“Greetings! Toodle-oo!” It’s Penelope. Penelope Persephone Crisp. There on the porch, banging on the door.

Oh God.

The last time I saw this person, I murdered this person.

Okay, but I didn’t.

I didn’t.

Obviously.

Because here she is!

So, really, I should just act normal. Because nothing happened.

Again, Daffodil, repeat after me.

None. Of. That. Happened.

Just calm down.

Quite frankly, I find myself both annoyed and comforted by her unexpected presence. Again, there’s not a word for that. Annforted. Comfannoyed?

Yes, I’m comfannoyed.

But her presence does substantiate the fact that I did not kill her. I think we can all agree, this is a bonus.

“Is anyone home? Helloooo?” She peers through the little glass window, her perky orange hat perched atop her head.

“Coming! Yes, I’m here!” I lug my slug self down the stairs and to the front, opening the door.

“Oh, dear. Did I wake you?” She adds, “You look dreadful.”

“Thanks. Yes. I’m not really a morning person,” I say, a not-so-subtle hint to never come over this early.

“Well, you know what they say, the early bird gets the worm!”

“And, also, no sleep . . . so it really should be ‘the early bird gets no sleep.’”

She looks at me, mock reproachful. “Oh, you! Well, you are clever, I’ll give you that. No wonder they let you into Bryn Mawr. You know, I have two cousins who went to Vassar, a niece who went to Radcliffe, a granddaughter who just graduated from Mount Holyoke, and another granddaughter who will be attending Smith in the fall. Almost all the Seven Sisters seem to be represented! No Barnard, yet, however. I don’t know quite why that is. Quite a campus there, you know. . . .”

As she’s giving this Seven Sisters promotional speech she glides around the room, taking off her hat, dusting off a few books, readjusting a pastoral painting of some kind of autumnal hunt, and then sitting down in a wingback chair.

I can’t help marveling at her assumption of being welcome. Yes, she is welcome . . . but would it kill her to ask at least?

Don’t say kill her. Keep “kill” and “her” in different sentences, Daffodil.

“I’ll bet you haven’t had one proper meal since you’ve been staying here, have you?” She looks at me. “Tell me, what have you been eating, dear girl?”

I don’t like where this is going. Last time we had this conversation it ended in homicide.

“Um . . . mostly ramen noodles,” I admit.

“Dreadful. We shall have to fix that. Do you have any money? I could give you some,” she suggests.

“Oh God, no. I couldn’t take it. I’m fine really.” Even the suggestion somehow fills me with shame.

But now she is looking somewhere else. “That’s strange.”

Dread rolls down my spine, a cold wave. The tone shift. From Mary Poppins to one of Macbeth’s witches. This has happened before. Is it happening again? I follow her eye to where she is looking.