Her whole face was covered with blue paint—instead of red like mine—and she had a killer white mustache that curled at the ends halfway across her cheeks. I’d called it an old prospector mustache. Her husband, Richard, on the other hand, had a white face with a red mustache. We were triplets. It was only Boogie, who was sitting in our row, who didn’t have anything on his face. He was wearing a TRAVIS jersey though, tucked into his perfectly pressed jeans. Connie and I had giggled at him, and he’d given us the middle finger.
