When DiDi was finally all showered up and squeaky clean and had her hair pulled back so tight not one curl could even think about getting out, we headed down to the street, where our car was parked.
You can probably guess that I was just about thrilled at the idea of Mace, Trip, and all the parents at the soccer game getting a look at the Blue Bomb. Like I said before, I figured with a million dollars, it was time for an upgrade, and it wasn’t like I was asking for a solid-gold limo with a diamond steering wheel.
Back home, Lori had this really cute little car that I loved. She called it The Bug. It was bright yellow, and whenever we needed to start it, I’d sit in the front and start her up while Lori and DiDi pushed from the back. When the engine caught, they’d scream and run, run, run to catch up with me. I was never supposed to brake or we’d have to start all over again. Then I’d slide over to shotgun (which is what you call the seat next to the driver) and DiDi or Lori would jump into the driver’s seat. After we won that million dollars, I begged DiDi to get us a bright-yellow convertible—just like The Bug. Only a brand-new one, so she wouldn’t have to push it every time we wanted to go somewhere.
“The Blue Bomb got us here and we’re going to keep her,” DiDi announced. “Besides, have you seen the price of gas? We don’t need a new car. The Blue Bomb is just for emergencies.”
I didn’t really think a soccer game and tailgate party was an emergency.
“Good stuff coming through!” DiDi winked at the girls. “And I’m not talking about the fancy tea sandwiches! C’mon and pile in, little chickadees—kick the door. Don’t worry, Haven, honey—just haul back and really kick it! Allie and Haven, meet the Blue Bomb!”
“It’s so cool!” said Allie.
“I wish we had a car like this,” Haven said. “Ours is so… boring.”
“Really?” I said. It was just the Blue Bomb. Though I guess it was pretty cute with those headlight eyes and silver smile.
“Why are you so surprised?” said DiDi. “The Bomb is a real classic, and these girls have taste. Now, if you all will hold on to the basket with the goodies, we’re off! Allie Girl, you are in charge of the music!”
Allie started trying to figure out the buttons of the radio, pushing them in and hearing all these funny stations.
Then a twangy voice came on, sounding like it was backed up by a whole church choir.
“Stop!” I said. “DiDi, that’s your song—that’s Mama’s song.” I couldn’t see DiDi’s face, because I was in the back, but her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.
It’s funny how sometimes eyes don’t match voices.
“It sure is, but the girls don’t want to hear it—Allie, sweetie, find something you like.”
“No,” I said. “I want to hear Mama’s song. Allie, turn it up.”
Haven looked a little uncomfortable, but Allie reached for the volume. “Was your mom famous? Is this her singing?”
“No, honey,” said DiDi, “it’s just the song that Mama and I were named after. It’s called ‘Delta Dawn.’”
The Blue Bomb hummed along as we sat and listened.
We listened as that girl sang sweet and sorrowful.
Clear and true.
Yodeling out the curly tips of the notes till you were just about ready to cry.
Afterward, we were all quiet.
Haven sat back as the song ended. “She sounded pretty, but also sort of lonely.”
“Is that what D.D. stands for, DiDi?” asked Allie. “Delta Dawn?”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Why’d you change? Don’t you like your name?”
“Well, a name like Delta Dawn is a lot to live up to, honey. Top country song and all. Sometimes it’s just easier to go by a good old regular name.”
Allie cocked her head a little to the side. “I liked the song and I like the name Delta Dawn, but I think I like DiDi better.”
In the rearview mirror, I noticed that DiDi’s eyes matched her voice again when she said, “You know what? I like DiDi better, too.”