“Milla, can you see me for a moment?” Mr. Sandler says. My heart sinks into my shoes and my face feels hot as I trudge over to the door, where he’s beckoning me to meet him outside. “Writer’s block?” he asks.

I nod. “Happens to the best of us,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t worry, you’ll do better next time.”

I try to smile and realize with alarm that tears are crowding behind my eyes.

“And, Milla, everybody feels moments of insecurity—even adults.” He smiles. “Some are just better at hiding it.”

I nod. Then I swallow and find I am able to smile back now. Even though I have a feeling this may not be the last time I feel insecure about insecurity.

“Guess who’s coming to dinner second night of Succot?” Honey says to me. It’s Shabbat afternoon, and we’re hanging out in the girls’ bathroom upstairs at the Wine house.

“Who?” I say dramatically. It could literally be anybody.

“Naomi Dayan,” she says, like I should know who that is.

“Who?” I say.

“You know, the speaker? From assembly?”

“Oh,” I say, impressed.

“Her father’s an Israeli diplomat and knows my grandfather.” Honey shrugs. She doesn’t think that stuff is a big deal. “Anyway, she’s spending the year here teaching classes and giving lectures.”

“Cool.” I think about her confidence in speaking to an audience.

“Shmuel Yosef is going to be there too,” Honey says. “At dinner, I mean.”

“Who?” I say. “Oh, wait, do you mean Sam?”

“He prefers Shmuel Yosef now, Milla, so we should be respectful of his getting more religious.”

“O-kay,” I say, about to roll my eyes at her tone before I stop myself. “Good to know,” I say instead. Sam—or Shmuel Yosef—is one of the Wines’ hangers. But he is more memorable to the neighborhood kids than the others because of the motorcycle he vrooms through the streets and then leaves parked on the Wines’ driveway all Shabbat so as not to break the laws of the Sabbath by riding home. All Saturday long, kids congregate around it like a magnet they cannot touch.

“What do you think of his beard?” Honey says.

“Um. I don’t?” Beards are something I spend zero time thinking about.

“Really? I think it’s so handsome.” She rolls onto her back on the fuzzy yellow bathroom rug, avoiding my very-highly-raised eyebrows.

“I’ve been thinking about the speaker though,” I tell her, deciding to file away Honey’s slightly pink-turning face and her use of the word handsome.

“Me too,” Honey says, rolling back toward me on the bathroom rug. “Do you want to come for dinner when she comes?”

“Aunty Steph is staying with us,” I say, a bit regretfully.

“Okay.” Honey shrugs. “By the way, do you know where Steph got her wraparound skirt?”

“Steph?” I say, raising my eyebrows again.

“She’s not my aunt,” Honey says. “Anyway, I was thinking I could use one like that to wear on Sundays.”