“Oh, God, are you serious?” Rachel leaned out of the convertible and pointed to the sign hanging in the window. Blinking, sizzling, like it couldn’t quite rid itself of a pesky eyelash.

I yanked her down to her seat by the tail of her dark red brocade coat. She exploded with a yelp and crashed hard onto the faded white vinyl, just in time for a state trooper to cruise past us.

“For God’s sake, Rachel, sit down.” Monkey swerved into the righthand lane, bringing all 115 pounds of Rachel in my direction.

Down, down… I pictured gravity flinging the two of us out of the car and over the rusted, cracked, bruised pavement and the karmic retribution exacted.

Blessedly, none of that happened.

Rachel yanked something from underneath the folds of her dress. Her heavily madeup eyes scanned Monica’s heroin-induced scrawl. The mascara scrunched and down on Rachel’s eyelids with each rambling stroke.

As Iatched Rachel read the letter, Monica’s conversation flooded back to me.