Trevor done put some kind of perm in his hair, ’cause it’s all wavy and brushed forward. Looking like a black Beatle. He’s worse than the girls when it comes to fooling with his hair. And even though he’s got the scoop on the fashion scene in Paris and New York, he dresses like what the kids call a “nerd.” He’s wearing navy-blue Dockers, a white turtleneck underneath his yellow, white, and blue Nautica jacket and navy suede boots.

I haven’t had the nerve to just come out and ask him, and Al says leave him alone, he ain’t hurting nobody, and if he is you can’t blame him for it, ’cause they say it’s in their genes or something. But nobody on either side of our family’s got these kind of genes, at least not that I know of. He even got the girls giving him manicures and pedicures. Made ’em swear they wouldn’t tell, but I ain’t blind. His nails look better than mine, his heels smoother than most women’s. Just the thought of him kissing on some other boy—and Lord knows I don’t wanna think of nothing else they might do—makes me wanna gag.

“Get out the mirror, Tiffany,” I say, and pick up a pair of panties that smell too strong for girls their age, and when I look closer I see a dark-red stain where ain’t supposed to be one. I ball ’em up and toss ’em on they own separate pile. How come she didn’t say nothing to me? I’m her mama. I’m supposed to be the first to know this. Who told her what to do? And when did it happen? I certainly don’t feel like embarrassing her right now, so I just keep my mouth shut.

Apparently, Miss Tiffany is on a Cindy Crawford kick today, ’cause she’s wearing a blue “North Carolina” baseball cap turned backwards with a whole bunch of reddish-brown hair that ain’t hardly hers flowing past her shoulders. Her jacket is powder blue; Monique’s is cotton-candy pink. Tiffany’s is zipped all the way up to the throat, which mean she ain’t wearing nothing close to no turtleneck underneath it, but I ain’t in the mood for arguing and I want all three of ’em to hurry up and get the hell outta here. Al left yesterday on his fishing trip, and even though I was mad at first, I was surprised at how relieved I felt not five minutes after he was gone. Now, when these kids leave, the whole house will be mine, something that hardly ever happens.

They should be gone at least three or four hours, which should give me plenty of time to look under beds, go through closets, and empty out overstuffed drawers. I do this two or three times a year to get rid of things they done either outgrown or just never got around to wearing. Some of the stuff needs to be thrown out, but these the clothes and shoes I usually look at twice, ’cause like they say, one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. I usually give some to the church and take the rest down to one of the shelters for them women with kids. I ain’t chintzy when it comes to giving away me and Al’s stuff either, but I already did him and me this morning.