Putting Makeup on Dead People Read Online Free

windows down. All the way. The air makes my face tingle, and I wonder if anyone will see me riding in Liz’s chocolate Jeep. On the dashboard, a little statue of a fat happy man bounces up and down on a suction cup, and I laugh at him.
    “That’s my Buddha,” Liz says. “He likes to go for rides.”
    “Didn’t he start a religion?”
    “If that’s not a ride, I don’t know what is.”
    I laugh and nod my head as the happy Buddha bounces.
    It turns out Liz does live pretty close to me. Her family’s house is in Oakwood, and mine’s just over the line in Kettering. I’m guessing Liz’s house is probably as cool as her car. Oakwood holds the distinction of being Dayton’s fancy suburb, with its own fancy supermarket and fancy shops where middle-aged women buy sequined walking outfits with their Gold American Express cards. Some parts of Kettering are fancy, but my part’s pretty normal suburban land. We live on Sherwood, which always makes me think that more exciting things should be happening there, involving forested escapades and surprise attacks from trees, but the most interesting thing at the moment is Mr. Grant’s new cherry-red riding lawn mower. Although, given the big smile on his face last weekend when he broke out his new ride, I guess that purchase did make him merrier than the average man.
    As we pull onto Sherwood, Liz says, “Thanks a lot for today. I’ve actually been a little lonely since we moved.”
    “No problem.” It feels so easy to be with her, and there are so many questions I want to ask, like, How can I one day be as cool as you are? Before I can stop myself, I ask a different one, “You want to come over?” And then I immediately regret this offer. What would someone like Liz do at my house? Watch Mom do craft projects or see how much black makeup Linnie can put on her face? I can’t remember the last time I had someone come over. Maybe Becky in the eighth grade? I don’t even know what people do at each other’s houses anymore, so I’m not sure how to do it right.
    Then a thought crosses my mind. Maybe she wants to hang out with me. Maybe she’s new in town and wants a friend, and maybe there’s not a right way to do it.
    “Can I?” Liz asks, and by the brightness in her eyes and voice, I know she means it, and otherwise I’ll be spending all of Friday night watching boring television with B, who’s home from college this week on spring break, or the incomprehensible Linnie, who plans to secretly dye her hair blue this evening. I’m not sure how long it will be a secret from Mom, but that’s Linnie’s problem.
    “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. I point to my house, where Mom’s in the front yard, holding a shovel and wearing a rolled-up bandana to restrain her blond curls. “That’s it. Um, my mom isn’t used to me having friends stop by, so I’m not sure what she’ll think.”
    “I’m not worried.” I’m pretty sure Liz doesn’t worry about anything. What she doesn’t know is that she’s about to meet the Wonder Woman of worrying, someone who worries about everything from dynamite to dust bunnies.
    Worrying may be the one thing Mom and I have in common, and mostly I worry that someone else in my family will die one day. I’m not so much concerned about the dust bunnies. So, otherwise, I’m not sure how we’re related. When we’re out and people don’t know she’s my mother, I like to joke that the Gypsies brought me. She looks more like, say, Heidi from the Alps, and I look more like, well, like Dad. Long brown hair, dark brown eyes, nose a little bigger than I’d like. And it’s not just looks. Dad was the one who got me, while Mom doesn’t seem to understand anything I do. Mom likes ketchup, and I like Frank’s RedHot sauce. I like metaphors; she likes the metric system.
    When Mom sees us pull up and catches the glare from the shiny Jeep, she covers her eyes.
    As Liz and I step out onto the driveway, Liz says to Mom,