trouble for that, although she didnât understand why. If the family was supposed to share everything, then why was Sunny allowed to lock up her thoughts?
âHeather just admires her big sister so,â their mother had told Sunny. âShe wants to be like you, do everything you do. Thatâs how little sisters grow up.â
Wrong, Heather wanted to say. Sunny was the last person to whom she would look for guidance. Almost in high school, Sunny didnât even have a boyfriend, while Heather sort of did. Jamie Altman sat next to her on field trips and paired up with her whenever the teacher made them go boy-girl. He also had given her a Whitman sampler on Valentineâs Day. It was the small one, only four chocolates, and none of them with nuts, but Heather was the only girl in all of sixth grade to receive chocolates from a boy other than her father, so it made quite the stir. Heather didnât need Sunny to show her how to do anything.
She picked up the Accent section and read her horoscope. In just five days, there would be a horoscope especially for her. Well, for her and the other people born on April 3. She couldnât wait to see what it said. And next week there would be a party, bowling at Westview Lanes and a bakery cakeâdevilâs food with white icing and blue roses. Maybe she should buy something new to wear. No, not yet. But she would take her new purse to the mall, an early birthday gift from her fatherâs store. It was actually multiple purses that buttoned to the same wooden handles, so you could match it to your outfit. She had chosen denim with red rickrack, a madras plaid, and one with a print of large orange flowers. Her father hadnât planned to stock the purses, but her mother had noticed how Heather studied the samples and pressed him to include it in the orders he made back in February. They were by far the most successful new item in his store this spring, but that just seemed to make her father grumpier.
âFaddish,â he said. âYou wonât want to carry it a year from now.â
Of course, Heather thought. Next year there would be another purse or top that was the thing to have, and her father should be glad for that.Even at eleven she had figured out that you couldnât run a successful store if people didnât keep buying things, year in and year out.
Â
SUNNY, FRUSTRATED ALMOST to the point of tears, watched silently as her father left the kitchen. He had been so odd this morningâmaking pancakes, letting Heather listen to WCBM, singing along and even commenting on the songs.
âI like that one,â he said of each song. âThe girlââ
âMinnie Riperton,â Heather said.
âHer voice sounds like birdsong, donât you think?â He attempted to imitate the cascading notes, and Heather laughed at how poorly he did it, but Sunny simply felt uncomfortable. A father wasnât supposed to know songs like âLovinâ You,â much less sing along with them. Besides, her father was the biggest liar. He didnât like any of these songs. The very fact that a song was Top 40âthe very fact of popularity in anything, whether it was music or movies or television or fashionâdisqualified it from serious consideration in her fatherâs life. On his headphones, in his study, he played jazz, Bob Dylan, and the Grateful Dead, which seemed as formless and pointless as jazz to Sunny. Listening to the radio with her father and sister made Sunny feel queer, as if they were reading her diary in front of her, as if they knew what she was thinking late at night when she went to bed with her transistor radio plugged into one ear. Her tastes were changing, but she still found certain love songs irresistible: âYou Are So Beautiful.â âPoetry Man.â âMy Eyes Adored You.â Twitching in her seat, cutting her pancakes into ever-smaller pieces, she had yearned to jump up and
âHeather just admires her big sister so,â their mother had told Sunny. âShe wants to be like you, do everything you do. Thatâs how little sisters grow up.â
Wrong, Heather wanted to say. Sunny was the last person to whom she would look for guidance. Almost in high school, Sunny didnât even have a boyfriend, while Heather sort of did. Jamie Altman sat next to her on field trips and paired up with her whenever the teacher made them go boy-girl. He also had given her a Whitman sampler on Valentineâs Day. It was the small one, only four chocolates, and none of them with nuts, but Heather was the only girl in all of sixth grade to receive chocolates from a boy other than her father, so it made quite the stir. Heather didnât need Sunny to show her how to do anything.
She picked up the Accent section and read her horoscope. In just five days, there would be a horoscope especially for her. Well, for her and the other people born on April 3. She couldnât wait to see what it said. And next week there would be a party, bowling at Westview Lanes and a bakery cakeâdevilâs food with white icing and blue roses. Maybe she should buy something new to wear. No, not yet. But she would take her new purse to the mall, an early birthday gift from her fatherâs store. It was actually multiple purses that buttoned to the same wooden handles, so you could match it to your outfit. She had chosen denim with red rickrack, a madras plaid, and one with a print of large orange flowers. Her father hadnât planned to stock the purses, but her mother had noticed how Heather studied the samples and pressed him to include it in the orders he made back in February. They were by far the most successful new item in his store this spring, but that just seemed to make her father grumpier.
âFaddish,â he said. âYou wonât want to carry it a year from now.â
Of course, Heather thought. Next year there would be another purse or top that was the thing to have, and her father should be glad for that.Even at eleven she had figured out that you couldnât run a successful store if people didnât keep buying things, year in and year out.
Â
SUNNY, FRUSTRATED ALMOST to the point of tears, watched silently as her father left the kitchen. He had been so odd this morningâmaking pancakes, letting Heather listen to WCBM, singing along and even commenting on the songs.
âI like that one,â he said of each song. âThe girlââ
âMinnie Riperton,â Heather said.
âHer voice sounds like birdsong, donât you think?â He attempted to imitate the cascading notes, and Heather laughed at how poorly he did it, but Sunny simply felt uncomfortable. A father wasnât supposed to know songs like âLovinâ You,â much less sing along with them. Besides, her father was the biggest liar. He didnât like any of these songs. The very fact that a song was Top 40âthe very fact of popularity in anything, whether it was music or movies or television or fashionâdisqualified it from serious consideration in her fatherâs life. On his headphones, in his study, he played jazz, Bob Dylan, and the Grateful Dead, which seemed as formless and pointless as jazz to Sunny. Listening to the radio with her father and sister made Sunny feel queer, as if they were reading her diary in front of her, as if they knew what she was thinking late at night when she went to bed with her transistor radio plugged into one ear. Her tastes were changing, but she still found certain love songs irresistible: âYou Are So Beautiful.â âPoetry Man.â âMy Eyes Adored You.â Twitching in her seat, cutting her pancakes into ever-smaller pieces, she had yearned to jump up and
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