I thought I had already made it.

Isn’t she proud of me for getting to the speech contest?

“Don’t give me that vinegar face, Milla Ruth,” she says. “I’m not saying anything insulting. But if you really want to win, you need to know the battle is just beginning. You don’t want to leave anything to chance.” She pauses, as if she’s hesitating on whether or not she should say something. “Milla, have you thought about why you think your speech deserves to win?”

“What?” What kind of question is that? “Uh, because it’s good? I think, anyway.”

“Yes.” She looks uncomfortable. “But what makes it good? If you want, I can talk it through with you.”

“Mom—” I say.

Her cell phone rings. “Oh, wait, it’s the tent guys for your bat mitzvah.” Her face is torn.

“Take it,” I say in as steady a voice as I can. I look at the woman on the screen doing the power poses. I think about Honey in her cape and tiara.

She nods. “We’ll pick this up later,” she says, pointing to herself and then to me.

“Whatever,” I say under my breath, and stalk out of the kitchen, almost running into Max.

“Hi, Milla, wanna play?”

“Sorry, Max, I need to practice my speech.” He’s dressed as a space ranger and flying his Lego airplane. “Remember, the big contest is next week.”

“Don’t worry, Milla,” he tells me. “You’re going to be great!”

“Thanks, Max. At least someone believes in me.”

All week, Honey and I avoid each other. I am working on a science project with Natalie, which is a disaster because both of us are awful at science, but that means I go home with her most days after school. And Honey is doing intramural volleyball during lunch and has joined an ongoing seventh-grade kickball game during recess. I also do a lot of practicing by myself in the quiet of my bedroom. Having a great speech and performing it perfectly—isn’t that what it takes to deserve to win?

On Sunday morning, I am standing in front of the mirror, working on getting my hand motions just right for a new bit I’ve added about how my mother peels oranges for Max wearing latex gloves, when I stop and look at myself. Fuzzy sweatpants. Brown curlyish hair in braids. Something that could be a pimple emerging on my forehead. I take out my braids and shake out my hair. I stand in front of my closet for a while looking at my clothes, trying to decide what I should wear to the contest. I go back in front of the mirror. And then I realize what I need.

A caretaker answers the door. “Mrs. Isaacovich, you have a visitor,” she calls back toward the kitchen. “What’s your name, darling?” she asks me.

“Milla—Milla Bloom.”

“It’s Milla Bloom,” she calls back again.