After I was washed and dressed, I ran down the wide staircase to the first floor and into the kitchen. Mom and Watson were with Sam and Charlie. (David Michael, my seven-year-old brother, is a slowpoke. He's always the last one down.)

Here's another thing about Watson that's not so bad. He helps out around the house - with the cooking, cleaning, gardening, every-

thing. I guess this comes from being divorced and having lived alone for awhile before he met Mom. He and Mom share the workload equally. They both have jobs, they both prepare meals (Watson is actually a better cook than Mom is), they both run errands, etc. Twice a week, a cleaning lady comes in, and my brothers and I are responsible for certain chores, but basically Mom and Watson run the show.

So I wasn't surprised when I stepped into the kitchen that Monday morning to find Mom making coffee and Watson scrambling eggs. Sam was setting the table and Charlie was pouring orange juice. It was a nice familiar scene.

"Good morning!" I said.

"Morning," everyone replied.

"Kristy, can't you wear something different once in awhile?" Sam asked me, eyeing my jeans and sweater.

"Why do you care what I wear?" I replied, but I knew perfectly well why he cared. He cared because he was fifteen and girls were practically the only thing on his mind. He thought he was the girl expert of the world, and he was disappointed in my lack of fashion sense. Plus, he was interested in this trds sophisticated girl down the street (one of the private-school girls) and he wanted everything

about our family to be up to Monique's standards, which were sky-high.

"I think Kristy looks lovely," said Watson.

"So do I," added Mom, kissing the top of my head.

"But," Watson went on, "if you ever do want a few, um, new clothes, all you have to do is holler."