Everyone certainly seemed to be having a wonderful time. A crowd of at least 400 people gathered to hear the sweet songs of youth. The grand finale featured all 243 children singing “Yellow Submarine,” while some of the older students wheeled out the submarine they’d created in their Arts & Crafts class. If the evening concert was any indication, the future of Lilydale is in bright hands.

The relief is immediate. A story out rather than in.

I review my writing. “Twist and Shout” isn’t technically a Beatles song, but I don’t think this article is the place to mention that. The rest holds up. Edward R. Murrow doesn’t need to stop the presses, but I’m satisfied. I zip the paper out of the typewriter, slide it into my portfolio, nuzzle Slow Henry, and pad to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, apply makeup, and scan the article one more time. I still like it. It’s more Women’s News than hard-hitting journalism, but it’s a start.

And my name is on it.

I pat my head. My hair is not quite set from this morning’s hot shower. I know what I could do while I wait for it to dry, but hell. I don’t want to. My feet drag as I walk to the phone, my lungs heavy. I pick up the handset and dial.

Ursula answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Joan. What the hell? Why haven’t you called before? I’ve been worried sick about you. I nearly drove to Lilydale, knocking door to door, asking who’d taken my Joanie.”

I laugh, a dry sound. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called sooner. I’ve been so busy setting up house.” I wait for her criticism. None comes, so I continue. “I got a job at the paper.”

“That’s good news,” she says. I can hear the pouting, but she’s not committed to it. Ursula never stays angry for long. “So, are they all hillbillies?”

I chuckle into the phone, but it morphs into a sob.

“Joan, what’s wrong?”

I’m not exactly sure what’s set me off—hearing a friendly voice?—but suddenly it’s all too much. “I’m sorry, Ursula. I let the town do a number on me. Lilydale is everything you predicted, and worse.”

“Tell me everything.”

The stories begin to disgorge themselves: all the men hugging me, Dorothy peeping into my bedroom the first night we moved in, Deck telling everyone we’re married and that I’m pregnant, not being allowed to apply for a job until Ronald gave me the green light, all those people staring at the dead dog by the railroad track, Miss Colivan knowing about the brooch I stole, the Fathers and Mothers running the town, that I can’t drink. Ursula doesn’t say a word, not even when I pause to catch my breath. “Ursula, I have to get out of Lilydale. I think they’re following me. Everyone. Tracking me.” I didn’t know I believed that until I’ve said it out loud. It feels good to finally get it out there.

She’s still silent on the other end. A car putters past outside my home, well below the speed limit. Someone else watching me?

She finally speaks. “Joan, you stole something from the Ben Franklin?”

Her tone—like she’s talking a child off a tantrum—clangs my warning bell. I try to reel it back in. “Not exactly,” I say. “I just didn’t have enough money to pay for it. I’ll bring it back. And I was kidding about the last part. No one’s tracking me. You were the one who said small towns are so weird, that’s all.”

My blood’s turned to sludge. She’s taking too long to respond.

Finally: “Joanie, I’m worried about you. If you could hear yourself on this phone call, you’d be worried, too.” She’s silent for several more beats. When her voice returns, it’s barely a whisper. “You remember Halloween 1962?”

I smile softly, immediately relaxing. I run over the rosary beads of my memory. The photograph, the one that sat on my desk at the Star and is now a centerpiece in my living room. Libby as Amelia Earhart. Ursula Eleanor Roosevelt. Me Natalie Wood. Three young women tumbled into each other, bright-eyed and open-mouthed, the world at our feet.

“Yeah, of course. It was a marvelous evening. One of the best.” I’m so relieved she’s changing the subject, isn’t going to scold me about my wild imagination.

“Tell me what you remember about it.”

That’s easy. I was just thinking about it the other day. I remember it as clear as a movie.

I’d been staring into my mirror, glum, realizing that dressing like Natalie Wood had been stupid. Probably no one at the party had seen Marjorie Morningstar.

But then in swung Ursula, and she squealed when she took in my makeup and flipped hair. “Joan, you look marvelous!”

I grinned. “No, you do. Eleanor Roosevelt has never been more spectacular.”

Ursula strutted into my bedroom and twirled, her then boyfriend, Todd, a few steps behind. I’d long been jealous of their relationship, but I couldn’t find fault in his perfect depiction of FDR. This Halloween was going to blow everyone’s mind.

“Before the polio,” Todd said, catching my glance at his legs. “And you’re Marjorie Morningstar, of course. The only question is: From the book or the movie?”

I didn’t know there had been a book. I smiled and fluffed my hair flirtatiously to cover. “I’m just glad you know who I am.”

“Libby,” Ursula said, bringing the conversation full circle. “Have you seen her today?”

I noticed for the first time the worry lines creasing Ursula’s eyes and mouth, all but erased by her heavy makeup. “She’s not in her room?”

Ursula turned to plant a long, wet kiss on Todd. “That oughta hold you over. Now be a good lad and skip to the party next door. We’ll meet you there in a minute.”

Once he was out of earshot, Ursula grabbed my hand and marched me down the hall. Our three-bedroom Southeast Como walk-up had been a dream come true when we’d stumbled onto it between our freshman and sophomore years. The apartment was far enough from campus to feel grown-up, close enough that it wasn’t a hassle to grab a bus to classes. Plus, we each had our own bedroom.

We’d made a vow to stay there until we graduated.

Now in our senior year, we’d held to it.

Ursula pounded on Libby’s door.

“I don’t know why you need me for this,” I said, my stomach growing slippery. Libby had been distant lately. Her new boyfriend was a biology major, a nice enough guy, but he demanded all Libby’s time.

“Because I think she’s in there but ignoring me,” Ursula said, raising her voice so that Libby could hear. “If you’re with me, I can tell her that her roommates are waiting for her and not be lying.”

“Go away!” Libby hollered from inside.

Ursula turned the knob and stepped into the room, me following at her heels.

Libby was a melted puddle atop her batik bedspread.

“What is it?” I asked, dropping next to her.

Ursula gently stroked Libby’s hair. “Yeah, baby, why aren’t you getting ready for the party?”

Libby sat up. Her face was puffy from crying. I assumed her biology-major boyfriend must have dumped her. So positive was I that was the problem that when Libby said, “The rabbit died,” I initially glanced around the room, searching for a pet.