“No. Hannah is just…” I don’t even know. Temporarily blinded by popularity? Internalizing biases? I don’t know what Hannah Callahan is doing, but I need to protect her and snap her out of The Monicas phase ASAP.

“I thought we established this house is a Monica-free zone.” Mom enters the kitchen, headphones around her neck, to check on the giant pot of matzo ball soup simmering on the stove. It’s one of two meals that Michelle Jacobson is capable of pulling off, and she always makes it special for the first night of Rosh Hashanah.

Delia shrugs. “Hannah wants me to get to know them so I’ll invite them to my bat mitzvah. Maybe if they get to know me, the microaggressions will stop. I don’t know. I feel like I’m losing my best friend.”

I shake my head. “You don’t owe The Monicas anything.”

“And you are not inviting them to your bat mitzvah. I am vetoing that now,” Mom says.

Delia’s shoulders relax. “Thanks. It’s so confusing.”

“What’s confusing?” Dad asks.

He enters the scene just after his cue, emerging from a Lincoln Street Blues rehearsal in the basement.

“Hannah and The Monicas,” Mom says.

Dad’s expression is blank.

“Hannah’s new best friends?” Delia pushes her chair back, scraping wood against wood. “The reason we saw the new Captain Marvel movie together last weekend instead of me going with her?”

“Right, of course!” Dad opens a cabinet and reaches for a glass. “And to think, I thought you wanted to go the movies with me.”

I swear my dad lives in another universe that is composed of time signatures and treble clefs. Dad’s recall is terrible unless it has anything to do with music or his band students.

I mean, who can forget The Monicas? There are two of them!

Delia rolls her eyes. “I’m twelve.”

Dad shrugs. “I’m an optimist.”

More like oblivious, I think. There is a beat of silence, as if Delia is waiting for Dad to ask a follow-up question. It’s the same beat I gave him in the days following Melted’s rejection, waiting for us to have a meaningful conversation about it.

It’s been almost two weeks.

Delia shouldn’t hold her breath.

“We’re leaving for synagogue in an hour, Dee,” Dad says.

Her shoulders sag. “The soccer uniform isn’t quite temple couture, is it? I’ll go get ready.”

Tonight, Delia is participating in the service at Temple Beth Elohim, quietly chanting the chatzi kaddish on the bima with the other b’nai mitzvah students. She retreats to her room and Mom doesn’t react until we hear the door close behind her.

“Really, Aaron,” Mom says. “You could at least try to pay attention.”