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my knee. “But this here is one powerful blemish.”
    I had to agree with her. It was an enormo pink shiny one at the top middle of her forehead.
    â€œIs that your first-aid kit?” I asked as Mom slid the pink plastic toolbox over toward us.
    â€œSort of,” she said.
    â€œWould you maybe teach me how to use that stuff?” I asked.
    â€œI’ll be happy to,” she said. “Although, it may not be the kind of first aid you’re expecting.”
    Mom undid the box’s main latch and lifted the lid to reveal an array of lotions, powders, sprays, and every possible shade of makeup. The box got bigger as she unfolded level after level of beauty supplies.
    â€œYou were thinking gauze pads and peroxide, weren’t you?” she said.
    â€œYeah,” I said, like I knew what those were. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”
    â€œOh, from this precious lady whose salon was a mess of sludge,” said Mom. “I helped her salvage some of her chairs, and she gave me all her samples as a thank-you. I’ve been enjoying being kind of fixey-fixey ever since.
    â€œSo,” she continued, “since we got folks and finger food waiting for us next door, how about I give you a few quick rescuing and beauty tips mixed together?”
    I thought that was an awes idea.
    â€œLet’s see here,” she said, rummaging through the bottom level of the box. “The lesson that’s first…Be prepared for the worst.”
    I figured there might be a rhyme coming. My mom was born to rhyme. Dad says she burps, sneezes, and snores in rhymes.
    â€œAs a rescuer, you never know where you’re going next, or what’s going to be waiting for you there. But if you’re well prepared, you can handle anything.”
    Mom unloaded a whole lineup of creams and said, “Take this bump of mine, for instance. A dot of this and a smear of that should cover it right up.”
    She held her bangs back with one hand and applied a zeeyut potion with the other. After re-lidding all the jars, she pulled a pointy-handled comb from another level of the box.
    â€œLesson number two…Comb all the way through.”
    Mom ran the comb through my hair so hard it made static crackle in my ears.
    â€œAfter a devastating storm, never leave a house unsearched, no matter what a tangle it’s in,” she said, hitting a knotty speed bump at the back of my head. “Cass, I swear, you’re just like your momma with this one piddly wave in your hair.”
    I figured if I couldn’t have my mom’s flippy flowiness, I could at least be proud of having one piddly wave in common with her.
    After that, Mom grabbed a little roll-on deodorant from the box and said, “Lesson number three-o…Some deo for your b.o.” We looked at each other and busted out laughing.
    â€œIn other words, don’t let the people you’re helping know that you’re so scared your teeth are sweating,” she chuckled.
    Right about then, I saw the corner of something familiar sticking out from under a collection of lipsticks in the middle level of the pink box. I pulled at the corner to reveal my wrinkled old fourth grade school picture. When Mom saw it, a tear as tiny as a dewdrop formed in the corner of her eye.
    â€œJust a little friend I always take along with me,” she said, tilting her head toward the light to let the tear slurp back in. “And that, my friend, brings us to lesson number four, for when the tears start to pour.”
    From that same middle level, she picked out an eye shadow duo the colors of peas and corn, along with a long tube of mascara.
    â€œFlood-proof eye makeup,” she said. “Want to try a little?”
    â€œSure,” I said, wondering if this would be our daily routine out on the road together.
    As she applied the shadow to my lids in slow, smooth strokes, Mom said, “Just look at how this chartreuse and goldenrod