On cue, we both cough into our fists and say, “Miriam.” Of course, I’m totally scared of Aginéni too—everyone is, except maybe for Honey—but we both crack up as we turn away again.

When we reach the stairs that lead to the lower level, I say, “It’s true though about Mr. Eisner. I mean, your bat mitzvah is in March.” I don’t add that mine is in June. We both know that once Honey is twelve and too old for the men’s section, there’s no way I will go to Mr. Eisner by myself.

“So we have until March,” Honey says, hopping onto the banister and sliding down sidesaddle.

“I can’t believe we’re starting middle school,” I say, meeting her at the bottom of the stairs. “My mom told me all the sixth-grade girls do a bat mitzvah presentation at the end of the year. Does your school do something too?”

Honey is still sitting on the bottom curl of the banister swinging her legs, but a weird expression has crossed her face. “Huh?”

“Does your school have a bat mitzvah presentation or something?” I repeat. Honey and I don’t go to the same school.

“Oh, um, maybe,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows. My nine years of experience being best friends with Honey Wine tells me this is something she would know.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“Nothing,” she says. Then the uncomfortable expression leaves her face and is replaced by her familiar grin. “C’mon, let’s go see if we can sneak into the kitchen and get some kiddush food.” She hops down from the banister and loops her arm through mine.

My mouth waters at the thought of hot potato kugel, maybe with a side of salty herring on a cracker. I grin back and give her arm a squeeze.

Everything is always better with Honey by my side.

The next Friday night, I wriggle out of the cardigan my mother insisted I take and bounce down my driveway to my favorite place in the world: Honey’s house. It’s Labor Day weekend, and the twilight is warm, the sky a deep blue above me as I take the narrow dirt shortcut and emerge onto Honey’s crescent-shaped street. At the deepest part of the curve, the Wines’ red-bricked house sits on a wide double lot like its arms are outstretched in welcome.

I bound up the front steps. The big brass knocker that used to be attached to their heavy front door has fallen off. We don’t use the doorbell on Shabbat, so I knock as hard as I can with my bare knuckles. This is mostly for show. In the spot where other people have a lock, the Wines have a little gold keypad fitted to the door, and like any neighborhood kid worth their salt, I know that to get into the Wines’ you just press 61318, then turn the dial and push the door open.

“Helloooo?!” I call, opening the door for myself. “Good Shabbos!” I hear the light sound of women’s voices coming from deeper in the house. The men must not be back from shul yet. I drop my cardigan on the front-staircase banister, right on top of the spare wig Mrs. Wine plunks on her head whenever she leaves the house, and follow the sound down a wide hallway to a broadly lit scene in the living room.