Pop Tart. Kira Coplin

      Brooke’s family lived in a sun-bleached neighborhood of single-family ranch-style homes just minutes from one of the major highway exits. Their well-manicured yet modest concrete stucco home was nestled at the end of what would’ve been a relatively quiet cul-de-sac; quiet, of course, if not for the Parkers. Aside from the nonstop foot traffic of energetic kids who banged doors and rattled windows as they flowed in and out, a revolving door of houseguests added to the liveliness. Friends, neighbors, and relatives came and went as they pleased without question throughout the day, kicking off their shoes and helping themselves to leftovers in the refrigerator. With this sort of hospitality, the twang in their accents that seemed more ‘country’ than Southern, and the kind of neighbors that sat in rocking chairs on their porches–Brooke and I were clearly from different galaxies.

      By the time lunch had rolled around, several people had already come and gone from the Parker home and two visitors remained. An overly made-up woman with auburn hair wrapped tightly in a bun–one of Mrs Dianne’s girlfriends from the pageant board–busily blabbed on in the kitchen. Her quick visit to ‘see how Miss Teen Florida was holding up,’ had turned into a two-hour gossip session about a number of topics ranging from a disagreement she had had with one of the contestant recruiters a week ago, the disorganized ice cream social recently held by the elementary school, and a fellow pageant mother who, according to her sources, had allowed her twelve-year-old daughter to take diet pills. ‘Can you believe it?’ the woman rasped loudly from the kitchen. ‘Now I hear she’s got the youngest one on a diet too…’

      ‘How old?’ Mrs Dianne coated a casserole dish with a sprinkling of handfuls of potato chips over a mixed bowl of chicken, rice, peas, and celery.

      ‘She’s ten.’

      It was Willy’s brother Todd, however, who was the most animated. He had stopped over for beer and to see his ‘favorite, famous niece’ around 9:30 AM. Since he frequently visited, the Parkers had given him a key to the kitchen door so he would no longer have to break in to recover things he’d left behind or to catch his favorite show on T.V. Loud and boisterous, Todd was where I placed the blame for our rude awakening that morning.

      Stuffed into a bunk stacked three beds high, it had been nearly impossible to get any sleep on the tour bus the previous night. Passing through highway construction and over beat-up roads, the constant rocking motion was almost nauseating. By the time we actually arrived at the Parkers’, it was pretty late and both Brooke and I shuffled into her bedroom like zombies. Even on solid ground, curled on a mattress on the floor next to Brooke’s bed, I was still haunted by the sickening sensation from the night before. Tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I finally began to drift to sleep just before sunrise.

      ‘Z-z-z-z-z-z!’ A loud noise tore me from my sleep just a couple of hours later. Groggy, my eyes darted around the room, struggling to focus for a few minutes. Centering on a pink-and-black argyle valance that matched the comforter wrapped around me, I let out a sigh of exhaustion. Feeling weighted down, I continued to scan the room, examining the mismatched dresser lined with old tubes of lip gloss, bottles of Sunflowers perfume, and half-used bottles of Oil of Olay that sat against the wall across from me.

      ‘Z-z-z-z-z-z!’ The loud noise seemed to move toward Brooke’s bedroom, disappearing again suddenly. I looked up at Brooke on the black metal daybed. Snuggled beneath its scroll detailing and oak-finished hardwood posts, she was still fast asleep. Unable to see anything out of the window in her bedroom, I dragged my feet down the Pergo floor of the hallway toward the living room, scanning the rows of photos housed inside gold metal frames of varying sizes. Aside from a couple of professional-looking family photos and the twins’ most recent school pictures, the wall appeared to be a shrine to Brooke. The glossy images documented each stage of her life–pictures of her tenth birthday party at the local roller skating rink, in her high school cheerleading uniform, and posing in blue jeans and a cowboy hat at a country music concert with Willy. I smiled. As far as both he and Brooke were concerned, he was her real father–in fact, they were closer than most of the girls I knew were with their dads–you’d never know they didn’t share the same genetics.

      Kneeling on the overstuffed off-white leather sectional in front of the window, I peeked through the blinds to see what all the commotion was about. Appearing as two separate whirls of blond hair, the Tweedles zipped around the backyard in circles on motorized bikes. A man in a dirty Florida Gators cap, who looked like an emaciated version of Willy, stood in the middle of the fuss, cheering them on loudly.

      ‘Guilty as charged,’ said a voice behind me, catching me off guard. I turned to find Willy grinning at me from the kitchen. ‘I admit, that Bozo out there is my own flesh and blood.’ He threw his head back laughing, as Mrs Dianne peered from behind him.

      ‘Good morning! You must be starving…’

      ‘Not too bad,’ I said, as if it were an automatic response. ‘You don’t have to go to any trouble—’

      ‘Nonsense, she’s always cooking up a storm in here,’ Willy smiled. ‘She makes the best French toast in the county; that there is a fact.’

      ‘Well that’s an offer I can’t refuse then,’ I smiled joining them in their newly remodeled kitchen–one of Mrs Dianne’s passion projects, which Willy had green-lighted as an anniversary present. ‘I just feel bad imposing.’

      ‘Ya hear that Di? Finally, a houseguest with some manners.’ Willy roared with laughter, glancing back at me. ‘Don’t think a thing of it. The way Todd eats us out of house and home, we’re gonna have to declare bankruptcy.’

      Scooting up to her husband at the kitchen table, Mrs Dianne signed, ‘That wouldn’t be anything new.’ She pretended to be annoyed, though her hand on her husband’s leg indicated otherwise. Sinking into the plate she had set down in front of me, I gobbled up the thick slices of bread–which had, as Willy had assured me, been perfectly flavored. It was the first time I’d spent any alone time with Brooke’s parents, and they wasted no time briefing me on their rollercoaster love affair. According to Mrs Dianne, Willy–who was two years her senior–was a star basketball player for the Riviera Beach Hornets, her rival high school. Back then, it was his skills on the court and his classic good looks that routinely drew packed crowds.

      ‘The moment I laid eyes on her, whew…’ Willy laughed. ‘It was love at first sight.’

      ‘For him anyway…’ Mrs Dianne nudged him as she took a sip of her sweet tea.

      Teasingly, he grumbled, ‘She had a boyfriend…some wimp she went to school with—’

      ‘Not