“Oh, I think you have plenty of freedom, missy,” Mama says. “You can take up ‘fair’ with your daddy. His meeting went late, but he’s on his way home now. How ‘bout that?”

The comment does exactly what Mama knew it would. Shuts Kayla down. Daddy doesn’t have to rule our house with an iron fist. He’s a stern man, but it’s his heart that keeps us in line. He’d do anything for any one of us, and we know it. Disappointing him is punishment enough.

“Listen,” Mama says. “When this boy of yours comes, just introduce him to your father and it’ll be fine, Zee.”

Mama always uses our middle names when she’s being tender with us. All our first names begin with K. Kayla, Keith, Kimba, but our middle names are all for people our parents admired in history. Kayla Zora for Zora Neale Hurston. Keith Stokely for Stokely Carmichael. Kimba Truth for Sojourner Truth.

The doorbell rings and I shoot out of my seat, race to the living room and jerk open the door.

“Kimba,” Mrs. Stern says with a smile, standing on the front porch holding a covered dish of her own. “Hi.”

“Hey, Mrs. Stern.”

She walks inside while Mr. Stern and Ezra cross the street from their house, both carrying dishes, too. In a line-up, you’d never know they were father and son. Ezra’s much lighter skinned with blue eyes, and he’s small for his age. Mr. Stern easily stands six feet six inches.

“Hey, Ez.” I step back so they can enter. “Hey, Mr. Stern.”

Mama and Mrs. Stern are already laughing in the kitchen. When they get together, there’s no stopping them, whether it’s Saturday evening dinners or the mah-jongg games they play with some of the ladies from Mrs. Stern’s synagogue.

“Joseph late again?” Mrs. Stern asks, setting a basket of challah bread on the table beside the fish she usually brings.

“Girl, yes.” Mama sighs and shrugs. “With the Olympics coming soon, Mayor Jackson is trying to get as much done as he can before his term is up. So that means Joseph’s always late. He’s on his way, though. Fifteen minutes tops.”

“Mind if I watch the game while we wait?” Mr. Stern asks, nodding toward the living room. “Someone hasn’t let me turn on the television all weekend.”

Mrs. Stern’s mouth tightens, but she and my mother both nod permission. Even though Mr. Stern doesn’t believe in God, Ezra’s mom draws the line at the Sabbath. Once the sun sets on Friday, she doesn’t turn on the television or turn on lights or drive or anything until after the Saturday evening service.

“How was synagogue?” Mama asks, laying silverware by the plates.

“Good.” Mrs. Stern sets a bottle of wine beside Mama’s sweet tea. “Helen and Dina were there, the ones who came to mah-jongg last week.”