"At Mr. Gates' and at Bellair's," I replied.

(Mr. Gates is the barber; Bellair's is a department store.)

"Right," said Mom.

"Moozie-silly-billy-goo-goo, I want shoes, too," whined an unhappy voice. It was Claire. She was slogging up the stairs from the rec room, looking dismal.

My mother turned around and took Claire's chin in her hand. "You don't need sneakers, sweetie," she said. "When you've outgrown your red ones, then you can have a new pair."

"Not fair," grumbled Claire, heading back down the stairs. "Silly-billy-goo-goo."

"Don't worry, Mom," I said. "I can handle her."

And I could. Dad drove off with the triplets, Mom drove off with my sisters, and I took Claire into the backyard with a bottle of soap bubbles. Claire blew bubbles and forgot about shoes, and Nicky played volleyball with his friend Buddy (Buddy is Pow the dog's owner) and forgot about us girls, which seemed to be a perfect arrangement for everyone.

"Foo, foo," went Claire, making bubbles stream from the plastic wand. "Look, Mallory-silly-billy-goo-goo!"  N

Slam, slam went the volleyball as the boys pounded it back and forth over the net. They

weren't fooling around. Their game was serious.

The boys were still playing when my father came back with the triplets. The car pulled to a stop in the driveway. The doors opened slowly. Claire and I looked on with interest. My brothers hate getting their hair cut.

"You look like a nerd," said Adam, punching Jordan on the arm and laughing riotously.

"Me! You're looking in a mirror," retorted Jordan. "You look just the same . . . only worse."

The boys tried to sneak into the house without being noticed, but Buddy caught sight of them and let out a howl of laughter. "Ha-ha! Ha-ha!" The volleyball game didn't stop, though.

"Pay attention, Buddy!" Nicky yelled. He slammed the ball over the net.