As I walked the few houses to Bettina’s for the block party planning session, a barred owl in the distance gave its throaty hoot that sounded like—Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all? It was a phrase Adam, intrigued by all the wildlife, had discovered on a nature website when we’d first moved here. We’d certainly seen our fair share already, fat slugs on the sidewalk in early morning, deer feeding off grass in the woods by the lake, and an alarmingly large snakeskin Adam found when organizing the garage that I hadn’t told Lily about. I liked the red foxes the best. They ran free, unafraid. I’d often wake in the morning and see one curled up sleeping on the tree stump in our backyard like a big house cat, not a care in the world.

I followed the stone path up to the porch, running my fingers over my navy-blue wrap dress. I was going for simple and classy, hopefully effortless, like earlier that day I hadn’t yanked out nearly every piece of clothing I owned. I felt like my twelve-year-old self, all braces and no breasts, wanting desperately to be invited to Carley Aronowitz’s bat mitzvah, but then later worrying I was only included because my mother called her mother and insisted on it.

You want to be the popular girl, just once, the voice inside me nagged.

And why shouldn’t I be, this time?

I rang the doorbell, and Bettina answered, drink in hand, lips painted a deep red. She flashed me a tight smile but didn’t say a word, just unlocked her screen door and pushed it open.

I could hear the others talking inside. “Hi there,” I said. “Hope I’m not late.”

“Not at all.” She gestured for me to enter.

The house felt cold, and not just the temperature. One of those modern homes that looks sophisticated but not inviting. Weird marble pots and angular stone doll statues. Metal wall sculptures that could’ve doubled for torture devices. Tiny, lumpy, twisted gourds lined the fireplace mantel. Everywhere I glanced, there was something decorative that could hurt you.

“What a beautiful home,” I said anyway.

The women were sitting in the sunken living room. Three of them, plus Bettina. I wondered about Georgeann’s nickname, the Ivy Five, if that had been a mistake. Or if they were still waiting for someone else to show up.

“Theresa!” Kendra McCaul said. “Come, sit.” She attempted to rearrange a stack of small hard decorative pillows on the couch to make space for me.