Honey looks at me funny. “Don’t you think you’re being a little mean?” She doesn’t say “selfish,” but I’m pretty sure that’s what she’s implying. I square my jaw and don’t say anything. She’s facing the ceiling again. “All we can do is control the things we can control. I’ve been thinking about that for myself …”

I wait to hear what she is going to say, but she just stares at the ceiling. I think about Daisy in my Most Likely To … books. Her parents felt they had no control over their lives when they were part of their Hasidic community. They think they’re giving Daisy something better—the freedom to choose her clothes, her friends, her studies, her life. To be friends with who she wants, learn what she wants, and be whoever she wants to be. But she doesn’t appreciate it because even though there’s endless opportunity for her, she doesn’t have things that could anchor her—like grandparents and cousins and knowing where you come from. And she feels like she doesn’t know who she is. Because certain choices have been taken away from her.

I shake my head in confusion. Maybe choices make us who we are? I look at Honey, who’s lapsed into silence on the massage table. I think about Mrs. Wine and her uniform and the porcelain lady with the balloons and wonder if she meant that we use our stuff and our clothing—which are on the outside—as a way of expressing who we are on the inside. But sometimes the outside doesn’t match the inside.

I look at my mother’s bat mitzvah portrait, leaning against the wall by the massage table. How could I have forgotten: Her dress is peach. I roll my eyes and then sigh to myself. Is my bat mitzvah dress my mother’s way of expressing that I should be just like her?

“Honey?” I say.

“Hmm?” she says.

“Were you going to tell me something?”

“Never mind,” she says.

“Okay, then, can I take a turn?” I say, nudging her off the massage board and climbing up to do more thinking.

On Monday, Mr. Sandler strides into class like nothing ever happened. He writes mea culpa on the whiteboard and waits for us to settle down.

“Kids, mea culpa. That’s Latin for ‘my bad.’ I made a mistake. I made a bad choice. I felt at a crossroads in my life, and I let my own ego get in the way of one of my missions in life—teaching young minds and preparing them to be critical thinkers. And some other stuff they tell me to teach. Can you forgive me?” He looks out at us.

I nod my head vigorously. It’s a relief to have him back. Of course I forgive him. Everyone around me is nodding too and smiling.

“Thank you,” he says. He waits a moment to make sure we know that he really means it.