Lily wasn’t kidding about her mom zonking out by eight. We tiptoe through the kitchen to the foyer at eight fifteen, Mrs. Bennet’s snores loud enough to mask the squeaky front door.
“I keep meaning to oil that,” Lily says as she turns her key in the dead bolt. “Let us be swift of foot! The bus waits for no woman!”
We jog down the block, more challenging than it sounds since we’re all wearing shoes that aren’t appropriate for any sport other than standing still looking cute. The bus screeches up beside the curb just as we’re reaching the corner, and thankfully, it’s a driver who waits the extra six seconds for us to throw ourselves through the open door.
“Thank you!” we each say as we tap our fare cards. Well, Lily and Sierra tap their cards—I use cash. No electronic trail that way. And
