The door swings open, and Max appears in his space ranger costume holding a thin book in his hand. “Wanna see my first reading book, Aunty Steph? Will you read it with me? Milla, you can listen.”

Max climbs into Aunty Steph’s lap and slowly sounds out the simple words in his reader. I look at his dark hair pressing against the hood of his costume. Even though my mother washes it several times a week, the whole jumpsuit is filthy.

“Why do you wear your costumes all the time, Max?” I say, interrupting him from Biff and Muff, who have a dog they pat.

Max looks up from his reader. “Because I like it.”

“But why?” I press. He looks at me blankly. I can see he doesn’t understand my question.

Aunty Steph smiles at me significantly. “Milla-babe, isn’t that he likes it reason enough?”

On the playground Monday before school, Natalie and I are wall ball captains, and it is my turn to choose first.

“Deb!” I say, calling Honey to my team before Natalie gets a chance.

Honey raises her eyebrows at me and then flashes me a wide smile. “Changed my mind,” she calls. “I’m back to Honey.”

“What?” I say.

“I’m Honey again,” she says.

“You are?” I ask, surprised.

“You sure?” Natalie echoes, even more surprised than me as Honey skips over to stand with me.

“Yup, everyone, call me Honey!”

And I don’t know if Honey privately spoke to all the teachers or Mrs. Wine telephoned the school, but from that day on Honey is called Hencha in the mornings and Honey in the afternoons. With the exception of Giveret Griswald, who pretends she doesn’t understand Honey’s English and insists on calling her Devorah, while Honey pretends she doesn’t understand Giveret Griswald’s Hebrew and doesn’t respond.

On the bus home that day though, I ask Honey what made her change her mind.

She shrugs. “I didn’t think anyone had ever put any thought into my name, chosen it for me. You know?”

“I guess so,” I say, thinking of Rut. I mean, my parents chose it because I was born just before the festival of Shavuot, when the Book of Ruth—Megillat Rut—is read in synagogue. But what does it really have to do with me?

“But then Abba told me about my great-grandmother Hencha—not the one whose house we have, the other one—Abba’s grandmother. And he showed me a picture. He said that she was a really cool and strong-willed lady. She was blond and didn’t look Jewish, but instead of going into hiding from the Nazis with a non-Jewish family, she chose to stay and help her mother with her younger siblings. And then got sent to a concentration camp with them.” Honey’s smattering of freckles have deepened, and she fingers the ends of her own blond ponytail thoughtfully. “Only she survived.”

We’re both quiet.

“I’m sorry for not calling you Deb if that’s what you wanted,” I say finally. “And … I’m sorry if I wasn’t more welcoming.”