It did. I didn't have the heart to tell her we probably would too before we got out of this mess. And, no. I don't do p.o.o.p puns.

"Where's Manny's flashlight? Did it make the trip?" I asked.

"It's down here." Keelie grabbed it and handed it to me.

"Okay. We can do this one of two ways," I said. "Crawl out the bottom. Or kick the top off with our feet and exit that way."

"You already know my feelings," Keelie said.

I did. And I shared them.

"We...just...have...to...get turned around," I said, trying to maneuver around the capsule-like confines. It took us another five minutes to get in position.

"Oh, G.o.d. It stinks like s.h.i.t at this end," Keelie said.

I had the good sense not to point out the obvious.

"On the count of three, start kicking," I instructed.

"Oh, G.o.d. The stench! It absolutely reeks! I'm gonna be sick!"

"You are not puking in this Porta-Potty. Hold your breath and, on three, kick as hard as you can. One. Two. Three!"

"Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

On the tenth kick, the top of the kybo flew off. Sheets of rain drenched me. I didn't care. I sucked in the fresh air like a drowning man pulled from a river.

"Oh, thank G.o.d. Thank G.o.d!" Keelie said. "It's lovely! Just lovely!"

A puddle of water began to seep into the kybo. It quickly became a river.

"We'd better get out of here," I said, grabbing hold of the top of the toilet and pulling myself out. "Be careful!" I said, shining a light on the top. "There are screws sticking out!"

I helped Keelie out of the kybo.

"Oh, my lord! Look at that!" Keelie pointed at the line of Porta-Potties. They looked like a drunk had tried to stack dominoes. Some were upright. Some tipped part way. Some toppled over. "Wow! Look at all that water!"

Where moments before it had been dry, a river of water now crashed its way down the hill. Dislocated tents, swept away by the rushing water, rested against the row of toilets.

I gasped. "If we'd been in the tent when that water came through-"

I stopped.

Oh, no!

"Dixie!"

No sooner had the name pa.s.sed my lips, than an unG.o.dly howl, the likes of which I'd only heard in werewolf movies and from the occasional drunken cowboy, ripped through the soggy rain-filled air.

"Owwoo!"

I trained my flashlight on the rushing water, certain a swamped coyote or displaced badger had been flushed out of their beds.

Oh. My. G.o.d!

My beam hit the approaching object head on. I gasped, and watched in horror as Dixie rode the waves on my bargain bas.e.m.e.nt tent like a chubby kid on a water ride at the amus.e.m.e.nt park.

Is it a bird?

Is it a plane?

Nope.

It's the full-speed-ahead USS Dixie Doodle Dandy aiming for an open berth at the Port o' Potties.

I closed my eyes and braced for impact.

How do you say, "braking bad"?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

"I think it's a good likeness? Do you think it's a good likeness, Tressa?"

I squinted at the drawing my gammy stuck in front of my face.

"It's Joe and me. It was one of them character sketches."

I nodded. "Those are definitely characters," I said, taking my sungla.s.ses off to get a better look.

"Tressa Jayne! Your eyes! You look like one of them vampires with the bloodshot peepers. And look at the dark circles! Joe, come look at Tressa. She looks like a zombie."

My gammy needed to make up her mind. Was I Vampirella or Tressa, Zombie Queen? After all, we're talking two very different cla.s.sifications of the undead here.

Joe walked up and took his own sungla.s.ses off. He gave me the once-over like my gammy does in the mirror before she leaves the house.

"She looks the same to me," Joe said.

Ho, ho, ho.

I knew I wasn't looking my best. I looked like I'd either spent the night battling the walking dead, or had been recruited by them. And "Gampy" Joe knew it good and well, too.

"Nice of you to say, Joe," I said, in no shape to defend myself in a battle of wits with the clever and cunning senior Townsend. After the previous night's "Toilets and Tents Soiree," and a miserably, rain-soaked ride that morning, the second I'd put the kickstand down on the tandem that afternoon, I hightailed it home, took a long, hot shower, and flopped into bed.

If my gammy and her new hubby hadn't come knock-knock-knocking on my door, I'd still be there, sleeping the sleep of the dead...ish. As it was, I planned on an early night-hopefully in the company of a certain ranger I knew and l.u.s.ted over.

I hadn't seen Rick since I'd pedaled into town. By design. Come on. Tell me you'd want the guy who set your spurs to jingle-jangle-jingling to see you looking like something that crawled up out of a grave. Even worse, I'd most likely smelled the part.

"So, what do you think about our picture? Kenny gave us a special deal. He said cuz you were friends and all."

"I wouldn't exactly call us friends," I said. "But Kenny was a sport and gave me an interview. He also played for us at the volleyball match."

"You call that a match? More like blood sport," Joe said. "Especially for Dixie Daggett."

I took a deep breath. Nope. I wasn't gonna do it. I wasn't gonna take the bait.

"It looks like us, don't it?" Gram asked.

I took the drawing from her. It did. In a way.

"It's good, isn't it?" Gram pressed.

It was. Sort of.

"Well, what do you think?"

"Yeah. It's great, Gram," I said.

"Show her the other one," Joe said, and I felt the pavement move under my feet.

"The other one?"

"Oh, Joe! You spoiled the surprise! I was gonna give it to her for Christmas!"

The ghost of Christmas gifts past sent a shudder of unease through me.

"I'm not much on surprises, Gram-" Or unexpected presents that put a "trouble for Tressa" twinkle in Joe's eyes.

"You're gonna love this one!" Gram said, and pulled a second drawing out of her canvas bag. "It's an oldie, but a goodie!"

She motioned for Joe to help. He took one side of the paper and they began to unroll it.

I felt a throbbing in my right eye.

It was me. The "me" from my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad senior picture.

"Surprise!" Joe said.

Oh. G.o.d. In. Heaven. This was worse than the hobo Halloween costume jigsaw puzzle gift I received over and over again from a totally psycho secret Santa.

"Do you like it?" Gram asked. "You like it, don't you? It's you, after all. So what's not to like?"

What's not to like? Well, for starters, my creepy, phony smile that made me look like a serial killer. And there was my choice of eye makeup. Gram wanted me to go with blue to match my eyes resulting in-I learned too late-a fashion faux pas on steroids. And, finally, we had "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride" hair. Given that description, I figure that's all I have to say on that subject. My gammy couldn't have selected a worse picture for Kenny to draw from if she'd tried.

But it's the thought that counts, right?

"Wow! Look at that! It is me!" I gushed, regardless of how many times I planned to deny it in the future.

"So. What do you think?" Joe asked. "It's a decent likeness, don't you agree?"

I grunted.

"I didn't know you and I have the same eyes," Gram said.

I frowned. "That's because we don't."

"We must. Both our pictures have the same eyes."

I braved another look at my face and checked Gram's out.

"You're right. They do look the same. That's odd." Odd because our eyes are nothing alike. I got the Blackford eyes. Grandma's baby blues came from her mother's side of the family.

"Maybe them's the only eyes Kenny knows how to draw," Gram suggested.

A one size fits all peeper?

"What kind of artist does that?" I asked.

"A starving one," Joe quipped.

I took a closer look at my "surprise."

"Something else is off, too," I said and bit my lip as I considered the drawing. "I've got it! It's the nose. That is not my nose."

"Whose is it?" Gram asked.

I shook my head. "I don't know. It's just too-"

"Small? Perky? Cla.s.sical?" Joe asked.

"Conventional," I finished.

"Oh? So, you're an art expert now?" Joe asked.

I shook my head. "I'm an expert on me. And I'm just saying, that is not my nose."

But it was an improvement, so who was I to complain?

"You like it, Tressa?" Gram looked up at me, her eyes bright with antic.i.p.ation.

"Of course. I love it."