Driving With Dead People Read Online Free Page A

directly into the sun. The scowling cousins were watching.
    It was four o’clock and the sun was directly over my dad’s head and right in my eyes. I tried to smile in his direction as my dad clicked off four pictures on his new Polaroid camera, but the sun was too bright. Each time Dad clicked the shutter, I accidentally covered my eyes with my hands at the last minute. For the sixty seconds it took for each of those Polaroids to develop, I had plenty of time to imagine what punishment was in store for me for ruining Dad’s “perfect family” pictures.
    “You’re a goddamn idiot,” he yelled at me. “Can’t you stand still for one minute? If you blur one more picture, I’m going to blister your ass.”
    My face was bright red. He’d spanked me many times, not caring where we were or who was looking, and usually he jerked my pants down right there in front of everyone to do it.
    I tried to explain that it was because my eyes were light blue that I couldn’t look directly at the sun, but he interjected, “I’m not wasting any more film on you. Get the hell outta here.” He dragged me out of the line by the front of my shirt.
    What was so confusing was that everyone looked at me as if I had caused the whole mess. I had somehow ruined everything.
    The minute Dad turned his back, I ran for the station wagon, where I lay down on the backseat with tears and spit rolling off the gray vinyl. I cried so long, I forgot why I was crying and fell asleep.
    When I woke up, it was dark. The family get-together was still going strong, so I climbed out of the car and walked home. The lights were on; Jamie was already there. I opened the screen door and headed to my room. I was hungry again, but it wasn’t worth the effort to scare something up.
    I lay on my bed, searching under my covers for my Casper the Ghost doll. Pulling him up by his arm, I could feel a hole torn in his fur and some fluff poking out. Granda would have to sew it for me. I pounded down his stomach, making a dip to lay my head in.
    Hearing the station wagon pull up, I wondered if Mom would look in on me. She didn’t. Becky came in, tossed a sweater onto her bed, and threw me a disgusted look. I had ruined their day again, by making a scene, by causing Dad to get mad, by so many things I didn’t understand. I was ashamed and angry.
    When I heard Dad open the tailgate of the station wagon, I got up and looked out the window. He pulled his Bell + Howell Super Eight movie projector and his fold-up home-movie screen out of the back. Dad must have shown movies at Mammaw’s. I wondered what I’d missed.
    I lay back down.
    I closed my eyes, but just as I was drifting off, images from Dad’s collection flickered through my head: a tornado demolishing Willard Bank’s outhouse; a train explosion in Dunreath; my uncle Ernie in black rubber fire boots up to his hips wading through a flood near Pattonville, waving at the camera.
    I sat straight up.
    Maybe Dad had filmed Sarah Keeler’s accident. Hers was huge compared to a cow being hit by a Plymouth.
    Dad could hear an ambulance, police siren, or fire truck from a dozen blocks away, and when he heard one, he followed it. Lucky for him, he didn’t have to strain his ears because the police and fire department were within one block of his store. He never missed anything.
    I bet he was there, and if he was there, I bet he filmed it. My heart was racing as I wondered how I could find out.
    I heard the screen door slam shut. I jerked my pink quilt up over my shoulders and tried to quiet my breathing. If he was still mad at me, I didn’t want him knowing I was awake.
     
    The next morning I walked into our yellow-and-white kitchen in a plaid skirt and bare feet. Mom was in a good mood. “It’s about time you got in here,” she said, dumping a spoonful of white sugar across the top of my oatmeal. She was pretending I hadn’t spent yesterday sobbing in the back of the car. She was good at pretending.
    I walked into