“You’re right. So that means it’s gonna take you a while to find the rule, huh. Well, I guess in the meantime, we should get this Carpet Denim on the road!” She waves her car keys, slips out the front door. “You coming? I’m excited. Are you excited? Are we doing this? God, we’re doing this. Mom and Dad, they would be so . . . wait. Wait. Ohmigod. Oh. My. God.”

I rush over to her, stricken with panic. “What? What’s happening? Is it the baby? Did your water, uh . . . I’ll get the overnight bag and, damn, are you okay? Do you need me to carry you to the car? But also, no offense, but I’m not sure I want any of that fluid on me, so maybe we can . . .”

“Whoa. Whoa. Easy, cowboy. Let’s take a deep breath, okay? Because you’re about to need it.” She grins, digs into her purse. Produces a circular piece of spectacularly ugly, bright-ass neon cotton. “Wait a minute, what do we have here? Is this . . . is this what I think it is?” She slips it snugly over her head and throws the biggest smile since the founding of our siblinghood. “Another incredibly awesome headband.”

“Wow, Whit. Wow. Please tell me you don’t have a whole package of those cheesy things?”

“So, I can’t tell you that, but I can do this . . .” She drops her hand back into her purse and pulls out another terrible headband. “Uh-oh, whaaaat, this one has your name all over it? How did that happen, hmmm.”

She flings the headband to me.

And sweet baby Jesus, she’s not lying.

This lime-green bordered, pink-polka-dotted, orange-hatched fashion atrocity literally has my name on it. Jamal, in gaudy gold thread, right in the center.

“What the actual hell, Whit? There’s no way you found a headband with Jamal on it at the store.” The lack of already-made personalized merchandise is an ongoing saga in my life. You could get Jack, Jordan, James. I’d even seen Trey dangling on a key chain at a rest stop. But never, ever Jamal. “You had these made, didn’t you? You are officially out of control.”

She laughs. “C’mon, J. We gotta be twins for the day.”

I sigh. Fit the headband around my forehead. “Happy?”

She claps excitedly. “Super happy.”

The doorbell rings.

I look at her. “You expecting someone?”

She pregnant-skips to our front door, swings it open with gusto.

And there stand Q and Autumn, back-to-back, their arms folded, posing like they’re shooting a nineties hip-hop album cover.

“Hiiiii,” they say in inspired unison.

“Somebody order a music video?” Autumn says.

“I’m starting to think the best thing about being friends again is this gal,” Q says, nodding to Autumn.

“Funny, I was just thinking that was the best thing about being Jamal’s girlfriend.”

“Gee, thanks, guys.”

Autumn’s breaking into the running man, Q joining her.