There were lines you didn’t cross with Mary Jo. For all her enthusiasm and good nature, she held herself at a distance. No one she worked with knew her well. Neither did her friends or her boyfriends. To look at her, a sunny blonde pixie in the trendiest clothes, you would never guess at her stubbornness, her seriousness. Mary Jo knew that she was pretty. She liked a party and loved to dance, and that was the only time anyone saw her out of control and un-self-aware: her dancing had a ferocity to it, as if everything she suppressed—her anger, her fears, her desires and sexual energy—used that
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