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trapped in the middle of singing “Do Re Mi.”
    “Sooooooo!” she sang. “Let’s hit the road, Danny. I wanna stop at Sonic for a cherry limeade.”
    And that was it. No Bye, Vikki. No Thanks for stopping by. Smidge acted like Vikki was already gone, a doll dropped as she wandered into another room.
    Some decent part of me knew I should have at least a pang of sympathy for Vikki as I watched her slink out of the house, but it was hard to feel for her when she insisted on bringing these situations upon herself. And the parrot necklace mademe irrationally angry. Did she sleep wearing it? She must have. She probably showered with it.
    That’s when you appeared in the doorway, arms crossed in front of your budding chest, head swiveling at us like you were an audience member on Jerry Springer . “Y’all are mean,” you said to us, your tiny little mouth a bracket of disapproval.
    Your mother snorted. “I learned it from you.”

 
     
    FOUR

     
     
     
    Y ou followed us all the way to the driveway asking your mother for some extra cash. “What if something happens while you’re gone?” you whined. “What if Daddy forgets to feed me and I need emergency pizza?”
    Even though we all knew you’d be fed and safe, Smidge made a big production out of slipping you a twenty. “Give me Odd Hugs,” she said, once you’d stuffed the bill near the perfume-shaped lump in your pocket.
    You two began the series of contortions that was your Odd Hugs ritual—repeated awkward embraces that mocked affection while still technically counting as touches. A leg lifted here, an elbow bent into someone’s side there—your mother was fond of pulling faces while she leaned toward you. You preferred making chicken wings out of your arms while asking, “Like this? Like this?”
    “What’s that smell?” she asked you after your tenth Odd Hug. “Why do you smell like a brothel?”
    You kissed her on each cheek in a mock French fashion,quickly noting, “Y’all better get going before Vikki packs a suitcase.”
    Your mother said, “Love you, stinky,” and we drove away.
    Smidge wanted a road trip, a back-to-basics, paper-map-and-fast-food, feet-up-on-the-dashboard, singing-Madonna-songs girl trip. We headed east, toward a destination only Smidge knew, even though she was making me drive her large, green sedan that I liked to call the Pickle. We wouldn’t hit Mexico going east, but we would eventually hit the Atlantic.
    Where there were cruise ships.
    “How about a hint?” I asked again.
    “Unh-uh,” she said. “I wanna see your face when we get there. And I don’t want you to ruin it with all your thinking. No brains! Just driving.” She took a second before she added, “I love you. You are my prettiest friend.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Pretty, despite those flesh sticks you call fingers. You knew we were leaving; you didn’t have time for a manicure?”
    “I type a lot, Smidge. You know manicures are wasted on me.”
    She grunted. “Never gonna get a new man wagging around those skin stumps you’ve got going on.”
    This was not the time to stand up to Smidge. I would never be so dumb as to say to her something bold like, “I think I know what’s best for me.” If I ever lost my brain and told her something like that, I already knew what would happen.
    First, her head would jerk back, like someone had shot her between the eyes with an invisible bullet. Her dark, thineyebrows would search for each other, straining to meet just above her freckled nose. Then her sharp chin would drop to her pale chest, already flushed patchy-pink with outrage. With her right hand slapped to the back of her head, she’d fluff those bundles of chestnut hair, outraged that I’d offended her right down to her secretly gray roots.
    And then she would speak, which is when it’s over. Once Smidge’s singsong, Southern-soaked voice got into your head, once it flowed past your ears and IV-dripped deep into your bones, there wasn’t much