Now that I stood before her, she seemed uncertain what to do. We ended up with an awkward half handshake, half hug. “Jerome. I heard you lived over here. Helen Johnston and I are just here to do some shopping. But I didn’t expect to see you.”

Helen came over and greeted me, her eyes betraying nothing, then turned to Jana and said, “I’m going to go browse in the bookstore for a bit. Come get me when you’re ready.” She walked off.

“She knows,” said Jana.

“She does?”

“We’ve become quite good friends. And she knows how to keep her mouth shut. It’s between us.” She looked away, suddenly shy, then back at me. “Here we are again. Another in a series of awkward moments. Jerome, I’ve thought of you often, but … The school’s doing well.”

“I’m glad of that. You know I loved that school.”

“I know you did. That’s why I can’t understand … I can’t understand why you did what you did.”

What could I say? I was silent.

“Rashid has really blossomed,” she said. “His leg healed and he’s running again, better than before. He’s been working with a tutor, and he seems happier. His grades are quite good. As, Bs—not as good in Latin. I think he has a C average. But he decided to keep taking it. He likes it, really.”

“Does he?”

“Yes. Does that surprise you?”

“A little. I thought he might drop Latin … after what happened.”

“He’s tough.”

“Yes.” My heart twisted in my chest. I wiped my sweaty hands on my shirt. “Jana, if I could tell you … I’m sorry That’s all. I’m sorry.”

She gave me a long, measuring look. “I know you are. I’m sorry, too.” In that moment, her eyes so green, my heart was broken. I could have loved her. I could have kept her, had I only been the man I claimed to be. I know it. She took my hand. “You take care of yourself, Jerome.” She smiled a little. “I like that T-shirt.” Then she reached up on her toes and kissed my cheek gently, like a mother, like my mother never did. She crossed the street to her friend. I turned to go my own way and was seized by the sudden unreasonable fear that I would never get home, that I would somehow disappear forever in the suburban maze of look-alike streets. I know what it is to be lost. It is the bitterest thing there is.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As these kinds of pages always note, a book is written in solitude but it’s not written alone. A few people and places I’d like to thank (in no particular order):

The MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and the Writers Room in New York City, for being places of peace where I was free to write.

The Dalton Gang, Cliff Thompson and Jane Kelley, for encouragement and good advice in the early stages of this work.