“Maynard Jackson is coming to the service tomorrow, so your grandfather and daddy want everybody looking bright as new pennies.”

“I hate getting my hair pressed.” I pout, setting the plates in front of the empty seats.

“Push that lip in.” Mama walks into the dining room carrying a covered Corningware dish. “Make yourself useful and bring in the chicken.”

“Where’s Kayla?” I mumble on my way back to the kitchen. “And Keith? Why am I the only one working?”

“’Cause you’ll be the only one eating. I’m going out,” my older sister says, seated at the kitchen table. She blows on freshly painted nails. “And I can’t help set the table. My nails are still wet.”

On my way to get the chicken from the stove, I swipe a hand over one of her nails.

“You little brat.” Kayla glares at the dent in her manicure and tosses her emery board at me.

“Ow! Mama, Kayla’s throwing things at me.”

“You big baby,” Kayla grumbles.

“I’m not a baby.”

“Well, you sure sound like one,” Mama says, walking back into the kitchen. “Whatever you would do if I wasn’t standing right here, do that because I’m too tired to referee for the two of you.”

“All I needed to hear,” I mutter, grabbing a buttered roll from the basket of bread on the counter and throwing it at my sister.

“You better stop.” Kayla deflects the roll, and it lands on the table in front of her. “If I didn’t have a date, I’d deal with you now. If I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open.”

“Date?” Mama stops on her way back to the dining room with another dish. “Who has a date?”

“Um…” Kayla glares at me like it’s my fault. “I told you about him, Mama. You said it was okay if I went to the movies.”

“You said you were missing dinner because you were going to the movies with friends.” Mama continues into the dining room, but yells over her shoulder, “If your father hasn’t met him, you know it’s not happening.”

“Keith is a year younger than me,” Kayla shouts. “And you don’t halfway know where he is most of the time. He’s probably out with some girl right now.”

Mama reappears at the kitchen door, both brows lifted in the face of Kayla’s audacity.

“Who you yelling at?” She levels a stony look at my sister. “You lost your mind?”

“No, ma’am.” Kayla sighs heavily, her lips tightening over some rebellion she probably thought better of. “I’m just saying.”

“Just say it somewhere else,” Mama says. “And Keith’s a boy. It’s different.”

“Why is it different?” Kayla demands. “I’m older, but he has more freedom than I do. It’s not fair.”