I knew she couldn't be too mad at me for what I did at the spelling bee, because she had raised me not to take any guff for being ugly. Some kids need tough love―well, Momma raised me with ugly love.

Even now I could see the love behind her stern face. I knew she wanted to jump out of that car, hug me, and make all the meanness in the world go away. But just as she wouldn't give me that hug, I wouldn't ask for it. We both understood that sympa­thy was one step above pity, and we would have none of that.

"I don't like what happened in there any more than you do," Momma said, "but if you think I'm gonna let you walk home, you got something else coming!"

"I swear, Momma, if you make me get in that car, I will look into your rearview mirror, and your side mirrors, too!"

"So what?" said Momma. "I'll just buy new ones, and take it out of your allowance."

"What allowance?"

By now Momma's patience had worn as thin as her mascara. "Cara, I am not gonna say it again. Get in this car!"

I looked at the road before me. It was straight, the ground was flat, and in the distance, I could see the mountains. Our town was at the base of those mountains. It was getting late in the afternoon, but I didn't care if it got dark. I could probably be home by midnight if I walked fast enough. Then I saw the bill­board about a hundred yards ahead, featuring my father's smiling face, before his hair went salt-and-pepper. It was one of the really old billboards back from the days when he had a dozen used-car lots around the county, instead of just one. DEFIDO MO­TORS, the billboard said. WE TREAT YOU RIGHT-O AT DEFIDO. The sign was faded, but it didn't stop his face from looking down on me.