Free Between Friends by Kristy Kiernan Page A

had certainly considered myself something of an expert on what constituted a good family.
    “They let you do things because you’d proven yourself reliable and responsible,” I said. “You worked at the store from the time you were ten; you saved your money; you made good grades; you made good choices, I’d like to think, in friends.”
    She snorted at that. “Well, I guess I did at that. Sorry. Benny’s been a bear lately, and I’m feeling a little frazzled this week.”
    “Me too,” I said, trying to give her an understanding smile, but puzzled by the pained look on her face.
    “What’s going on?” I asked, and she laughed and shook her head.
    “I’m supposed to be asking you that,” she said, then gave the house an appraising look. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up and start downing some wine. I’m feeling like we’ve done enough work, how about you?”
    “I thought you’d never ask.”
    I got in the shower, and Ali passed various potions and unctions in to me, directing me as to what part of my body they were to be used on. At one point I smelled like a pine-infused mango with lemon zest, but still, it was lovely to feel taken care of.
    “Here,” she said, talking over the patter of the shower and handing in a white device. When I took it from her, I realized it was vibrating and nearly dropped it in surprise. There was cream on one end.
    “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I called from behind the curtain.
    Ali pulled a bit of the shower curtain back and looked at me disapprovingly, but she was unable to keep from laughing, too.
    “It’s for your face , Cora. My God, where have you been for the past five years? It’s microdermabrasion. Just rub it around on your face.”
    She let the shower curtain drop, and I applied it to my face, still giggling.
    “And try to not get any in your eyes or your mouth,” she called to me, making us both laugh again.
    When I finally got out of the shower, microdermabraded, deeply conditioned, and loofahed until I tingled, I had to laugh at Ali’s disheartened face.
    “What? You thought I’d look better, didn’t you?” I asked with a grin.
    “You look great,” she said, but I’d seen her face. I believe dismay was the predominant emotion, though it was lightly tinged with concern.
    “We should get massages this week,” she said brightly, and I could see her mentally cataloging the procedures I’d need to have done in order to look myself again. She was probably thinking about lymph node-draining rubdowns, toxin-releasing wraps, and all manner of luxuries that weren’t going to do a thing.
    I wanted to reassure her that it was merely an incurable disease I had, just to make her feel better about her ministrations’ lack of power to transform me.
    “You want to go up with me tomorrow?” I asked, surprising myself.
    Her eyes widened. “I have to open the store,” she hedged.
    This was an old tug-of-war between us. “You know, people actually ask me to take them flying. I’m trusted, sought out, beloved for my safety record.”
    “How ’bout I belove you for staying on the ground?”
    I turned my head upside down and rubbed my hair dry, and Ali pointed to the low stool we used to sit on to apply makeup. I sat and rubbed lotion on my arms—the one beauty regimen I’d embraced in recent years, trying to combat my dry, itchy PKD skin—while Ali started running a comb through my hair.
    If I didn’t look in the mirror, we could have been fourteen again. She gently worked out tangles and then began tugging my hair into a French braid.
    “Come on, Al. Go for a ride with me?”
    She avoided my eyes in the mirror. “Maybe.”
    “What are you afraid of?”
    “Crashing in a ball of fire.”
    “That’s all?”
    “Crashing in the Everglades.”
    “Uh-huh. Anything else?”
    “Crashing on I-75.”
    “I’m sensing a theme here.”
    “The crashing part?”
    “Yes, that seems to come up a lot.”
    “As will my lunch if I get in one