“Don’t be cute. I’ll meet you at the car. You can find Lucy; I don’t ever want to see her again! And let me have Button.” If the photographer spotted her, she could duck behind the baby.

“Gladly.”

As she took the baby from him, Button screwed up her face to protest. Nealy had already attracted far too much attention, and a screaming fit was the last thing she needed. “Don’t cry, sweetie. Please.”

Button screwed her face tighter. “Sit!”

Nealy turned toward the exit. “How does the piggy go? Oink . . . oink . . .” Just then Lucy came rushing toward them, a Black and Decker box in her hand, a scowl on her face. “What am I supposed to do with a freaking power drill? And Nell looks more like Cornelia Case than that old fart looked like Santa Claus. Why did you vote for him?”

Nealy stopped in her tracks. “You voted for him?”

He shrugged. “You’ve got to admit, he really looked like Santa. That beard was real.”

Nealy stared at him. “I don’t believe it. Two days ago you couldn’t stop talking about how much I look like you-know-who, but you didn’t even vote for me?”

“I had to vote my conscience.”

She was surprised she could still laugh.

To Mat’s relief, Mabel was ready to go when they reached the garage. “What about my picnic?” Nealy complained as they headed for the highway.

“Promise her she can have her picnic, Jorik, or she’ll complain all day.”

“You should talk, Miss Mall Rat,” Nealy countered.

“Girls, girls . . .” Mat’s sigh was long-suffering.

“I can’t believe you only won a power drill,” Lucy complained. “You should have tucked in your top like I told you so you didn’t look so fat.”

“I don’t look fat.”

“Trust me, Lucy,” Mat said. “She doesn’t look fat.”

“And why did you have to start talking Spanish?” Lucy slapped the drill down on the table. “I want to find one of those places where you sell stuff and get money back.”

“A pawnshop?” Nealy asked.

“That’s it! I want to go to a pawnshop. Maybe I can even get an old TV there.”

“You’re not going to any pawnshop!” Mat’s jaw was starting to twitch.

“Too much television rots your brain,” Nealy said.

“It’s not for me. It’s for Button. Don’t you know anything?”

“Apparently not. Why does Button need a television?”

Lucy gave another of her patented you’re-a-moron looks. “So she can watch Teletubbies like all the other kids her age. I guess you don’t care if she ends up flunking kindergarten or something.”

“Buckle up,” Mat growled. “And I don’t want to hear another word about pawnshops or Tele-whatever or anything else. Does everybody understand me?”

They all did.