Operation Sisterhood: Chapters 1–7

Ms. Phillip said the contest was inspired by some guy who'd started his book with “It was a dark and stormy night,” which apparently was the worst writing ever, even if it didn't seem so bad to Bo.

She pulled an overstuffed folder that said BO'S BAKES on the front from the middle of a precariously placed tower of books.

The recipe was clearly unfinished, with crossed-out words, question marks, and phrases like: “How much cinnamon?” and “Almond extract or anise?” in the margins.

They'd been working on Dinobotland ever since Bo had started babysitting him a year ago. It was getting so big that they had to store it in sections in their respective apartments.

Since she lives right next door to them, you'll probably be cooking and baking up a storm, getting tips and tricks from Black culinary royalty.

Last year, Bo had asked why there was a plaque with DJ Kool Herc's name on it when Kool Herc hadn't even lived in the building, but Mrs. Dougie had told her to hush because she had been “down with him back in the day,” and a friend of his cousin's had lived in the building, and that was enough to claim that they lived in “the heart of hip-hop history.”

But it was the same at school, where Bo managed to glide between the boundaries of cliques, groups, trios, and clubs, never getting deep enough into any to need to pledge allegiance.

His lip trembled and Bo heard an ominous sniffle.

Bo shrugged, and Dougie sniffed loudly, still clutching the wrapper. “You are a very good steward,” she said softly.

Bo glared at her, and she laughed louder.

The casual service was her favorite: low-key, lots of music, no swinging ball of incense that made her cough.

I'm good at predicting. And deducing—did I tell you I'm working on a series of detective novels?

For a fleeting moment, she thought about asking Mum to come to the bathroom with her so she could spill it all—the whole story of the cake recipe, asking Mum what this dinner with Bill's daughter really meant, and maybe just bursting into tears because even though she wasn't exactly sad, she needed a good cry.

“Lemon zest or oil?” Bo squinted as she read the handwritten notes in the margin of the recipe.

Mum was hoping to teach her own “culinary tales” workshops one day, and she was thinking of writing a book about the history of different foods across the African diaspora. Bo loved the word diaspora—it felt wide and deep.

It was somewhere between magnificent and eccentric, which was a word she'd heard Auntie Fola use after she'd met the rest of Bill's house family.

There was a poster of a raised fist and the words NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE! underneath in one window, and a painting with fancy lettering that read LET US THEREFORE MAKE EVERY EFFORT TO DO WHAT LEADS TO PEACE AND TO MUTUAL EDIFICATION, which Bo thought sounded churchy and also not easy to do.

So there were the Twins, Lil and Lee. And they were identical. What if they tried to trick her? She’d have to figure out subtle ways to tell them apart right away.

Another girl, who looked like an anime version of the first one, with her long hair up in two high buns that cascaded down into long two-strand twists, waved and yelled, “WELCOME! Hi, I'm Lil!” and then turned and ran up the flight of stairs.

A turtle sauntered into view, looking around like, Hey, what's all this?

Then, a flurry of apology and more “Welcome!”s from Bill and a woman who picked up the turtle with one hand and held a dripping paintbrush in the other.

Bo figured she must be Lil and Lee's mother, “Mama Hope,” the mapmaker, and wondered if she was about to paint a map on the turtle's ample back.

Now everyone stood looking at the muffin tray. Sunday pried out one of the smoky blobs, and it plopped onto the plate like a mini-asteroid.

He eyed the still-smoking tray. “Science experiment?” he asked, giving Sunday a forehead kiss. “Looks very authentic!”

“What kind of feline emergency, Pops?” asked Lee.
“Nothing dire, just living out the diva cat stereotype,” said Papa Charles, untying his cape and hanging it on a hook over a bright yellow apron.

“It's MUFFINS,” Sunday said loudly. “WELCOME MUFFINS, not SCIENCE, not dinner.”
“Not edible,” muttered Lil, and Lee nudged her.

She pointed Bo to the big pillows on the floor. Lil was sprawled out on two of them, and Bo pretended not to see Lee give her twin a look before Lil moved over to make room for Bo.

“We're lifelong learners. We aren't limited by the confines of the school building or some state- sanctioned curriculum, we—"

“We're lifelong learners. We aren't limited by the confines of the school building or some state- sanctioned curriculum, we—"

Bo raised an eyebrow. Because she wasn't sure if this was still part of a big joke, and if percussive was actually a word or just something that these freeschooling, joke-playing sisters made up. Did they even know claves from castanets?

“Thank you,” whispered Lee, studiously ignoring Sunday's glare.

“I call it the Seven Layers of the Earth,” said Mama Hope. “It's my own geology-inspired invented recipe. But I think the mantle and the asthenosphere needed a little more time in the oven.”

Mr. Bultitude, apparently an expert at detecting food-on-the-floor moments, sidled in, sniffed at the blob, and then backed away, hissing.

“So what had happened was...,” started Lee, “as I mentioned last week, the abandoned animal crisis in New York City has risen to unprecedented—”

“Nope, nope, nope,” said Mama Hope. Papa Charles shook his head vigorously.