“Thanks,” Macy says. “I have to go say hi to my grandma, and introduce you, okay?” She grimaces, like maybe she’s just as nervous as I am, like maybe neither of us wants to seem too nerdy, even if we are outside of school.

I follow Macy through a living room and into the kitchen, where her grandma is humming to herself as she rolls out some kind of dough on top of the counter.

“How was school today, Mieko?” her grandma says without looking up from what she’s doing. I like the sound of her accent, the way she separates her syllables so they are precise and clean. When I was younger, Mama used to get on me for mumbling, and I would have to practice enunciating my words instead of mashing them together. To-day, I repeat in my head.

“Sobo, this is Sadie from—”

Macy starts to say, but as her grandma looks up, she interrupts, “Why did you not say we have company?”

“I was—this is Sadie, from my class,” Macy continues.

“Say-tea,” her grandma repeats, breaking my name into two distinct words, making it sound prettier, more sophisticated. Then, with a big smile: “Welcome; so nice to meet you!”

“Well, we sort of met before,” I tell her. “Last year, when you came to our school.”

“Oh! Yes, yes, I remember you,” she says. That makes me smile, because I often thought about her after her presentation to our class. She just seemed like such a grandmotherly grandma—sweet and kind and fair—like I imagined my own grandmothers would have been, had I ever gotten a chance to know them.

“We’re working on a project together, Sobo.” Macy gives me a tiny secret nod, and I know: she wants me to play along.

“Yeah,” I add. “For our social studies class.”

Her Grandma immediately goes to the refrigerator, opening the drawers and the freezers, rummaging through. “Go. Go work, Mieko. I will bring snacks.”

Macy waves her hand in a quick motion to lead me out of the kitchen. I follow her back out across the living room. “I knew she’d leave us alone if I mentioned schoolwork.”

I wonder if Macy feels bad like I do about the little lies.

We pass a big sliding glass door that must lead to the backyard, and there are tons of potted plants sitting in the sunlight. When Macy sees me pause to admire them, she stops to let me look closer. “My dad loves to grow things; we always have a garden outside in the summer, and he brings his favorite plants inside when the weather gets cold.”

“I love them,” I say, cradling a spidery cluster of leaves that are flowing over the sides of one of the pots. “My mom likes having plants in our house, but they always shrivel up.”