“Fine, be on her side!” I scream. We are at my driveway, but she just keeps going. I stomp up my front walk and don’t even turn to wave goodbye, not that she would see me anyway since she is already halfway down the street. I slam the front door, run up to my room, and slam that door too.

“No slamming doors!” my mother yells from the kitchen. They can have each other, I think, and burst into tears.

On Shabbat, neither Honey nor I walk over to the other’s house. When Shabbat is over, we don’t call each other. I text Natalie, but she doesn’t reply.

Then she writes, on w noam try me later.

And then, he says 2 tell u he says hi haha.

Oh, haha, tell him to text me, I write.

Lol, I write, after a while. You still on with N?

My phone stays silent all night even though I turned up the volume.

On Sunday, I stay in my room and practice my speech over and over again. I look in the mirror, and I think about the terrible things Honey said to me.

Of course I’m shy, but that doesn’t mean I never want to be noticed. That doesn’t mean I always want to stand in Honey’s shadow. I don’t mind her taking center stage for most things; that’s the way she is. It’s fine with me. But I’m not “her Milla.” And it is not true that I don’t take part in things I think I’m going to fail at; I would just rather save putting myself out there for the things that really matter to me. Like this stupid speech contest.

When I think about it, yes, it is kind of funny that we are doing the same speech topic. And I know it isn’t fair to not want her to do a good job on her speech just because I want to shine with mine, but that is what I want.

I drop my eyes to my feet. I can’t look at my face after having that thought.

But how dare she bring my mother into this—and be on her side! I look back at my face and go through my speech again.

On Monday, it seems like the whole school is singing “Honey, na-na, na-na, na-na, ah, ORANGE, ORANGE,” or “Sugar, na-na, na-na, na-na, ah, ORANGE, ORANGE” when they see either of us. I am in the hallway on the way to the bathroom when two seventh-grade boys block my path and sing it at me.

“Who’s going to win?” one of them says. “Honey or Sugar?”

I have never hated a song so much in my life.

“It’s going to be orange crush, that’s for sure!” the other guy says. They slap each other on the back and crack up. My rubber soles squeak on the floor as I rush away.