By Sunday night, I have the whole thing written out, and by Monday night, I begin practicing it out loud to myself in my room, a show playing on my laptop in the background so no one can hear me.

I practice my speech every night, changing some words here and there, memorizing it. On Thursday after school, I do it in front of the mirror for the first time and have to peer in closer to make sure it is me. I see someone who is waving her arms in demonstration, moving her mouth and eyebrows in all kinds of expression, and using her voice to go up and down to make good points. In short, it does not look like the Milla Bloom I know. But when I finish the four minutes and forty-five seconds of my speech, I smile right back at her.

I’m so busy that I hardly talk to any of my friends that week, even Honey. But we make a plan to go to Starbucks after school on Friday. It’s still freezing cold out, but slowly the days have been getting longer and it’s getting dark later—which means Shabbat doesn’t start so early anymore. Until Passover though, school ends at one p.m. on Fridays, and it’s nice to have the afternoon to ourselves. As soon as we walk in, Honey nudges me hard.

“Ow,” I say, rubbing my shoulder. She inclines her head, and I follow her gaze to a man standing by the counter. He’s tall and has dark wavy hair.

“Mr. Sandler!” Honey shouts, dragging me by my jacket to where he’s standing. All of Starbucks turns to look at us, and I feel mortified. I hate when Honey doesn’t notice—or care—that she’s making a spectacle of us.

“Milla, Honey—” Mr. Sandler says with a big smile. “How are you?”

“Baruch Hashem, we’re good,” Honey says, before I can answer for myself. “How are you?”

“I’m good too,” Mr. Sandler says. “Thank you for asking. So, you kids ready for the speech contest on Monday?”

“Yup!” Honey says while I nod shyly. The Starbucks is stifling hot with steam on the windows, and I’m starting to sweat inside my ski jacket. Mr. Sandler’s tie is loosened, and he’s rolled up his shirtsleeves. Behind him, I see a laptop open on a table, notebooks, and a navy peacoat over the chair.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll each make your speech your own,” Mr. Sandler says. “You know, there are only so many stories in the universe, but how you tell them is what makes each one unique.”

“Oh, mine is unique, all right,” Honey says eagerly, and I hope he doesn’t ask us what our topics are. Whatever Honey’s topic is, I know she’s going to make it amazing.

“How about you, Milla?” Mr. Sandler says, turning to me with that smile that makes me feel like he’s including me in his universe, where I can accomplish anything I put my mind to.