Rick took plenty of other sales calls, talked to someone on the phone about his golf game, and slipped into a back office to do God-knows-what. Meanwhile, Raylee walked around the used cars in the showroom, intrigued by the designs of the cars, noting the boring Citation, the boxy Malibu, and the shoe-like profile of the Chevelle like Roberta’s, and the yellow C/K pickup truck like the one Curtis drove. “There’s a car for every kind of person,” Raylee said.

“I think you’re right,” Sherri said, trying to figure out what kind of person Mitch was if he liked both an Excalibur and a Ferrari.

“Can we go?” Raylee groaned. “There’s nothing to do here.”

“You can go if you want.”

“No.” She grabbed Sherri’s hand. “I want to stay with you.”

Half an hour later, Raylee had eaten the contents of an entire fish bowl filled with Tootsie Rolls and talked Sherri’s ear off. She told her about the new swim instructor at Booth Lake, the girl she’d met at camp that summer who said you could read satanic messages on the top of a Ritz Cracker, and the Princess Diana doll with her pouffy wedding dress that she wanted to buy at the The Trading Post, but it cost almost twenty dollars.

Finally, Sherri passed the wad of cash across Rick’s desk—more money than she thought she’d ever be able to spend at once. She wanted to put as much down as possible to keep the interest low. The rest she would pay monthly. Even car payments sounded grown-up and exciting. She strummed her hands on the faux-wood finish of his desk.

Rick passed some paperwork across his desk and asked her to sign. She did so without even reading what it said. She was too tired and hungover to process all those tiny words. All she cared about was the key that he tantalizingly twirled around on his desk.

“All right, missy. You ready?”

“I’ve been ready forever!” It wasn’t just a car Sherri felt she was buying, it was a lifestyle. It was her independence. A new, different future. He walked her out onto the lot, and Raylee trailed behind. “Here you go. She’s a beauty, and she’s all yours. Well, yours and the bank’s.” He pointed at a brown car.

“That’s not mine,” she said. “My car is red.”

He tapped the rolled-up paperwork against the hood. “Says here you wanted brown.”

“I said red. Burgundy, actually.”

“Red, burgundy. You ladies sure can be fickle. See now, brown is what you asked for, Miss Taylor, and brown is what we ordered. They hauled this here on a flatbed all the way from Detroit just for you.”