She tossed her hands up in the air. “Pandemonium! They lost their buttons! They set me aside and adrift. As though I had set the town on fire for refusing to be another stone in the road.”

Millie snapped in her new lens, but not before tossing a meaningful look my way.

“Yeah, I can see that happening,” I responded quietly.

“And do you know what I did when they showed me their spots?” Lynde leaned forward, her eyes twinkling.

“You didn’t care?”

“Well, I did care at first,” Lynde said, swiftly snatching yet another cookie, “but then I had a lot of sex and made a lot of money and I traveled the big and beautiful world. . .and then I didn’t care so much.”

This time it was Millie’s turn to choke on a cookie.

“Well.” Millie coughed. “Wise words if ever I heard them.”

“I’m taking notes,” I told her.

“You do that, my dear, and you’ll be better for it.” Lynde took a moment to give me another wink. I wanted to vault over the two couches between me and her and throw my arms around her.

Millie snapped a final picture. “I think we have it, Beverly.”

“Call me Bev.” Bev stretched. “All my friends do.”

Just then there was the soft crackle and pop of tires over gravel.

“Ah, dear.” Bev raised a finger. “That will be my less enjoyable appointment for the day,” she grumbled.

“Do you need us to clear out?” Millie asked, reaching for her bag.

“Heavens no! You may take your time,” Bev sighed, “but you’ll likely want to leave when you see who my next guest is.”

As we hustled our gear out of the house, I got her meaning. There in the driveway was the Other Lynde, aka My Least Favorite Lynde, aka The Lynde who didn’t think I was a multidimensional daisy. Or didn’t like daisies. Or both.

Principal Lynde was wearing what I guessed were her “Sunday Clothes,” which consisted of a plain T-shirt (white. Who’d she get that idea from?) and a pair of let’s call them gray pants? This version of ­Principal Lynde was a little less intimidating, but still, I got a solid flood of back sweat as her gaze met mine.

Principal Lynde gave Millie a sharp nod. “Mrs. Shirley.”

“It’s just Millie, thanks,” Millie said, popping open the trunk. “Principal Lynde.”

Principal Lynde’s narrow gaze settled on me. “Miss Shirley.” Her voice sliced through the air. “I see we have abandoned the decorum of appearance you briefly displayed at school not long ago. Where did that girl who knew how to conduct herself in public go? I wonder.”

Sweat. Dripping. Down my back. “Uh. Hello, Principal Lynde. Good Sunday to you.”