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because we haven’t seen her since June. That’s when we moved to New York, after a whole lot of hushed phone conversations and long-distance screaming. Personally, I think CIA negotiations for hostages went smoother than our parents’ dee-vorce. Oh, well—at least now that it’s over, Daddy and Ma are polite and civil to each other on the phone.
    “Big Momma is expecting us at her house, but I told her y’all probably wanted to hang out at home for a little while first,” Ma says.
    “I know Big Momma can’t wait to see us, but we do need a bubble bath!” Angie chuckles.
    “You know how Big Momma is. She wants to see her ‘babies.’ Egyptian and India are waiting for y’all too.”
    Egyptian and India are our cousins—Uncle Skeeter’s children from his first marriage. They spend a lot of time over at Big Momma’s now that their father is living there. Uncle Skeeter is a grown man, but Ma says he seems to have fallen on hard times. That’s why he moved back into Big Momma’s house.
    “Wait till y’all see the outfit Skeeter put together for the Karma’s Children benefit,” Ma says, chuckling. She doesn’t realize that she has just opened up an old wound for me and Angie. “He went to Born-Again Threads and bought himself some metallic purple bell-bottoms, and an even more ridiculous fedora—oh, and a red fake-fur jacket—”
    “Ma!” Angie says, chiding her.
    “Don’t ‘Ma’ me—just wait till you see Mr. Disco! I told him just because it’s a benefit for the homeless, doesn’t mean he has to
look
homeless!”
    Angie puts Her hand over her mouth and giggles. She can pretend she isn’t jealous of Karma’s Children all she wants. I
know
she is
just
as jealous as I am.
    “I don’t know if we’re gonna go to the benefit,” I blurt out.
    “Why not?” Ma asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “I told you, I’ll pay for the tickets.”
    The tickets for the Karma’s Children benefit concert are fifty dollars each. All the money is going to the Montgomery Homeless Shelter, which is in the worst part of Houston.
    Ma is still waiting for an answer, but then she figures it out all by herself. “Don’t tell me y’all are jealous of those girls, just ’cuz they’re famous now. You used to
love
them. I ’member that time when nobody knew who they were, and y’all wanted to go see them at the Crabcake Lounge. You cried for two days ’cuz I wouldn’t let you go!”
    “We were nine years old—that was a long time ago!” I grumble. “They aren’t any more talented than we are. Why should we go see
them
perform?”
    “You should be happy they’re doing well—that means
you
have a chance, too,” Ma says, in that tone of voice she uses when she’s giving us a lecture.
    We all get quiet, for what seems like hours. Then Angie asks Ma, “Do you think Big Momma will mind if we bring Porgy and Bess over to her house, so they can run around in her garden?”
    “I don’t know—you’d better call and ask her first,” Ma says hesitantly.
    “Ooo, wait till they get a hold of her strawberries!” Angie says, snickering.
    “Big Momma will have you in that garden on your hands and knees replanting fruits and vegetables till you’re ninety, if you don’t watch out,” Ma warns us.
    She pulls her Katmobile into our four-car garage, and it finally hits me:
We iz home!
    Once we’ve hauled all our things inside, I ask, “Ma, is it okay if we call Galleria and tell her we made it here?”
    “Who’s Galleria again?” Ma asks absentmindedly, clearing some plates off the dining room table.
    I can’t believe my eyes. This place is a
mess
. If we had left the house like this, she would have grounded Angie and me for the rest of our lives!
    “
Galleria Garibaldi
. She’s the leader of the Cheetah Girls—our singing group,” I say in a sarcastic tone, since Ma obviously doesn’t remember things that are important to
us
.
    “Oh, I don’t think you ever told me her name,” Ma