The long-held consensus among the Grown Price Children is that, because I was the oldest, I always got my way. Maybe they’re confusing me with somebody else. If I remember correctly, we all got our behinds beat when we did something wrong; but because I was the oldest, I was the one who usually got punished when they screwed up. Mama and Daddy held me accountable, which I never did think was fair. Like that time Lewis lit a fire in the dryer. I couldn’t leave the house for two weekends in a row. “You shoulda kept a closer eye on him. I left you in charge.” And then that time he put the car in neutral and it rolled out into the street and blocked traffic and we couldn’t find the key or push it back uphill and Mama and Daddy got on my case even though I was in the bathroom washing my hair when it happened. “Lewis don’t know how to drive. He ain’t but eight years old. So what was he doing in the damn car anyway?” I wanted to scream back: “Am I supposed to have eyes out the back of my goddamn head?” But I wish I would’ve acted like I wanted to raise my voice and talk back. I wouldn’t be here now. And how about that time Charlotte fed Lewis and Janelle dog food and put them in the doghouse? Who had to swallow a teaspoon of Alpo and then get on my knees and mop and wax every inch of hardwood flooring in the whole house? Charlotte told Mama I made her do it.

For entrées, please consider starting with: Grilled Curry Chicken Brochettes lightly marinated in exotic spices and cooked on the grill; your guests have a choice of: Filet Mignon Brochettes seasoned with sea salt, garlic, and fresh herbs and grilled on an open fire, or Fire Roasted Lamb Alibaba, brochettes of tender marinated lamb. To accompany these entrées, my chefs will prepare: Butter and Herb Seasoned Couscous, garnished with French petits pois and chick-peas; and, for dessert: West African Bread Pudding, flavored with cinnamon, cardamom, and saffron, complemented by brandy crème anglaise. And if you’d like, I can make a luscious Pistachio Birthday Cake that might make him marry you in the morning.

Anyway, I’m flying to Vegas tomorrow, I don’t care what Mama says. Asthma is serious. People die from it. I don’t even want to think about what I’d do—what we’d all do—if one of these times Mama didn’t make it to ICU. Thank God, Lewis won’t be there. It means there’ll be less drama. Unless somehow by Morse code he found out. Then again, maybe he got his disability check, or got one of his dumb women to lend him some money, and he’s on a Greyhound right now. Lewis loves buses. As for Charlotte, although I’m not convinced that her lesbian comments weren’t said out of malice, I can forgive her. Mama tried to clean it up by saying that Charlotte said it like she was joking. But Charlotte doesn’t joke about anything. Everybody knows that. I still hope she comes.