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rubs her belly and gives me her list. Tea is not the only item. Time is of the essence, so I decide not to argue over the additional items. I take the list as I make my famous closed-mouth smile.
    I go upstairs, give myself the once over in the mirror, eye make-up is great, but perhaps a dab more of gloss. I swipe the brush of my Cranberry Heaven across my lips and toss the tube back in my purse. I swing the straps over my shoulder and turn the knob. I close the door to my room, I don’t want the young detective duo of Winter and River to rummage through my things in search of dress-up clothes. I take two steps in the hallway. Megan’s voice is coming through her bedroom door, it almost sounds like she is in an argument.
    “I just don’t want her to mess up the pie.”
    “You have to give her a little faith.”
    “Brian, you have no idea, what you are talking about. Lauren is not a baker. The pecan pie is a big deal. Everyone will be really upset, especially Grandmother and I don’t want her to have her feelings hurt. You know Grandmother isn’t doing well and she probably gave the letter to Megan by accident.”
    “Megan…you know the letter was written to Lauren, give her a chance, she might surprise you.”
    “Maybe, but I think it’s best if I take out an insurance policy for her.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “Maybe, I’ll make a pie and hide it in case hers doesn’t turn out.”
    “That’s a bad idea.” Brian opens the door to Megan’s room.
    My eyes are about to pop out of my head. I take in a deep breath.
    “Oh, hey Lauren…uh…”
    I shake my head. “It’s okay, I’d feel the same way if I was her.” I suck the insides of my cheeks in. I’m not going to cry. Not over pecan pie. I rush past the door and charge down the stairs as fast as I can without falling. I hustle to the door. A car. I need a vehicle.
    “Mom, can I borrow your car?” I wipe a lone tear from my lash. It’s not really crying if it’s only one.
    “Sure, honey. The keys are in my purse, you better hurry, remember what your dad said, the stores close early today,” she yells back at me from the kitchen.
    As I grab the keys from her turkey beaded purse, I push the home button on my phone.
Yikes
. It’s almost noon. I do
not
need any more setbacks. A tear drops from my other lash. I will not cry over pecan pie
. Ha!
That rhymes.
I hop into my mom’s car and inhale. She always has a flavorful car scent, I check out the dangling piece of cardboard shaped like a pie hanging from her rearview mirror, pecan. I take a deep breath and put the car in reverse. My map program searches for the address as I back the car out of the driveway on the hunt for the best pecans in Texas.

Chapter Two
    I page down through the directions on my phone. The majority of my route consists of Highway 79—a fairly barren country road. It’s time to improve this road trip. Cue the music.
    I turn on the radio. No sounds come out. Like any typical person, I twist the volume knob all the way to full blast, and there’s nothing
.
Zip. Zilch. Nada
.
At the very least a monophonic ocean should be heard. A new six-disc changer sits where my Mom’s factory-installed stereo used to be. What type of music is in my mom’s CD player? Let’s hope button number three is cruise worthy. Sometimes my mom has good tunes.
    Button number three has transported me back in time to the eighties. I grab onto my ears, trying to shield myself from future nightmares. The sounds create visuals of oatmeal soaked with blood. What is this, the soundtrack from
The Golden Child
? I shake my head and clutch the steering wheel. The noises change. They’re no longer Tibetan monks, but something much different. I have no freaking clue what sound is coming out of the speakers, but it’s not normal. I feel like an alien has invaded the stereo and is trying to communicate with me through their native tongue. This girl did not get the Groupon for Rosetta Stone. I don’t speak or