Monique dashes off and is back before I take a breath. There’s $132 in my wallet. I give them forty apiece. Their eyes light up.

“Thanks, Ma!” Monique says.

“Wow, yeah, thanks,” Tiffany says.

“I’m covered,” Trevor says, refusing his, and his sisters look at him like he’s crazy, especially after I take it back.

“You’re welcome. If I ain’t here when y’all get back, I’ll probably be making my rounds at the Laundromats. Now, go on, get out of here. And have fun.” As soon as I hear that door slam and the car back out the driveway, I feel myself grinning. I’m so glad they’re gone I don’t know what to do. I don’t care how much it cost to get rid of ’em. Sometimes I ask myself why I had to have three whole kids when one probably woulda been plenty. It’s too much work, too many different personalities to deal with, and, hell, don’t add a husband to the mix.

I pour a little Clorox in the water, add some Cheer and Biz, and then throw in three or four handfuls of white clothes. It must be about three o’clock. It’s definitely Saturday, and I feel entitled to something that’ll give me a little more enthusiasm, so I walk over to our little makeshift bar and pour myself a Tanqueray and tonic. When I get upstairs, the girls’ room is a disaster of pastels: clothes, socks, towels, sheets, panties—all kinds of shit is everywhere except where it should be.

Trevor’s door, as usual, is closed, and even though he’s got a lock on it he don’t know that I know where he hides the spare key. He always locking hisself out, and I saw him get it from under the cushion of this old fat chair he said he would re-cover one day. Sure enough, it’s here. I set my drink down on the floor, but as soon as I do, the piling of the carpet is so high the glass tips over. Shit. I’ll clean it up later.

I never knew there was so many different shades of blue. Trevor painted this room hisself, and ain’t nothing out of place. Nothing. He makes his bed every morning, even if he’s running late. He shares the bathroom with the girls but keeps his towel and washcloth on a hook he put right next to his closet. He made some kind of giant picture which ain’t nothing but cutouts of men and women from them magazines and pasted ’em so close together you can’t even see the corkboard. He calls this his “Fashion Collage” or something. I don’t get the point, really. He’s had that same dresser since he was ten, and it’s looking like it. I don’t even know if it’s real wood or not, but he keeps it polished. His cologne bottles are on a swivel thing, and all his jewelry in a blue velvet box. I stand here for a minute wondering if this really looks like a boy’s room. It do, sort of. Ain’t nothing frilly about it. But, then again, there’s all different kinds of homosexuals, from what I understand.