Cara manned a booth from the Leadership Institute at a home school convention
here in Richmond Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. I came home early on Friday
from work because Ken needed me to Fed-ex something. Cara called soon after
I got home. I agreed to meet her at her hotel in Midtown.

We went out to eat at the Olive Garden at the YLS’s expense. After I put a
guilt trip on her about the tip she left, we drove “in search of a bar” but
ended up at Books-a-million instead. Somehow we ended up in the art section.
“Dali!” I cry, spotting a propped up figure jutting out from a shelf. Cara
makes a face and expresses her disgust. “_I_ like… Monet!” she grabs a
Impressionism off the shelf. We find a common ground in Geogia O’Keefe as
one of the store employees asks, “Can I help you find anything?” “No, we’re
just browsing, thanks,” answers my friend. “Well, we’re closing in a couple
of minutes,” the clerk notifies us, emphatically. We exit the building, give
up on the bar, and make our way back to the hotel. We read USA Today before
going to bed. I forgot my p.j.’s, and I’m out of clean underwear.

In the morning, Cara dresses professionally. I throw on a denim skirt and a
pair of tennis shoes. I flip from Headline News to CNN while waiting for her
to finish showering. We share a paper, eating the complementary breakfest
downstairs. A cure for AIDS is discovered. We check out of the room and go
in her car to the convention center.

We’re early. We sit down in a couple of chairs and talk while watching
people walk by. Whenever someone acts interested, I shut up, and Cara goes
into action, trying to sell home schoolers on the Leadership Institute. Over
the course of the day, people pick the climax of whatever story I’m telling
to appear at the booth. I tell about 20 half stories. I forget what they
are after they leave.

There aren’t too many people wandering by the booth this early in the day.
We leave the booth unattended and go look at book tables. Cara points out
all the Christian romances she read growing up. I get excited at the
fantasies. We return to the booth. Cara had taught given a workshop on
Thursday about instilling leadership in your child. A guy who had attended
it, asks if she’d like to join his family for lunch. He has a daughter who’s
considering going to college when she’s 16 too. He comes back later
apologizing that he has to retract his offer because of scheduling conflicts
but asks her to talk to his daughter anyway. The daughter and mother join
him later. Cara starts talking to the dad and daughter. The mother has by
now sat in Cara’s empty seat. I pull up my chair and talk to her. I tell
her about my experiences home schooling, taking the SAT, ACT, GED, my first
reactions to college life, my advice about math, and generally encourage her.
They eventually leave. The mom thanks me. Cara and I leave for lunch.
“Gosh, I love doing that!” I exclaim to her, “I really love that!”

I eat my fried rice, sweet and sour and cashew chicken exclusively with
chopsticks. After lunch, Cara stops at a photo booth. “You want to?” she
grins. “You,” I observe, “are crazy.” “Oh, come on; it’ll be fun!” I climb
into the tiny compartment after her. I read the instructions out loud while
she attempts to cram a couple of crumpled bills into the money slot: “‘Pick
background.’ What background do we want, red or blue?” “Blue. This one
won’t go in there; maybe this one…” “‘Adjust seat hight until eye level
with green light. Insert money…’” “There! Smile!” The screen ahead of
us explodes in a white flash. “We’ve got to do a crazy one!” Cara insists.
She sticks her tongue out. I cross my eyes. FLASH. I move my hand with
fingers extended into a V behind her head. She ducks. FLASH. We just plain
grin. FLASH. We groan and blindly extricate ourselves from the compartment.
“‘Pictures will be delivered here in five minutes.’” We wait. I treat Cara
to a gumball. Her mouth turns blue. Mine, green. Several minutes later,
the booth spits out four prints. “Here they are! Wait, these aren’t us…”
And they aren’t. There are two photos of a black lady and then two with her
and two kids. Not us. We wait four more minutes by my watch I pull out of
my pocket to check occasionally. Nothing. Cara is bummed. We walk back to
the convention center.

At 5:30, Cara demolishes the booth (her booth, not the photo booth), packs it
into a small plastic container on wheels, and we trot off toward the parking
lot. She drops me off at my car still at the hotel. I get home with only
one wrong turn and two missed ones.