When I answer the door, I find Tim Weathers standing beside one of those rare authors who looks like her jacket photo come to life. Serenity’s eyes hold a steady light, and her smile is quick and broad. She’s wearing jeans and a white tank top, and her hair is gathered in a low ponytail at the back of her neck. She might be a little thinner than in her photograph, but her arms are full and muscular.

“You guys have some serious security here,” she observes, sticking out her hand. “Tee Butler.”

I recognize the nickname from reading her memoir. Shaking her strong hand, I pull her into the house. Tim Weathers gives me a wink as I shut the door.

“After what happened to Keisha,” I say, by way of explanation.

“Oh, I get it. I wasn’t criticizing.”

“My daughter and a friend are in the kitchen. They can’t wait to meet you.”

“Great,” Serenity says, following me down the hall.

I lead her into the kitchen, where Mia and Annie stand like the children in The Sound of Music waiting to be presented to the baroness.

“Annie, Mia, this is Serenity Butler. Serenity—”

“Hey, Annie,” Serenity says, stepping forward and giving my daughter a high five. The writer glances back at me. “I saw who was who by the timing of their smiles.” Serenity turns to Mia and points at the T-shirt she’s wearing. “UCA, huh? You a cheerleader?”

“Used to be,” Mia says awkwardly.

“Me, too. Waaay back. Hey, I know ‘Serenity’ is a mouthful, okay? My friends call me ‘Tee’ for short. Why don’t you guys call me that?”

“Tee,” Annie says, testing the name. “That’s cool.”

“In South Louisiana ‘Tee’ means ‘little,’” Mia says. “They use it instead of ‘Junior.’”

“You mean like ‘Tee Neg’ or ‘Tee Jean’?” Serenity laughs. “You got people from South Louisiana?”

Mia’s blushing now. “Some cousins.”

“Me, too. But my ‘Tee’ is just a diminutive.”

The conversation falters for a few seconds, and in that span I notice a keloid scar a little in front of Serenity’s left ear—a dark, U-shaped ridge at the hinge of her jawbone, about the size of a half-dollar. It’s not a bad one, but most women would try to minimize it with makeup. Yet Serenity leaves it exposed for the world to see. Since keloids are characteristic of African-Americans, perhaps she uses the scar as a badge to confirm her race beyond doubt? As I wonder about this, I realize I’m not the only one staring at our visitor’s face. Mia is gazing at Serenity as though confused by something.

“Mia,” I say softly.

Mia snaps out of her trance and blushes even deeper red.

“It’s okay,” Serenity says. “When you title your book ‘The Paper Bag Test,’ once people find out what it means, they all stare.”

“What’s the paper bag test?” Annie asks.