I pause, biting my lower lip. Versace, diplomats, parties at the Ryder mansion…Do I push for the millionth time for information about my father?

Cissy sighs. “If you’re starting one of those ‘who’s my dad’ fights, I’m going home.”

Mom keeps fussing with my hair. “I’m not fighting.”

I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about Dad. Maybe you can talk about your diplomatic work? What were the events you attended at the Ryder mansion?”

Mom hums a nonsense tune, twisting my hair in different angles. “I never answered these questions before and I won’t start now.”

I let out an exasperated gasp. “Come on, Mom! This is so unfair. Can’t you tell me one little thing?”

Cissy thunks her forehead onto the tabletop. “No way! This sounds like a ‘who’s my Dad’ fight plus a ‘what did you do before the war, Mom’ battle. Can I please save us all some time?” She sits upright, making her two hands talk to each other like puppets.

Cissy’s first hand ‘speaks.’ “Mom, I really want to know who Dad is.” Cissy gives me a very whiny voice. We’ll have a chat later about that.

Her second hands ‘replies.’ “No.” Her mom voice is totally grouchy and right on the money.

‘My’ hand: “What did you do before the war?”

‘Mom’s’ hand: “I can’t tell you.”

“Not one eensy beensy bit?”

“No.”

“But I really, really want to know.” Cissy’s puppet-Myla jumps up and down.

“No, no, no, no, no. Now, go to your room and ask your friend to go home.”

Cissy stands up, taking a bow. “Thank you, thank you! Show’s over.” She plunks back into her seat. “Now, can we talk about the party?”

I set my hands over my face. “No.” She’s not charming me off the subject this time.

Cissy gently moves my hand until I peep at her between my fingers. “That’s not my Myla.” She shoots me a sweet grin.

I try to pout, but I slowly smile instead. Once again, Cissy knows exactly what to say to get everything back on track. No doubt our school will be overrun with moths in a matter of weeks, too. I drop my hands. “Fine, let’s talk about the party.”

Mom grins as well. “Absolutely. I was saying I could do your hair and make-up.”

“I can do my own hair and make-up, Mom. But if you can find a dress for me, that would be awesome.”

“And shoes too,” adds Cissy.

“Of course!” Mom sashays from the room; I hear the pit-pat of footsteps in our attic crawlspace. The rest of the afternoon, Mom pores through old boxes while humming a tuneless song. Meanwhile, Cissy and I actively avoid homework by watching the Brady Bunch marathon on the Human Channel.

All in all, a good day.