So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention in Atlantic City when their car breaks down in the middle of Amish Country. With no cell service and no way to call for help, they are at the mercy of their hosts. Thankfully, Rachelle's cousin, Tova, is able to come to their aid and bring Rachelle's car to them. But she brings along another surprise. Boo.
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I've got good instincts about people. My gut tells me if I should embrace or run like hell. Guess which signal I'm getting from Jane? She is probably one of the most annoying, self absorbed people I've ever met. She is also at the emotional maturity level of my seven year old grandson.

She called shotgun and I'm the driver so I can smell her industrial strength cologne and know a scent induced migraine is on the horizon. She is chewing gum, not quietly, nor politely, mind you. No, Jane is doing those little snaps and pops and her red stained lips are open and flapping.

It takes every ounce of strength not to slam on the brakes just to watch her head hit the dash board. Maybe that would shut her up for a few minutes. At least, I'd be amused for a few. But it isn't my car and I don't want Rachelle to have a coronary because of my inappropriate impulses.

"Hey, you guys want to hear my poetry?" Jane asks. She doesn't wait for an answer. No sir, she just pulls this big notebook out of her over sized bag and starts flipping through the pages. She giggles, clears her throat and starts reading.

I don't like hearing about sex, reading about it, or even seeing it on the screen. To me sex is very private. I value the sanctity of a physical relationship, just like the next person, but hearing words like throbbing, and plump moist whatevers, make bile slide into my throat quicker than syrup of ipecac.

I search out Rachelle in the rear view mirror. I hear the words of the Lord's prayer floating softly around the interior of the car. So, I know I'm not in hell. Darn close to it, with Dr. Ruth of bad pornographic poetry spouting off terribly metered shat.

"Okay, wow, maybe we should hold off on that one. Anything rated G or PG rated in that notebook?" Rachelle says, a forced smile on her face and in her voice.

A slight pout comes to the face of Shotgun Jane. "Sure. I don't see what the big deal is, she's a teenager. She's probably heard it all before," Jane mutters.

Apparently, she knows something about the Amish that Rachelle and I don't. My mind wanders to an Amish market where the guys with the weird Abe Lincoln beards are selling Amish porn. Miss November, clad in her flat shoes, gray dress and bonnet, milking a cow with a seductive smile on her face. I wander back upon hearing the title Screw Me Like You Mean It.

"Oh, you're still here," I whisper sadly to myself. It's gonna be a long ride.

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Malls used to bore me. I'm not a shopper unless its an art store or a book store, but I have never been so happy to turn into a mall parking lot in my life. The last twenty minutes were wonderfully quiet. Rachelle had to call her friend about Rebekah and demanded complete silence.

Rachelle pulled me aside to show me something in the trunk of the car and whispered that she would occupy Jane while I took Rebekah shopping. She handed me her credit card and said, "No limit. Get her what she needs first and then what she wants."

Rebekah and I walk into the mall and I watch as she takes it all in. The floors, the little trees and fountains. She looks up, I guess, to find where the piped in music is coming from. She looks at the people who pass by, the mothers with strollers, the couples holding hands. I realize she is doing the exact same thing I did that first day in Amish Country. This was a strange new world. There is a part of me that hopes she likes it, but a stronger part that prays she can resist the lure of it.

"Come on, let's find a Forever Twenty-one store. If they don't have it, it doesn't exist." I hook my arm through hers and guide her to the directory a few feet away.

The process of shopping for teenaged girl clothing is confusing for the most part. They want to fit in, to make a statement. But are they old enough to make some of those statements? I take her to the rack where the jeans are. "You want to be comfortable, sitting and not having the waistband dig into you. Also, gotta watch the butt crack. Some jeans will slide down and people can see your butt crack. Not a good look on some."

Rebekah nods, studying the various jeans. "May I try these?" she asks.

I nod, then look around for a top. There is a Snoopy and Woodstock t-shirt folded on the table beside me. "Here, take this. Snoopy is a classic."

I wander around, close enough to keep my eye on the dressing room, but I start looking for things for my girls. They aren't teenagers anymore, twenty-six and twenty-three to be exact, but I am filled with the memories of shopping here. Spending hours for them to find just the right ensemble. I miss it.

After about thirty minutes, Rebekah has two pair of jeans, three shirts, a pair of socks and a bunch of scrunchies for her hair. She even found an outfit that rivaled anything Rachelle would have picked out. I send a picture to Rachelle.

Now, we have to meet Rachelle and Jane in the food court. This Jane is a conundrum. She is extremely friendly and open. She has the manners of a spoiled brat, an obnoxious demeanor, and I don't trust her. But there has to be something good about her. Right?

That feeling in my gut starts again as I find them sitting at a table mid-court. Rachelle looks up and she has a distressed look.

I may have said this before, but it bears repeating, this is going to be a long trip.