Free Ask Anybody by Constance C. Greene Page A

challenging look, daring me to disagree.
    â€œI never heard her,” I said, playing it safe. “And I never saw her either, so I can’t really say.”
    â€œOnce we were in a diner and this man came right up to her and asked her for her autograph. Thought she was Dolly Parton.”
    â€œThat so?” I said in the way Maine people have when they don’t want to commit themselves.
    â€œYeah, that’s so.” Nell mimicked me.
    I peered down the hill, hoping the bus would come soon.
    â€œYou’re some tough cookie,” Nell said to me.
    â€œI am?” I’d have to think about whether I liked that or not.
    â€œWe’re a lot alike.” Nell smiled at me so I knew her mood had changed and she was feeling friendly. I felt flattered when she said that. I don’t know why, I just did.
    â€œWhat makes you say that?” I asked her.
    She shrugged. “In this life you watch out for numero uno . That’s me. Number one. That’s you too. You watch out for yourself. That’s the only way to make it in this world. Be numero uno and you’ve got it made.”
    The bus finally came. As it bounced and swayed toward school, Nell’s words kept going through my head. Numero uno . Number one. Watch out for yourself. We’re a lot alike.
    Was that true? I wondered. And if it was, was that good?

14
    Rowena’s mother changed her mind. She says we can’t have her fur coat for our yard sale. Not if we’re going to charge only two dollars for it. She’s insulted, Rowena says. That coat was a present from her mother and father when she graduated from high school. It was very beautiful and cost a lot of money back then.
    Even if it’s old, it’s worth more than two dollars, Rowena’s mother says. You can’t put a price on sentimental things, she says, and she’s sentimental about that coat. We asked Rowena what her mother thought was a fair price for her fur coat.
    â€œTen dollars,” Rowena said, blushing. It wasn’t her fault her mother changed her mind.
    Nell snapped her fingers. “I got it!” she shouted. “We hang the fur coat out in front, so’s the wind catches it, swings it back and forth. Everybody’ll notice it then. It’s a come-on. Lure the big spenders. They see it swaying there in the breeze from a distance, how do they know it’s got the mange?”
    â€œIt does not have the mange,” Rowena said indignantly. “You haven’t even seen it. How do you know what it’s got?”
    â€œI figure your mother didn’t graduate from high school yesterday,” Nell said. Rowena got all red and opened her mouth, but before she could get herself worked up, Nell said, “Today’s our dump day. My uncle says he’s going there, he’ll take us.”
    â€œWhich uncle?” I asked her. I hoped it was the one with the spread out West and all the horses. It seemed to me he’d be more interesting than the one who drove the egg truck. But you never could tell.
    Uncle Joe drove. He had kind of a nice face, all sort of red and bristly, and I liked his eyes, which were the size of dimes and very blue. He took the back way. We rode the ruts the winter had left in the road as if the pickup were a boat on stormy seas. Up and down, down and up we went. Uncle Joe sang to liven things up. “This old heap had a radio,” he said, “I wouldn’t bother. But I got to have music wherever I go.” So he sang songs I’d never heard before, at the top of his lungs. He drove slowly so that Nell’s brothers, trotting alongside, could keep up with the truck.
    â€œThey don’t ride in cars if they can help it,” Nell explained. “Makes ’em throw up. You ever been in a car with three people, all of ’em throwing up? All at the same time?”
    I said no, I didn’t think I ever had.
    â€œIt’s fierce,” Nell said.