“Succot is the festival of insecurity. And you teenagers and soon-to-be teenagers—you are in a temporary dwelling right now, just like a succah. You know that adulthood exists; you even know actual adults.”

I laugh appreciatively with everyone else. I like that she’s being funny on her way to trying to tell us something meaningful.

“But you have no idea how it might exist for you, what it will look like.” She glances at her notes before looking back up to meet our gazes. “Most nations don’t like to be reminded of their humble origins, but the Jewish people’s three pilgrimage festivals—Pesach, Shavuot, and Succot—do just that. They are celebrations, but embedded within them is always a reminder of where we have come from and who we are.”

I realize that my hands are making small motions in the air, following how she uses hers.

She adjusts her headscarf slightly and leans forward on the podium. “Embrace the things you can do to move yourself toward independence and the responsibilities that come with it. But also embrace the uncertainty, the insecurity, the time that you are taking to discover who you are.”

“Discovah who yew ahhh,” Natalie imitates, nudging me with her elbow, but I pretend I don’t hear her.

In the afternoon, Mr. Sandler tells us to take out a fresh piece of paper.

“Pop creative writing assignment,” he says. “I want you to take ten minutes and write about what insecurity means to you.”

Honey raises her hand. “Can I write about food insecurity?”

I know the term from Aunty Steph, who took me to help at a soup kitchen last Thanksgiving, but there are lots of puzzled looks around me.

“Sure,” Mr. Sandler says, nodding. Then he clarifies for the rest of the class: “You can write about insecurity in terms of food and shelter—not knowing where your next meal will come from or where you will sleep each night, and if it’s safe. Or you can write about it in terms of feelings and emotions. Interpret it however you like.”

What does insecurity mean to me? I write at the top of my page. Then I doodle a little on the side of the paper, in the margins. Then around my title. I color in the holes in the o’s. Then I do the e’s. Then the a’s. Everyone around me is busy scribbling away. I cover my paper with my hand so no one can see I haven’t written anything. Normally I love creative writing assignments: I can fill sheets and sheets with my ideas and whenever the teacher says the time is up, I always feel I have more to say. But right now, I don’t know where to begin. I look at Honey, her head bent over her paper in concentration, her ponytail falling to one side. Mean to me, I write again. Mean to ME, I write underneath it. WHAT does it mean to me? When the time is finally up, I fold my sheet in three and slide it into my notebook to throw away as soon as no one is looking.