The first time I remember picking my nose was on the way to grandma's. We were in the grey station wagon. In the back seat a strip of duct tape ran down the center. My sister and I were instructed to stay on our own sides. Or, rather, "let's see who can NOT cross the tape." I remember a lot of traffic. We should of taken the FDR, Dad slammed his fist on the wheel. Mom's perfume filled the car. It was the type of perfume that smells neither sweet nor musky, but vague, full of fashion. It filled my lungs and head and made me naceous. I think it had the same effect on my sister, because when she saw me wipe the booger on the front seat -- "Ali picked her nose and wiped it on the seat." "Did not. She's lying." -- her eyes rolled back, she sucked in some air, grabbed the collar of her dress, and threw up at my feet. The warm vomit in my shoes and the smell of the perfume made my throat tighten. "Dad," I reached for his arm, I reached to tell him to pull over. I leaned up on the seat, but couldn't get the words out. Instead, I threw up, splattering him and mom. "Pull over!" mom barked. We stopped at an abandoned park on the West Side Highway. My sister remembers my mom slapping us. I remember being thrown against the car, but last night, when we told her this story she swore, "I never hit you girls. Never."
		Copyright © 1997 Alison Dorfman.