He wasn't such a great husband. He dropped that girl at our house and took off for Southern California the next day. It wasn't easy for us to adjust, and my lord she was a mess. She never learned to pick up after herself. She had these two birds in an old cage. Cockatoos or cockatiels, I can never remember which. They made a lot of noise and stank to high heaven. She had these frou-frou dresses that had to be hung on padded, scented hangers just so, and the shoes! Must have been twenty five pair; high heels, sneakers, strappy sandals, thigh-high boots, coffee and cream Oxfords, suede Ferregamos, six inch platforms, ballerina slippers. We didn't have room and she left them all over the house, on stairways, in the bathroom, on the kitchen floor.

    Don't get me started on the bathroom. She spent hours every morning combing her hair and putting on makeup. Do you know what it's like for four women to share one bathroom? She had to have a bath every day—took the birds in there with her and she wouldn't turn on the fan—it had to be steamy for her skin, and she took over an entire shelf with oils, creams, lipstick, pink bath crystals, brushes, fingernail polish and powder, combs, barrettes, ribbons. Always five or six damp towels dumped in the corner, feathers everywhere, hair clogging up the sink.

    Hair! For three years running I had to comb head lice from those curls. Sure, it wasn't her fault. I mean, all three girls got them at school, but Cindy pitched a fit when I sat her on a chair and picked through her scalp like a monkey. She screamed and cried and wriggled and called me Bitch. Only thirteen years old, and already quite the little princess, you know what I mean?

    Her real name was Susan, which she hated. When she first arrived at our house she insisted on being called Tiffany, which we did until she decided to change it to Delilah, then she wanted to change it to Diamond and, finally, Euphoria. If we called her by the wrong name she'd hold her breath, kick the furniture and yell herself hoarse. Then she'd go stomping off to her mother's grave, fling herself on the ground, weep for a while and come home complaining about grass stains on her dress.

    Sometimes she'd climb the pear tree in the front yard, fake like she'd fallen out and make her stepsisters carry her around on an ironing board she pretended was a stretcher. That was about the last straw for my girls. They started calling her Cindy because her face was always smudged with mascara from crying and it looked like she'd been playing in the fireplace.

    Cindy absolutely refused to do chores. Wouldn't even change the paper in the birdcage. It was never her turn, or her head ached, or her back hurt or she had homework or cramps or she was tired from cheerleading practice. She was so rude it was easier to just let it go. She never made an effort to get along with the other girls. Sure, they weren't as cute or blonde or tiny or popular, but they worked hard at school, kept their rooms tidy and cleaned up after themselves.

    I knew the time would come when those three girls would fight over a boy. I just never guessed it would be a mechanic with a classic car and a mouth full of bad teeth. They all met one summer night at the beach. My girls were there with their dates, roasting marshmallows and playing volleyball. The oldest had been dating the son of a dentist for a year, the youngest had just begun to see a nice young man with an unfortunate complexion. Cindy was supposed to be at home since it was her night to vacuum and do the dishes. I was getting my hair done and then having dinner with my girlfriends, and sure enough, Cindy ignored her chores and hitchhiked to the beach.

    She got a ride with a boy, a man, really, a mechanic, with a red '57Chevy BelAire. It had a 350 engine, power glide, electric everything and fuzzy dice hanging in the window. He was tall with short black hair and no upper teeth. When they pulled into the beach parking lot, he peeled out leaving rubber marks on all the speed bumps. His radio was playing loud and Cindy was hanging her head out the passenger window like a damn dog. My girls saw the car pull up but they didn't recognize Cindy, since she had on more makeup than usual and a big floppy hat.

    Cindy and the mechanic partied all night. They drank beer, smoked dope and built a bonfire. The cops chased them away at midnight, but Cindy refused a ride preferring to take a taxi home with money she had stolen from my purse.

    The next day all my two girls could talk about was that boy and his car. How tall he was, how good looking, how sexy it was when he smiled and showed his gums. Cindy had nothing to say since she spent the day in the bathroom puking.

     The next night all three girls headed for the beach but Cindy never made it. She stopped at the mall to shop a pair of flip-flops—yellow with white daisies on top. Her sisters were at the beach though and they took turns riding in the front seat with the mechanic. He showed them his collection of wrenches and did tricks that involved putting French fries in his nose. Those girls were in love, all right. He was the most exotic man they had ever seen. Little did they know, he only wanted Cindy.

     After he grew tired of the two sisters, he drove the strip looking for the girl he called Princess. He couldn't get her blonde curls, blue eye shadow, frosted lipstick and tight jeans out of his mind. He turned up his radio and cried over the love songs. He parked at the drive-in and waited but she never showed.

     That night my two girls had a fight. It started with a simple comment about how the older one was getting a big ass and how the mechanic liked his girls small. She took offense and kicked the younger girl in the leg. Books were thrown, a window was broken, glass shattered, plates crashed across the room and smashed into the wall and when I found them they had their hands buried root-deep in each other's hair, screaming and spitting and pulling each other in circles around the room.