“That’s okay,” Honey says. “I wasn’t worried … But thanks for saying that.” She says the last bit in a rush. Then she grins impishly. “Anyway, being Deb was fun for a while, but Honey’s way better for me. Honestly, who else in the world is called Honey Wine?”

“Just my best friend,” I say.

“She’s so mean,” I say. We are in the Wines’ front yard, and Honey is putting covered foil tins into a faded navy-blue stroller so that we can walk the food over to Aginéni’s. It’s the day before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and school has ended early with no homework because of the holiday, so I came back to Honey’s. But then Mrs. Wine told Honey she needs her to deliver food to Aginéni so she’ll have a stocked fridge for the holiday.

“Oh, she’s so sweet. She’s cute,” Honey says, accidentally pushing the stroller away as she tries to slide in the heavy tin of brisket. I raise my eyebrows and roll the stroller back to her, holding it steady while she carefully places the apple kugel on top of the brisket.

All the kids in our neighborhood know Aginéni for a few reasons. One of them being that she drives herself around in a little red car honking at all the kids playing hockey or hopscotch in the crescent in front of Honey’s house. She doesn’t like to back her car out into oncoming traffic, so instead she makes three right turns to get onto Honey’s street. Then she drives around the half circle, her fist on the horn, scattering sticks, cracking Hula-Hoops, and breaking fat pieces of chalk before she’s finally back in the direction she came from and ready to make her left turn.

Aginéni is not a sweet, old grandma type, and this is the main reason she is very well known.

“Shhhhh!” Aginéni will say in shul if a child dares whine or ask their mother or father for something. “Vilde chaya,” she’ll add, muttering about kids who behave without any decorum—all this from her front-row balcony seat, where she can keep an eye on both the ladies’ section and the main sanctuary down below. On the rare occasion Aginéni is late to shul on Shabbat, woe to the unsuspecting person who has plopped herself down in what appeared to be an available seat. After a hard rap on the shoulder, no one ever makes the same mistake again.

“I’m not scared of an old lady,” Honey says as she finishes loading the food and crosses her arms. “Anyway, we can put in for community service points.” So far, Honey is winning in our class. Honey likes to win at things, and this is an easy one for her.

“Shnorrer,” I say, telling her she’s being grubby, another one of Aginéni’s favorites.

“Farbissineh!” she says, telling me I’m acting like Miriam.