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of madras on sale. It is all the rage out in California. The Beach Boys look groovy in their madras bermudas. Earlier this summer, the saleslady told me that madras is named after the town in India where they make it. The weird thing about madras is that it’sdesigned to bleed on purpose, just like girls.
    The credit department is upstairs, so I climb two steps at a time and go up to the sweet red-haired clerk. “Where’s your mama today?”
    “Oh, she’s working.” I pull out the twenty and slide it across the counter. “Will you put this against our account?”
    “Your mama pays every week, just like a tithe,” she says as she fills out the receipt.
    “She’s a meticulous woman, that’s for sure,” I say.
    “Well, please tell her Flossie asked about her.”
    “I certainly will.” I stuff the receipt into my pocket.
    I walk next door to the Midway Theater, hoping that Billy Ray is working. The kiddie matinee is
Born Free
, which I saw a few years ago. I’ll never forget Elsa, that poor lion cub whose mama got shot while trying to eat the game warden. I look through the glass door but don’t see anyone. I bang on it a few times and wait. No one comes. The movie doesn’t start for another hour.
    The smell of cinnamon and sugar pulls me to the bakery half a block away. I love the newspaper and magazine articles that hang in pretty white frames along the bright yellow walls. The first one is from the newspaper
The State
back in 1942, when the bakery won top prize for its Peanut Brittle Cake at the state fair.
    “Hello. May I help you?” Mr. Tobias, our famous baker, is icing a huge tray of buns.
    “Yes, sir. I’ll take a half dozen of those.”
    He opens a large white box and starts filling it. Mr. Tobiaslives in Catawba Hills with the rest of the rich people, but he acts respectful to every linthead that comes through the door, even Daddy on his bad days. I figure Mr. Tobias might be one of those anonymous drinkers, since he lets them have the meetings in a private room upstairs. I walk along the display cases, looking at the fruit tarts, sticky buns, pound cakes, and lemon meringue pies with lots of toasted peaks. Over in the special-order department, there’s a seven-layer wedding cake with a corny bride and groom standing on top.
    “That will be $1.32.” He hands me the buns and I pay him.
    As I walk into Flower Power Record Store, Mayor Melton’s grandson is standing at the counter, dressed in a spectacular tie-dyed T-shirt, with his red hair pulled back into a ponytail.
    “Hey, Rocky, did you hear the good news?”
    “I haven’t heard any good news lately,” he says, lighting a stick of incense.
    “Ringo came back to the band!”
    “Hell, he was only gone two weeks.” Rocky rolls his eyes and then winks at me.
    I go to the “Top 40” section. As I flip through Simon & Garfunkel and Marvin Gaye records, Johnny Cash’s thundering voice is half talking, half singing about how he shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. He sounds like a tired old werewolf growling for mercy.
    Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around.
    “Hey, Karlene, was that you banging on the door?” Billy Ray says.
    “Yeah, I figured you were popping popcorn for the kiddie show.”
    “I was up in the projection room. Did you want something?”
    “Nah. I just thought I’d let you know how everybody’s moaning about how bad they miss you at school,” I say, instead of
I miss the hell out of eating lunch with you
, which is what we did every day last year when he was in ninth grade.
    “Everybody misses me?” His eyes light up.
    “Oh, you know—the usual morons,” I say. The light vanishes from his pale green eyes. I feel crummy for acting so nonchalant, but my feelings are all mixed up about Billy Ray now that he’s in tenth grade. We’ve known each other since we were little because our daddies are fishing buddies. I love him, but not exactly like a brother. Besides, he’s a Pentecostal Christian,