“Remember the first time I made it with you?”

“The Brownie campout at Lake Pegasus. I was—what—six years old? And I had the coolest mom.”

What I remember about that campout was feeling inadequate. The professional moms, as I’d come to regard them, had remembered everything from bug spray to breakfast bars. They knew how to roast a whole meal in a foil packet, braid a lanyard into a friendship bracelet and name the constellations. My clever little ice cream trick didn’t seem like much. Now I’m ridiculously pleased to know she thought I was the coolest.

Molly goes off to shower. I flip through the Triple-A book, wondering what tomorrow will bring. On the back cover is an ad I never noticed before, with a list of phone numbers—who to call in event of a breakdown.

Six

The next day we make tracks and we’re curiously quiet with one another, both lost in our private worlds and lulled by the monotony of the road. We stop for the night at a far more conventional place, one with wireless internet and pay-per-view movies. We are not nearly as entertained by this as we were by last night’s bungalows and campfire. The room smells of new carpet and cleaning solution. The beds are like two rectangular rafts, covered in beige spreads.

“Let’s go out,” I say, opening the door to the parking lot to scan the neon collage of signs along the main drag.

Molly looks at me as if I’ve sprouted horns. “What do you mean, out? We already had dinner.”

“I mean out. To one of these clubs.”

“And do what?”

I have to think for a minute. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to a club. “Get something to drink,” I explain. “I’m sure bartenders still remember how to make a Shirley Temple. We can people-watch and listen to music.”

“What if I get carded?”

“It’s legal for you to be in a bar in Ohio so long as you aren’t served.”

“You checked?”

“I always check.”

She looks so dubious that I feel vaguely insulted. “What?”

“It’s just weird going clubbing with your mom.”

“We’re not going clubbing. We’re going to a club, just to get out a little bit. Nothing else seems to be open.”

“That’s weird.”

“Fine. Let’s stay here. You can watch Simpsons reruns and I’ll work on the quilt and reminisce about the past.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re headed out the door. Molly spent the entire preparation time in front of the mirror. I have to admit, she has a knack for primping. Her eyes are now smoky around the edges, her hair glossy and her lips slick and pink. She gives me the once-over and frowns again.

“I’ve seen that shirt before, Mom.”

“I never realized you noticed this shirt before.” I smooth my hands down the polished cotton. Except it’s not so polished anymore. I think the polish wore off some time ago.