Currently, I am eating my feelings in apple wedges in said kitchen and lamenting about the lack of shofar in my life this holiday season with Delia and Hannah. Outside, Reid is officiating an intense game of cornhole: moms vs. dads.

“You’re just upset you don’t have an excuse to stare at Eli,” Delia says.

“Hey!” I swat Delia’s arm, but that’s not not true. Eli has curly black hair that’s a little too long and a one-dimpled smile that’s insane. He’s super involved with the Chabad at Boston University, where he’s a freshman, so the opportunities for swooning are limited these days.

What can I say? Older, unattainable, unrequited crushes are absolutely my thing. It’s not like there’s anyone at my school to flirt with.

“Well, I for one love Saturday services,” Delia says, dipping an apple wedge into the bowl of honey on the kitchen island we congregate around. “It’s one less opportunity for the gentiles to mess up.”

I snort. Delia’s not wrong. In Lincoln, being Jewish means dealing with adults who are incapable of looking at a calendar. It’s how Fitz and I became friends when she moved here from Dallas in eighth grade—we bonded over missing a field trip for Rosh Hashanah. Commiserating over Jewish feelings makes for an instant friendship.

“This is the first time we’ll be in the class picture since fourth grade,” Hannah says, pushing up the sleeves of her pink sweater and reaching for an apple wedge. Hannah is thankfully not acting like a third Monica at the moment. Delia begged me before we left to not make a big deal out of The Monicas situation and because I am an A+ sister, I oblige.

“And we only need to have the excused absence conversation with the front office once this year. Sorry, Natalie, but I love Saturday holidays,” Delia says.

“It’s always so awkward,” Hannah agrees. “Ms. Simpson acts like she’s doing us a favor.”

The oven timer beeps three times, staccato, and the moms rush into the kitchen through the sliding door that connects it to the back patio. It’s coordinated almost as if they have a sixth sense, and not because Rebecca—Reid’s mom—synced the kitchen timer with her phone.

“Girls, can you set the table?” Mom says to us, opening the long cutlery drawer.

“Best out of five?” Reid’s dad, Leonard, shouts from outside. “Winner takes all after dinner?”

Rebecca smirks at Leonard and wow, it’s Reid’s smirk.

In case you’re wondering where he gets his competitiveness from, look no further.