Make a change, I mean. And a pretty big one, too. For the better. Who cares if my sister Lucy doesn’t necessarily agree? Actually, she didn’t say she didn’t like it. Not that I would have cared if she had. I didn’t do it for her. I did it for myself. Which is how I replied to her. Lucy, I mean. When she said what she did about it, which was: “Mom’s going to kill you.” “I didn’t do it for Mom,” I said. “I did it for me. No one else.” I don’t even know what she was doing home. Lucy, I mean. Shouldn’t she have been at cheerleading practice? Or a game? Or shopping at the mall with her friends, which is how she spends the vast majority of her time, when she isn’t working at the mall—which amounts to almost the same thing, since all her friends hang out in Bare Essentials (the lingerie store where she gets paid to do nothing), while she’s there anyway, helping her squeal over the latest J-Lo gossip in Us Weekly and fold G-strings? “Yeah, but you don’t have to look at yourself,”
