“I mean, it sucks, but it’s fine.” I stared at the petals twisting in the wind. “I’m just getting the feeling. . .like. . .nothing I am or like or do is going to be okay with Greenville.”

Millie took a last bite out of her burrito. “It is entirely possible that Greenville will never get you,” she said. “But at some point, it’s not about them.”

I must have sighed one of those sighs that’s bigger than you mean it to be. Like, a more honest breath than you expect coming out of your body.

“Which is not to say you can’t talk to me and your mom about why it sucks.” Millie’s eyes darted my way. “I mean, that was really a lot of barfing emojis.”

“Rain check,” I said hopefully.

“Always,” Millie said. “Just check in with my assistant, I’m always around.”

Our destination was at the top of a road that wound up a green hill like some sort of fairy tale. At the tippity-top was a pink house that looked like it could open up like a dollhouse. It was the most magical thing I had seen since arriving in Greenville. Crisp white molding flashing in the sun. Little gold-looking triangles perched on each roof peak.

“Damn.”

“Here we are.” Millie shoved on the parking brake. “I think you’re going to like this lady.”

This lady, when she opened the pink door with an emphatic and almost dramatic whoosh, was a tall woman, like even taller than Millie, who looked to be about a hundred, with long silver hair she wore in a braid that trickled down her right shoulder, and two distinct, but not necessarily overly garish, circles of rouge on her cheeks. She looked like a fairy princess if fairy princesses wore long multilayered velvet muumuus. And sandals. And smelled like cookies.

Actually, those all seem like they could be legit fairy princess things.

“Good morning,” the woman called out, in a voice that was almost operatic. “How lovely to finally meet you in person, Millie!”

Millie reached out to shake the woman’s hand, which was covered in layers of silver and gold rings. “Thank you so much for agreeing to take part in this.”

“Well, I’m a fan of your work!” the woman boomed. “Aside from some BBC tonight, this will be the highlight of my day.”

“Anne.” Millie held her hand out in a gesture of introduction. “This is Beverly Lynde.”

L ynde?

My breath caught in my throat. Mrs. Lynde? Like the mother (or aunt, possibly) of the imposing, very judgmental, often disdainful ­Principal Rachel Lynde? A person who hates me?

I shot Millie a look that read, You brought me to the enemies’ house, on a Sunday?

Millie missed this look, as she was busy getting her bags of equipment through the door.