“This isn’t a joke! How dare you act like this? You are not the child your mother wanted to raise!” Nate says.

“Nathanael Collard!” someone says behind us. I turn around and see Mrs. Pascale. The laughter dies in my throat.

We didn’t notice when she entered, but we certainly notice her now, as does the entire café. Mrs. Pascale is over eighty and don’t take no mess, no way. Her puffy Afro is stark white, like a winter wonderland. She’s short, with freckles, and has been known to strike people with her cane. And although she’s elderly, her aim is surprisingly accurate.

“I know you not sit’n here attacking this poor child,” she says.

“Mrs. Pascale, I was just—”

“I was headed for my weekly meeting with the ladies, when I looked in the window and see you going crazy on this child. She don’t need nothing more put on her. Her mama ain’t here; it’s on us to look out for her, not yell at her and say mean-spirited things, like what you just said. Now, go on and tell her you’re sorry.”

He looks at me, and I try my best to save him. “He doesn’t have to apologize,” I say.

“Hush, child.” She doesn’t even look at me. She keeps her gaze steady on Nate.

He lets out a deep breath and says he’s sorry.

“Much better. We here to build up, not tear down, am I right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Pascale.”

“Now, Ayo, you come with me. You look empty,” she says, making her way toward the door.

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“I wasn’t asking you. And I wasn’t talking about food.”

She takes me to Mrs. Celie’s house. There we are greeted by Ms. Hightower, Mrs. Jacobs, Ms. Doris, and of course, Mrs. Celie. This is their weekly poker game. They have a buffet all laid out, and the card table is ready.

The minute they see me, they examine me from head to toe. The results are in: I’m too thin, I need to deep-condition my hair, and although I am not ashy, I am “ashy-adjacent” and therefore need more shea butter in my life.

It sounds as if they are picking on me, but it’s actually the opposite. When they take me in, the care and concern in their eyes is unmistakable.

“I found Miss Thing at the café over there, crying,” Mrs. Pascale says.

“I wasn’t crying. I was laughing,” I remind her.

She gives me a side-eye and whispers, “Oh, is that what that was?”