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human function, even considered a trait of nice people. It should be a sign of decency, humanity, perhaps something to honor and respect. If you were talking to Smidge, you’d find out you were wrong.
    She thought my trusting nature was something to be exploited, mocked as often as possible. Smidge wasn’t the only one who delighted in telling lengthy tall tales, seeing how farshe could get before I started to question the validity of her story. James used to do it all the time. The worst was when he and Smidge would conspire together, ganging up to breathlessly share something they’d witnessed on the way home, and how they couldn’t believe I’d missed it: a dog walking a cat; a kid floating above his front yard, clutching a giant birthday bundle of balloons; Carmen Electra in a wig store.
    Smidge was particularly pleased with herself on this Big Count Road speech, probably because she made it all the way to mentioning a Muppet.
    “Do you how hard it would be to film every single person walking down that street every year?” she asked. “And how long did I say he’d done it, sixty years? With what kind of old-timey editing equipment was he doing that? How old is that man? Jesus, Danny. All those brains you’ve got, but sometimes just no smarts. I’m gonna have to call that idiot ex-husband of yours and brag about that one. I bet James misses this so much.”
    “Yes, won’t that be nice? The two of you talking about how stupid I am for believing in you.”
    “The Count,” she muttered. “On Sesame Street. My Christ.”
    When we got to Sonic, I made her pay for my lunch.

 
     
    FIVE

     
     
     
    O nce we were back on the road, Smidge let out a giggle as she remembered something.
    “Soooooooo,” she sang. “Guess what I’m fixing to tell you: what had happened to me last Friday night.”
    Smidge held her gigantic cherry limeade with both hands, bouncing the already nearly empty Styrofoam cup on her knees, both feet kicked up on the dash. The sugar was working, obviously, but I think the vacation was starting to get into her blood as well.
    “Tell me what had happened,” I drawled.
    “First of all, I made the mistake of going out with Vikki, who was so boring. Here’s how boring: so, so, so, so, so, so boring.”
    “Six sos!”
    “Six. Maybe even seven.”
    “That is boring.”
    “Yes. And it’s your fault for going out with that guy who had rapist hair when we were supposed to talk on the phone, leaving me to fend for myself with Vikki. In fact, all of whatI’m about to tell you is your fault, so I hope you’re ready to start feeling guilty.”
    Rapist Hair was originally named Lane, but when I e-mailed Smidge a photo of him she replied with just: Rapist hair. Do not date.
    She was right, of course. Not about the hair, but the dating part. He started strong. Tall, good chin, dark eyes, but he had a terrible habit of intentionally making bad jokes and then acting offended when I didn’t laugh at them.
    It got worse. Once inside his apartment, I saw he had an iguana. I would like to receive some kind of medal or certificate for not screaming while running from the building right then and there as if he were an actual rapist. Instead, I waited at least ten minutes before pretending there was an emergency that would somehow render me unable to contact him for the rest of my life.
    Nights like that sometimes left me thinking, “Maybe I’ll just move in with Smidge. Be her Boston wife. Jenny can think of me as some weird aunt and I’ll live in the back room and clip coupons in front of a dusty, old television while having an intimate one-sided relationship with Drew Carey on The Price Is Right, where I yell at him about the rising cost of olive oil.” There was something about it that felt so much easier, letting her make all my decisions. Just melt into someone else’s life and disappear, no longer worrying about what I’m going to do next.
    Funny how you can be so wrong about something.
    I