He had a craggy face that looked somewhat familiar, except the dark sunglasses hid quite a bit. He had a light beard and mustache and long silky dirty...blond hair that reached below his shoulders. He was wearing a T-shirt with his own face and some writing on the front, and there was a guitar case in his backseat. And then it dawned on me. This was a guitarist from a local band, Glen and Guys, that had gone national and still had tunes on the charts. At least that boded well for a free meal. Sometimes he kissed me on top of my head, but so did my aunt and uncle and who knows how many other people.Before Mrs. C. died, our families had this agreement about sleepovers. I’m not talking about her staying all night at my house, or me at hers. We did that all the time. The way we defined “sleepover” was when you invited five to ten girls and made a party out of it.If Chrissy and I had had our way, we’d have slept over all the time. It wouldn’t have mattered where to either of us. But our. More

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