When I get home from school, my mom is in the kitchen with her i love you a latke apron on, and okay, we are stereotypes sometimes. But the thing is, we’re not very Jewish. I’ve been to temple only a handful of times. I can’t tell you any religious stories. But I know how to make some mean hamantaschen, which is, incidentally, what Mom is doing right now.

“We need pastries,” she says, rolling out the dough with Bubbe’s rolling pin, which she gave us when she left for the nursing home. She loves it there. She’s become a champion Wii bowler and leader of the mahjong club.

“Fruit or chocolate?” I ask, already walking to the Nutella.

“What do you think?” Mom asks, holding her hand out. I give her the container and we scoop small amounts of chocolate onto the pastries, then fold them up to look like triangles. Some people make the dough from scratch, but Mom uses ready-made croissants. Bubbe called this meshuggeneh, we call it quicker.

As my mom puts them in the oven, I look at her and am reminded how much I look like her. Same dark, curly hair. Same bumpy nose. Same tanned skin. Teenage pictures of my mom are essentially me. It’s weird how that happens—poor Dad isn’t represented at all.

As we wait, Mom asks about school, about classes, and I answer, but I’m not really thinking of that. I’m thinking of Nik, of Jessica, of how unfair it is that she can go about with no one mocking her. That she’s the default—beautiful, blonde, white, Christian—and the rest of us are merely “others” to her. To society, I guess. I see the news. I see the anti-Semitic movements. I see the travel bans.

It’s easier to ignore than embrace. But is it worth it?

So when Mom asks, “Any plans for the rest of the week?”

I answer, “Yeah, I think so.”

After class the next day, I walk up to Nik, grab his arm, and pull him outside. He comes willingly.

“Okay, hi,” he says with a confused smile.

“Hey, so I’ve been thinking.” As I brace myself to tell him my idea, none other than Jessica walks out, followed by her posse. She glances at us quickly, rolls her eyes, and says, “Figures you’re friends. You’re both losers anyway.” Then she walks away, an air of superiority surrounding her.

“You were saying?” Nik says with a groan, turning back to me.

“We need revenge.”

“Revenge . . .” he says.

“We need to do something that’ll show her we’re humans, we have feelings, and she can’t, like, keep talking to us the way she does. She can’t keep bullying us.”

He nods, then asks, “What do you have in mind?”