“She called me a crack whore.”

“You are one!” Lexie cried.

“Both of you, stop! Lexie, you go to the bathroom right now and get cleaned up. Angelique, you sit down,” Soleil commanded in her most authoritarian tone.

At five feet six inches and a hundred and forty pounds of pure pregnancy, she doubted she was all that intimidating, but she’d never had a discipline situation get out of hand in all the five years she’d been running the farm.

Lexie rolled her eyes and stormed out of the room, and Angelique stared after her for a few moments before relenting and sitting down at the table.

Soleil sat opposite her. “Tell me your version of the disagreement,” she said calmly.

“She’s such a spoiled bitch.”

“Without profanity,” Soleil added.

“Okay, she’s such a spoiled female canine.”

Behind all her street attitude, Angelique was wickedly smart.

“Why do you say that?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, slumped in the chair and refused to say anything more.

Soleil leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. “She hurt you, and you wanted to lash out.”

Angelique narrowed her eyes. “Don’t give me your dumb social-worker strategies.”

Soleil sighed. Why hadn’t she learned by now? “Okay, keeping it real,” she said in her best south Berkeley accent. “She dissed you, and it pissed you off, which is understandable. But we have to live here together without fighting. Part of this program is learning to work and live cooperatively.”

The girl shook her head, sending a cascade of long cornrowed hair, accented with white beads, across her shoulder. “I want to go home.”

Was there a full moon? Between the escaped goat, the fighting teenage girls and West showing up out of the blue, Soleil was beginning to feel weary beyond measure. And she wanted ice cream.

“I need you here,” she said calmly. “And your neighborhood needs you to go back ready to help run the garden.”