The top is covered in crushed corn flakes that baked into a golden, crunchy crown of glory. My sister Charlie helped me throw in a cup of chopped onion and a few other ingredients she assured me would turn this potato pie into a bona fide winner.
Charlie is my look-alike in every way—same caramel-colored hair, same hazel eyes, one year younger, and my full-blooded sibling. She was raised by Carlotta, which is tantamount to being raised by wolves, so I always give Charlie extra grace when she needs it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out to find another photo from Lainey. Lyla Nell is standing in front of a craft table with her arms crossed, chin lifted, looking like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk on proper glue stick usage to a group of children.
“Oh! She’s just so adorable,” I murmur.
Carlotta leans over my shoulder. “Little Yippie with the pigtails looks like she’s being bossy.”
I look closer. Huh. She does kind of look like she’s ordering the other kids around. And come to think of it, none of the other kids look all that happy while looking her way. Huh.
My phone buzzes again. Another photo. This time, Lyla Nell is pointing at something off-camera with an expression that suggests she’s not asking, she’s commanding.
“Oh yeah,” Carlotta says. “That’s definitely bossy.”
Another buzz. Lyla Nell has her hands on her hips now, mouth open mid-shout.
A little boy behind her looks genuinely terrified. “Is she—” I squint at the screen. “Is she yelling at that kid?”
“Looks like it.” Carlotta grins. “Your daughter’s running that craft session like a maximum security prison. I’m so proud.”
My phone buzzes one more time. The newest photo shows Lyla Nell holding what appears to be a construction paper crown while standing on a chair. The other children are seated in asemicircle around her like subjects before a tiny tyrant, and I think a few are crying.
“Oh my word.” I zoom in. “She made herself a crown.”
“Queen Yippie has been coronated.” Carlotta cackles. “I give it ten minutes before she starts demanding tribute in the form of juice boxes.”
I text Lainey despite the impending embargo on all things modern.Is everything okay?
The response is immediate.She’s fine. Very… leadership-oriented.
Translation? My toddler is terrorizing the craft room, and Lainey doesn’t want to admit she’s lost control of the situation.
I grimace. “Maybe preschool was a mistake.”
“Or maybe she’s just warming up,” Carlotta suggests cheerfully. “Give her another hour, and she’ll have staged a coup and renamed the place Lyla Nell’s Academy for Kids Who Want to Learn to be Naughty.”
“Would you stop?”
My phone buzzes again. It’s another text from Lainey.She’s having SO much fun! You should totally sign her up for the summer session, too! They have openings!
I groan.
“What?” Carlotta asks.
“Lainey is trying to pressure me into signing Lyla Nell up for summer school.”
“Summer school?” Carlotta perks up. “Oh, I went to summer school every year of my life. Best times I ever had. All the bad boys were there.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say with a grunt. “Wasn’t summer school for kids who were failing?”
“Or kids who were excelling in extracurricular activities,” Carlotta says with a wink that makes me immediately regret asking.
We reach the community center just as Momappears at the entrance, resplendent in her lavender 1950s ensemble, pearls gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“Summer school is not for failing students,” Mom says, catching the tail end of our conversation. She peers into the casserole dish Carlotta is carrying for me. “Oh, what do you have there?”
