I am so incredulous that I make myself read Gretchen’s text a second time:

        “We can’t unleash Jane on someone who can’t fight back. We will get her there, but no promises on a safe journey home.”

        Even though we are sitting beside each other in the front seat of my car, which is parked in a shopping center in a Long Island, New York, suburb, we are texting so that Jane is not privy to our conversation.

        “YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!” I cyber-squawk. “She just called you a low-class Dixie chick!”

        “So what?” Gretchen responds. “We’ll put up the glass barrier – something a limo driver she’s paying wouldn’t have the luxury of doing.” She adds, “Besides, she’s back there crying now. You’re telling me you could leave a crying 70-something woman in an outlet parking lot, surrounded by her luggage, while we drive off?”

        “Oh, THIIIIIIIIS one I COUUUUUUUULD!” I text back with a vengeance. I wait a second then write, “Besides, I’ve got a hundred bucks that says those are crocodiiiiiiiile teeeeeeeeears.”

             Gretchen answers with: “Just three more hours versus a lifetime of guilt.”

        ‘OMIGAWWWWWD!” I cyber-howl at her. “YOU’VE BECOME A JEWISH MOMMIE!!!!!”

           Smiley face emoji from Gretchen.

        Real-life middle finger from me.

        Finally, I speak. “Okay, Jane; stop your fake-crying this minute. Here’s the deal; take it or leave it.”

        Jane scooches up toward us immediately, dry-eyed.

        “You may continue to ride with us, but you will do so behind the soundproof glass barrier. Touch said barrier even one time, and I swear to you, I will stomp on the brakes so hard that you careen into it, full force, with that entitled little noggin of yours.”

        I’m not sure why Gretchen is suppressing laughter with both her hands cupped over her mouth right now, but she is.

        I continue. “And let me just say for the record that the ONLY reason I’ve changed my mind about dumping you off here is because this so-called ‘LOW-CLASS DIXIE CHICK’ of yours is THE kindest and most compassionate woman you will probably ever encounter in your entire life.” I lower my gaze at her. “Myself, I’d have no compunction whatsoever about seeing you in my rearview mirror, but I’m going to trust Gretchen’s instincts here.” At this point I slit my eyes at Jane. “So, do NOT make her look like a schmuck, Jane Babies. In fact, apologize to her right now.” This I say in my No Nonsense Teacher Voice.

        Almost inaudibly and with no eye contact whatsoever, Jane says, “Sorry.”

        “Ohhhh, no,” I say like the card-carrying Jewish Mommie I am. “You say it as loudly as you’ve voiced all your complaints to us for the past forty-eight hours. AND, you specifically mention your embarrassment about calling Gretchen a low-class Dixie chick.”

        I see Jane’s jaw muscle flex and pulse several times before she finally says, “Gretchen, you are not a low-class Dixie chick. I’m very sorry I called you that. I actually like your accent. It’s quite charming.”

        “Annnnnd?” I coax.

        “And thank you for making it possible for me to continue on this trip.”

        “Good girl,” I say with a condescending little bite to my tone. I activate the glass barrier before Gretchen can say she forgives her. Kiss. Of. Death.

        Gretchen gives me a sheepish look. “Was that really necessary?”

        “Don’t make me remand YOU to the back seat, too, Hargis,” I say and see her trying to measure the seriousness of my dead eyes.

        “Atlantic City, here we come!” she says with a voice so high and frivolous she sounds like Minnie Mouse. It’s coupled with an uncertain, obsequious smile in my direction.

        No one is safe when a redhead has used up all her patience and compassion.

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        At last, the Atlantic City skyline comes into view. Towering columns of glass-fronted sky scrapers stand like see-through sentinels and reflect off the sun-drenched ocean waves. Finally,our detours are over. FanStory International Convention, here we come!

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