She’s not talking today, and when Shanice doesn’t feel like talking, nothing I say or do can make her. She can be an evil little wench, just like her Granny Vy at times. They’re cut from the same cloth. Stubborn as hell.

George, who is sitting on the passenger side, dare not say anything to her when she’s like this. He knows better. She’s been so short with him that I had to ask him not to question, criticize, or chastise her outside of my presence. The reasons stem from that time Shanice went and told that lie on him to Mama, and ever since then I’ve been watching his every move—much too close for George’s comfort—which has also created a circle of constant tension in our household. He doesn’t have two words to say to Mama when she calls, but this of course is because he claimed she threatened him. Knowing Mama, she probably did, but he wouldn’t tell me what she said. Whatever it was, George doesn’t answer the phone anymore when it rings.

“If you eat too many of those things you won’t want your lunch,” George is saying to Shanice.

“She’s fine,” I say, as we turn in to the Sizzler. We’re treating Shanice to her favorite restaurant, since today and tomorrow are some sort of in-service days for teachers and she gets out at twelve-thirty.

When we get out of the car, my daughter walks up ahead. She’s filling out too fast. If I’m not mistaken, the cheeks of her behind are peeking out where her jeans are slit. She’s in a tight tube top, but thank God she’s not filling a B-cup yet. At least I don’t think she is. She could be me, twenty years ago. At thirteen, I was dangerous, and at fifteen, according to Mama, lethal. I had the body of a grown woman. At thirty-five, I don’t look too shabby. A lot of people swear I’m twenty-eight or twenty-nine.

Of the three girls in my family, I’m the smallest. I should say, the most fit. I’m the only one who works out, but I got the habit being married to Jimmy. He was not only a high-school track coach but, in his day, a decathlete. He believed in taking care of his body, and it certainly rubbed off on me. I’ve been trying to persuade Mama and my sisters—particularly Charlotte’s big butt—to at least try walking. But they’re too lazy. Paris has been lucky. She looks good in her clothes, but I know she must be getting soft under those jeans, because she doesn’t do anything with any consistency except cook. Her mind’s on it but her heart isn’t, otherwise she’d find time to fit it in. I don’t care what’s going on, I make sure I get to the gym. I’m even entertaining the thought of becoming a personal trainer, but under the circumstances, of course, I wouldn’t dream of doing it right now. We’ll see how things evolve over the next few weeks. Regardless, I still might take some certification classes if this real-estate thing doesn’t work out. I believe it’s best to leave the door for options open.