She has shared a secret with them, and they are a group that prides themselves on righting wrongs. They will do their best, for now, to help her. As long as she doesn’t fuck it up. As long as she holds her own and stays loyal. Fidelity is very important to the mothers of Ivy Woods. They are nothing if not faithful.

She is a little too pretty, of course. She looks a little too good in her Halloween costume. She laughs a little too loud. She is one of them, but she is also a threat. Even if they don’t admit it to themselves.

There she is, sitting with the other four. Telling a story about something from long ago, something grand that uses lots of hand gestures. The mothers are noticing how the fathers watch, too, for their friend has that charm about her, and it’s not just about the extra eye liner and mascara and blush, not just about the short dress and long legs. It’s some inner shine, some burst of energy and passion. It is a sense of instability and mystery that surrounds her—do any of them really know her? Do they understand why she’s chosen to live here, of all places, when she could be anywhere else at all?

And with that uncertainty comes a colder judgment. They have chosen to let her in, but they also want her to know that she can, at any time, be removed. Maybe she knows that, too. They’ve done it before, haven’t they? Maybe this is why she seems to try extra hard to win their approval.

Watch now as she swings her arms out, leans forward to finish the punch line. Her hand hits the table next to her, where one of them has set down her cell phone. Because the pavement of Ivy Woods Drive isn’t as perfect as the people, there are small divots, uneven planes, and the table’s legs aren’t entirely stable. Her wild, nervous motion sends the cell phone arcing into the air. It falls with a skitter and a clatter, directly into the center of the small firepit set up in the middle of the cul-de-sac.

There is a flurry of activity. Someone finds a metal stick used for s’mores and tries to fish it out, but by then it’s clear it’s ruined. Toast.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she says. She is burning with embarrassment. She cannot be consoled.

It’s Queen Bee’s phone. The woman who’s always been in charge. The fixer. Watch her blow it off. She’s a martyr. She’s a saint. She says she’s just glad no one got hurt. “Cell phones can be replaced,” she intones with gravity. And everyone appreciates her kindness.

“This is turning out to be a very weird block party,” someone whispers with a tragic look.

Little does she know.