izzy yelled, and I tugged her back in before we were moving too fast. Once she was settled into her seat, Izzystarted singing a Running Water song. Sheba jumped in on the melody and I sang harmony. Jimmy made instrument noises withhis mouth that sounded pretty cool. He could actually make the sound of a trumpet. And for a guitar he sort of said the wordtwang, but in a way that sounded close to a guitar.

The farther we got from Roland Park, the fewer trees I saw. By the time Sheba parked the car near the record store, therewere no trees, just pavement, street, sidewalk, stores, and cars. Though I’d lived in Baltimore my whole life, I’d never beenon North Avenue. The first thing I noticed was that there were very few station wagons around. Most cars here looked eithershinier and fancier—many were the color of jewels—or beat-up and barely drivable. Everyone on the sidewalk was Black and Iimagined how uncomfortable my mother would be here. Jimmy, Sheba, and Izzy didn’t seem to notice that we were the only whitepeople around.

We walked into the warehouse-size record store and Jimmy took a deep breath. “Fuck yeah,” he said.

I examined the store. Signs hung from strings above sections, naming the genre: Jazz, Funk, Rock, Soul/R&B, Classical, Folk, Blues, etc. Along the walls were listening stations that looked sort of like phone booths, but instead of a phone, each booth held a record player and headphones. The people who worked at the store all wore bright yellow-and-green-striped shirts, making them hard to miss.

“Why didn’t we come here on day one?” Sheba asked.

Izzy tugged my hand. “Where do we find the Broadway sidetrack records?”

“Over there.” I pointed to a sign that said Soundtracks.

A salesperson approached us. He was as skinny as a piece of licorice and had an Afro pick stuck in his hair. I thought itwas a clever place to carry the comb, as the comb was too big for his pockets.

“How can I help you folks?” The guy smiled and jerked his head as if he were following a tennis game: Izzy, Sheba, me, Jimmy.“No way, man. No way. Jimmy and Sheba?” His smile grew.

“Yeah, man.” Jimmy pulled off the baseball cap, ran his fingers through his hair, and replaced the cap. “I need somethingnew. Some jams that will inspire me, you know. I need a launching pad for my own shit.”

“NO WAY!” The guy looked behind him, as if to see if anyone else was seeing this. “Jimmy! I love Running Water! I know everyRunning Water song by heart!”

“We do too,” Izzy said.

“NO WAY! No way, man! I love both you guys! My whole family watched your show, Sheba. For years! YEARS!”

“Ah, you’re so kind.” Sheba smiled and I could see her sucking in this adoration like gold dust. She was glowing from it.

“My mother is going to DIE! This is UNREAL!”

“These are our nieces.” Sheba held her hand out toward Izzy and me. She flipped her sunglasses so they