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little bit.”
    James Earl rubbed Mister’s head lovingly but said nothing. Sol added, “She’ll get her own bed, li’l brother. She’ll probably get the other bedroom all by herself.”
    “Of course she’ll get it,” Authorly said. “We’ll all just have to sleep out here ’cause girls and boys can’t sleep in the same room. Dang, Mister, you don’t know nothin’ ’bout girls, huh?”
    “I ain’t never knowed none, ’cept de girls at church, and they ugly.”
    Authorly and Woody chuckled. Bartimaeus snored.
    “All you gotta know is dat girls and boys is different, and the two don’t get together ’til they get married.”
    “Momma play wit’ us sometimes, and she’s a girl!”
    “No she ain’t,” Authorly corrected. “She a woman.”
    “Is Perfect gon’ be a woman, too?”
    Woody snickered. “All girls grow up to be women, boy.”
    “Well, I’ll play with her then.”
    “No, you won’t,” Authorly said, “ ’cause women cook and sew and piece quilts and stuff like that. They don’t play with li’l boys.”
    “Anyway,” Woody added, “when Perfect becomes a woman, you’ll already be a grown man, and you won’t wanna play wit’ her anyway.”
    “I bet chu I will! And we’ll have a lot o’ fun, too!”
    “A sister ain’t s’pose to be fun.” Authorly sighed. “She s’pose to do woman stuff so she can be a momma one day.”
    “They don’t have no fun when they little?”
    Woody said, “They play with baby dolls and stuff.”
    “Yeah, but even when they play wit’ baby dolls,” Authorly said, “they practicin’ how to take care o’ they own kids. That’s de whole point o’ givin’ them dolls in the first place.”
    “Oh,” Mister said, and nodded. “But why don’t boys play wit’ baby dolls, too? Don’t they need to learn how to be daddies?”
    The brothers laughed.
    “No, man!” Authorly screeched. “Bein’ a daddy is easy. It don’t take much. All you gotta do is work. That’s why boys ain’t got to practice. They jes’ learn how to work, and when they get married and babies come, they jes’ keepworkin’. But bein’ a momma is a whole different story. That’s why girls gotta learn how to take care o’ everybody—de husband and de kids—all at de same time.”
    “Why they gotta do everything?”
    “ ’Cause de Bible say so, stupid. Raisin’ kids is a woman’s job. Didn’t you hear Reverend Lindsey last Sunday? Dat’s why God make women carry de babies. De man is s’pose to work and de woman is s’pose to raise de kids and take care o’ de husband and de house.”
    “That ain’t fair,” Mister said.
    “It
is
fair,” Authorly assured him. “And anyway, Reverend Lindsey say women like it. He say God make ’em dat way.”
    “Okay, but I’d rather be a boy.”
    “Sure you would. Everybody would. But everybody cain’t, ’cause then who would carry de babies? I’m sure bein’ a girl ain’t so bad if that’s all you ever been.”
    Mister relinquished the hope of ever playing with Perfect. He drifted to sleep praying she would learn all the things necessary to become a good wife one day.
     
    The next afternoon, Gracie arrived slightly before dinner.
    “Hi, Aunt Gracie!” Mister shouted from the porch.
    “Give her time to get here,” Authorly reprimanded. “You see she comin’. Ain’t no need in hollerin’.”
    Gracie switched toward the house in a soft pink and lavender pastel summer dress. Her hefty breasts, bouncing vertically, distracted boys and attracted men. Most agreed that, physically, she was peerless, although Gus quickly reminded them that her looks didn’t fix her snobby disposition.
    “Good afternoon, boys.”
    “Momma had de baby!” Mister belted before anyone else could speak.
    “Yes, I heard. Henrietta told me yesterday. You boys have a sister now, I understand.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” they answered.
    “Well, I’m sure you’ll take good care of her. With six brothers, a young lady should be