The School of Beauty and Charm by Melanie Sumner Page B

Henry made a snide remark about the price, lit a fresh cigar, and drove on.
    â€œOh boy,” said Florida. “Here we go. You do this every time, and it burns me up. You’re cheap. Tight. Refuse to pay two pennies more so we won’t all be sitting on the side of the road while Mother’s dinner gets cold.”
    Henry looked into the rearview mirror and frowned. “Son,”he said, severely. “I don’t want to have to tell you again to get your feet off that window. If we hit a bump, your feet will go right through the glass. Another car might come by and cut your legs off. How would you like to be sitting in a wheelchair for the rest of your life?” Roderick sucked on his inhaler, filling the car with its faint medicinal odor, and without looking up, turned a page in his book. “That wouldn’t be much fun,” Henry continued. “I can tell you that right now.” In response, Roderick coughed loudly.
    â€œYour cigar smoke is making him sick,” said Florida. “He’s wheezing.”
    Henry turned the air vent to the back seat. “Why, if a big ole eighteen-wheeler came by, and you broke the glass, that wind could suck you right out of the car. You’d blow out of here like a paper bag.”
    â€œMom,” said Roderick. “Don’t let her open that nail polish; I’ll throw up,” but I had already twisted off the lid of Good Morning Peach and was applying the first coat.
    â€œShe’s almost finished,” said Florida. “Henry, let him crack his window. Did you pack my book in the trunk? Darn it, Henry!”
    â€œWhat was the name of it?”
    â€œ
Temptation
.”
    â€œYou didn’t tell me not to.”
    â€œYou know better than that. How I can read my book if it’s in the trunk?”
    â€œWhere there’s a will, there’s a way,” said Henry.
    â€œYou did that on purpose.” She cracked her window and let Puff stick his nose out. Roderick offered her some Thoreau.
    â€œOh that’s too hard. I’m not as smart as you. I can’t readthat. Maybe with the CliffsNotes. What did you bring to read, Louise?” Shoving Puff aside, she rummaged through my stack of books:
Very Special People
, an illustrated text about circus people. She flipped to a picture of Adolpho the Two-Headed Man, showing a handsome man in a suit lighting a cigarette for another man, the size of an infant, dressed in an identical suit and emerging from his own chest. From the expression on her face, I could see that she found the book in poor taste.
Paradise Lost
, which I was pretending to read to impress my English teacher, Samuel Rutherford III, did not hold her attention, even after I told her it was about God.
    â€œI read the Bible,” she said. “That tells the story of Jesus.” She added, “Your savior,” and I closed my eyes, pretending to fall asleep. Jesus was her back-up man. Together, the two of them created a superhuman SWAT team; Florida sniffed out the intransigence and Jesus crushed it with his Word.
    â€œYou don’t want me to talk about Jesus, do you? Why does the Word of the Lord upset you?”
    â€œThere’s a gas station,” said Roderick.
    â€œHe won’t stop,” said Florida, and with a look of long-suffering resignation, she elbowed Puff onto my lap and pulled out her knitting bag.
    I DECIDED THAT I didn’t like anybody in the car. Mentally, I threw each family member onto the shoulder of the road and replaced them with my friends. An imaginary Drew St. John was riding beside me in the front seat, smoking a cigar.
    Once, I had taken the real Drew St. John to Red Cavern. Three and a half hours into the trip, Drew announced calmlythat she couldn’t remember what her mother looked like. Both of us found this interesting, but Florida was upset.
    â€œYou’re kidding,” she said.
    â€œNo ma’am,” said Drew firmly. “I