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which makes him a little preachery at times.
    “I saw Gloria Jean’s picture in the paper. Guess she got married after all.”
    “It’s not a subject I care to discuss, if you don’t mind.”
    “Uh, okay, then. How about our camping trip next month—you talk your mama into coming?”
    “I’m trying to, but she’s resisting.”
    “How about the twins, are they coming?”
    “Unless I find a molecular transporter and zap them to Pluto.”
    A sloppy grin spreads across his face. “Okay, Psycho, what record are you buying?”
    “I’m not sure, probably this one by the Rascals, ‘People Got to Be Free.’”
    He waves “Hello, I Love You” in front of my face. “Whatever happened with your wild crush on Jim Morrison?”
    “That was last month,” I say, trying to change the subject of crushes. Billy Ray’s acting real weird, like he’s caught a flirting virus. Last year, when these puffy muffin-breasts popped out on my chest, Billy Ray got all discombobulated around me, but lately, he acts like he’s grown accustomed to them. Probably because he’s getting an eyeful of those tenth-, eleventh-, and twelfth-grade girls’ boobs sticking out in tight sweaters.
    “How about this Gary Puckett song?” He holds up another 45 and sings, “Young girl, get out of my mind—” I elbow him in his side to interrupt his rhapsodizing.
    “I like it just fine, but I’m buying ‘People Got to Be Free.’”
    “I’ll buy this one for you.” He walks toward the checkout.
    I run after him and tug at this shirt. “Why are you doing that?”
    A kind smile flits across his face. “A new record always helps when you lose something as big as a sister,” he says, then turns to pay.
    I just stand there, looking at his back, wondering how he knows so damn much. Around most people, I feel sort of made-up, but Billy Ray makes me feel real as dirt.
    He hands me “Young Girl” and says, “I need to run.” He rushes to the door, but turns around and says, “Tell your mama I said hey.”
    ***
    A while later I’m stretched out on the sofa reading Mr. Emerson, trying to learn how to rely on myself better. I hear a car pull into the driveway and figure it’s Daddy and the boys, so I put the book over my face and pretend to be asleep. Someone walks into the house and stands beside me.
    “Trying to get some sleep around here without the Amazing Bridges Boys?” Gloria Jean removes the book. “Come on, you want to go to the Creamery?”
    “No, I think I’d rather go get my tonsils removed.”
    “You’re a fruity-cake, Karlene. A real fruity-cake.”
    At the Creamery, we order a super-duper banana split to share. As soon as we sit in our booth, she starts talking about Wendell this, Wendell that. Work this, work that.
Blah, blah, blah
. But I just sit back and enjoy the view. Gloria Jean’s eyes are bright and her lips are a glossy peach color. “Is that new lipstick?”
    “Yes. It’s called Tangerine Dream.” She pops one of the maraschino cherries into her mouth. Gloria Jean acts different now, as if she’s excited and calm at the same time. Maybe it’s the freedom of not having to be a big sister and a daughter every second of her life.
    I lean across the booth and ask, “How is Snidely in the sex department?”
    Her eyes open real wide and she shakes her glossy hair. “Now, Karlene Bridges, I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”
    “Ah, Gloria Jean,
pleeease
tell me. Do you like it?”
    “Uh, I like
it
all right, I guess.” She shrugs her shoulders. “The first five or six times was pretty rough, but it’s gotten better, I think.”
    The
first
five or six times. Holy moly.
    “Since you’ve been living with Snidely for a while now, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve found out about him?”
    “Your brother-in-law’s name is Wendell, not Snidely.” She gives me Mama’s lecturing look. “And the weirdest thing about him is that he irons my clothes.”
    “You’re lying!”
    “I’m