I sat in the back seat of Mom’s Malibu convertible, fingering the seat-belt buckle, half-listening to Mom and her new friend Eleanor, a long-time member of the church we’d started going to after our first Christmas at the quarry. I was going for my Bronze Medallion and I needed a new bathing suit. My green Speedo left indents on my shoulders. Red bars.
It was the beginning of March break, and we were taking the back route, the safe route, to the mall, instead of the highway, so Mom wouldn’t make those sharp intakes of breath (no transport trucks to pass us). Mom, like Aunt Doris, disliked highway driving. But we didn’t talk about Aunt Doris like we didn’t talk about Cindy and her time at the quarry. Despite having avoided the highway, Mom seemed high-strung, her mouth tight as she nodded
