When I get there, Miriam doesn’t let us into the bathroom. “Are you making or just reading in there?” Honey demands. She rattles the doorknob.

“Honey and Shmuel Yosef sitting in a tree,” Miriam sings from deep within.

Honey’s ears turn red. “Go flush yourself down the toilet!” she yells through the door.

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G—”

We go to her room and flop on the floor.

“What do you think of Noam?” I ask her, trying to change the subject—sort of.

“I mean, honestly, anybody could tell you he’s totally not suited for me,” Honey says, ignoring my question and not noticing that my face flushed a bit when I asked it. “Shmuel Yosef is much more suited to your aunt. That was such a good idea to bring them together. Wasn’t it?”

I guess it was both of our ideas that led to Aunty Steph and Shmuel Yosef meeting. I sigh when I remember him walking us home last night: When we got to the path between our streets, it wasn’t wide enough for the three of us to go through together, so Aunty Steph waved me ahead while she and Shmuel Yosef followed behind, murmuring quietly in the darkness.

“Well, who knows what will happen,” I say. “They haven’t even been on one date yet.”

“Puh-lease,” Honey scoffs competitively. “Do I know my customers, or do I know my customers?” I peer at her and cock my head. I really don’t get how Honey can move on from things so easily. When she stumbles, she just picks herself right back up.

“We might actually be really good at this,” she cries. “We could start a business!” She leaps to her feet and gives a big stretch, almost like she’s climbing out of clothes that are suddenly too small for her and leaving them in a pile on the floor.

“Hey, I have an idea,” I say, the thought suddenly forming in my mind with perfect clarity. “How about we go shopping?”

“You mean by ourselves?”

I grin. “Yup. Just us.”

“Definitely.”

“No moms. Our choices.”

“Yes.”

“So,” I say nonchalantly, “how about a vintage store?”

Honey’s eyes open wide, and I know I’ve hit the jackpot. I flush with pleasure that she likes my idea. I might not be an etrog, but I’m not going to just sit back and be a willow either.

“Are you sure this is where your aunt gets her clothes?” Honey whispers to me.

“I didn’t say this is where she comes specifically,” I say a bit defensively. Nothing looks like the cool tunics and flowy skirts Aunty Steph wears. “But she says wearing vintage is not only cool but reduces your carbon footprint.” We both nod knowingly.

I look at the racks of corduroy pants, wool skirts, and faded flannel shirts, the stacks of itchy-looking sweaters, the bins of shoes, and nod again. So does Honey. We are a few blocks from school at a secondhand clothing store called What Goes Around—by ourselves.