I grimace. Honey is quiet.

Honey’s real name is not even Honey. It’s Hencha. That’s her Jewish name anyway. She is named after her great-grandmother and no one expected her to be called Hencha (lucky for her!), but then they were too busy to come up with another name and just took to calling her Honey. She once showed me her birth certificate: It says “Baby Girl Wine.”

Everyone in our class is staring at Honey, waiting for her to answer. She doesn’t look worried exactly—her chin is high and her blond ponytail is steady—but her ears have turned red. She catches my eye, and I nod ever so slightly back to say, “Don’t worry, the sound of ‘Hencha’ will never leave my lips.”

I forgot to warn her that in our school the Judaic Studies teachers call you by your Hebrew name—whether you like it or not. Tali Mandelcorn is still Tali, which is short for Talia, Noam Cantor is still Noam, and Eitan Moses is still Eitan. But Ethans T. and W. are also Eitan, although Ethan S. is Eliezer. I, unfortunately, am Rut, the Hebrew for my middle name, Ruth, and pronounced “root.” I hate it!

I look up to see Natalie giving Honey a reassuring, sympathetic look.

Honey turns a stony gaze back to Giveret Griswald.

“Ani Honey,” she says again, not giving an inch.

Giveret Griswald clicks her tongue in annoyance. “Okay, ehhh, honey is dvash in Hebrew, but Dvash?—no! Dvash is not a name either. Ahhhhh, but what makes the honey? A bee—a devorah. Here we will call you Devorah. A beautiful name.”

I brace myself: I’m worried sparks are about to fly. For sure Honey is not going to back down.

“Beseder,” Honey says with a shrug.

Fine? I look at her sharply. It’s true she doesn’t really have a choice, but knowing Honey, I cannot believe she’s giving in so easily. Except that with each class after, when the teacher calls out Honey Wine on the attendance sheet and asks for her Hebrew name, she promptly supplies “Devorah.”

“I’m so sorry, I forgot to warn you about the Hebrew name,” I say when we are dismissed for recess. “I can’t believe you’re now Devorah!” I scrunch my face.

Honey smiles. “Don’t worry, Milla. No big deal. It’s like your Aunty Steph always says, ‘Lemonade out of lemons,’ right?”

“If you say so,” I say, relieved that she’s not mad at me. I guess there’s nothing wrong with Devorah as long as Honey thinks it’s okay. But I also feel a little twinge of unfairness. Why do I have to be Rut? Who knew you could just change your name?

After lunch, we return to a different classroom, and Mrs. McIntosh, the math teacher, takes attendance. “Honey Wine?” she calls toward the end of the list. Honey raises her hand.

“Actually, my name is Deborah,” she says. “But you can call me Debbie.”

I cough.

I look over and expect to share a smirk, but Honey doesn’t notice. She’s watching Mrs. McIntosh scribbling numbers on the whiteboard. I try to catch her eye the rest of the class, but Honey doesn’t turn around once—she’s too busy participating! It turns out Honey is really good at math, my weakest subject.