Jessi’s mom gave me a ride home from practice, and when I walked into the kitchen, Dad was chopping up vegetables and Mom was slicing grilled chicken.

“Dinner salad?” I asked.

Mom nodded. “With lots of avocado, promise! Now why don’t you go shower before dinner?”

“Sure,” I said, and I took three steps toward the stairs and then stopped.

Maisie was standing in the kitchen doorway. She had her hair pulled into a messy bun, and she had makeup on her face. A lot of makeup. Dark streaks on her cheeks and down the bridge of her nose. Thick black eyeliner and purple eye shadow. She’d done something to her eyebrows, so they were dark brown, darker than her hair.

I was stunned. “Maisie—what?”

“I’m going to go with you on your next modeling shoot,” she said. “I’m going to be discovered, just like you.”

Mom looked up from the cutting board. “Oh my goodness, Maisie. What have you done?”

“I found a makeup tutorial online,” she answered. “Everybody is doing this look.”

“Not everybody who is eight years old,” Mom scolded. “Did you use my makeup for that?”

“Whose else would I use? Devin doesn’t have any. And she’s supposed to be a model.” She shook her head, like I was the one who was acting ridiculous.

Dad was trying not to crack up. Mom just kept shaking her head.

I couldn’t help myself. “Maisie, what kind of makeup look is that supposed to be? It’s a little bit . . . extra.”

“It’s from Bethany Pierre, and she has two million followers,” Maisie replied. She pointed to the dark lines on her cheeks. “This is called contouring.” Then she pointed to her eyes. “Bethany says that purple is on trend right now. Only she calls it orchid.”

“Maisie, go wash that off,” Mom said.

“That’s not fair!” Maisie cried. “Why does Devin get to be a model and I don’t?”

“I’m not really a pro model, Maisie,” I said. “I’m just trying it out.”

“Then why can’t I try it out?” Maisie asked.

Mom sighed. “Maisie, I’m not really sure how I feel about this whole modeling thing. It’s already making you think you have to wear makeup, and I certainly don’t want to expose you to any more of that at your age. Now please go and wash your face.”

Maisie frowned, turned around, and stomped up the stairs.

Dad and I burst out laughing.

“That was . . . frightening,” I said in a loud whisper.

“Poor Maisie,” Dad said through his laughter.

“This isn’t funny!” Mom said firmly. “Don’t you see? Maisie felt like she needed to wear all that makeup to be ‘discovered.’ ”

“Well, I don’t even wear that much makeup at the shoots,” I said. “She just doesn’t know better.”