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choir people after practice. I said no thanks without saying, “God, no.” And Joanne and I arranged that I’d drive the car home.
    I put on my jacket and went outside. On the church steps, I ran into Sticky Fingers on his way back in. He said, “Damn right,” to someone behind him, then laughed his dirty-sounding laugh. I turned up my collar and kept going. I wouldn’t want to meet him in the mall parking lot late at night. Or in the alley behind the church.
    I walked down to the traffic light, crossed the street and bought an iced tea at a convenience store. When I came back inside the church a few minutes later, Kramer and Old Hippie were both bent over in our pew, looking for something on the floor. Anna stood in the aisle, wringing her hands. Her face was flushed. Other tenors were grouped in a semi-circle around our pew. Like at a funeral.
    I walked up to Kristi, who was on the outside edge of the group. Not next to Carmen, for once. “What’s going on?” I said.
    â€œAnna lost her notebook.” She put her hand to her mouth in mock concern. “Time to call for a search party.”
    The pianist played the fanfare, and everyone began to move back into the seats. Including Kristi, who rolled her eyes at me as she went.
    â€œThanks for looking,” Anna said to Kramer and Old Hippie. “I’m sure it will turn up somewhere.” The worry lines between her eyebrows said otherwise.
    I sat down. Richard started talking about the dynamics in the next song. I whispered to Anna, “Are you okay? Is anything else missing?”
    â€œNo. Just my journal. I don’t know where it could be. I didn’t leave it at the coffee shop, did I?”
    â€œNo, you put it in your bag. I saw you.”
    â€œYes, of course I did. But where is it now? What could have happened to it?”
    From behind his lectern, Richard said, “When I talk about a crescendo here, I mean that the volume should slowly increase when you sing this passage. I do not mean that the volume of your talking right now should BE AUDIBLE.” Shit. He was looking right at Anna and me.
    Someone laughed nervously, and Freckles turned around and gave us an evil stare to go with Richard’s. Screw them all. On the edge of my music sheet, I wrote: We’ll talk about this later . I showed it to Anna. She bit her lip and nodded.
    Just before practice ended, Anna rushed up to the front of the church and made an announcement. She described the notebook, said she’d lost it and asked anyone who found it to please, please let her know. Behind me, Kristi muttered to Carmen, “All this fuss for a notebook. What a drama queen.”
    After we’d all joined hands and sung the circle song, Anna and I left the church together and stood outside on the sidewalk. “Let’s mentally retrace your steps,” I said. “As best as you can remember.”
    She’d made her phone call, come back to our pew and sat down. She took out the notebook and made a note of a tricky passage in a song that she wanted to review later at home. Then she put the notebook away in her bag, which was on the floor at her feet. For five minutes or so, she walked around and talked to some tenors. Freckles, whose real name was Pauline, was the section leader. When she’d said that the first sectional practice would be held on Saturday afternoon, Anna had looked in her bag for her journal to write down the date. Only the journal wasn’t there.
    I said, “There’s a sectional practice this Saturday?”
    â€œAt one o’clock. Pauline said she’d email everybody the details. But what am I going to do? I want my journal back. I need it.”
    â€œBecause your notes are important to you. I understand. Your ideas for your new show must be, like, trade secrets.”
    She shook her head. “That’s not the only reason.”
    â€œYou’re upset because those notebooks are