“Mrs. Isaacovich, come, darling. It’s time for your bath,” the caretaker says, appearing at the kitchen doorway that leads to the back of the house.

Aginéni shoots daggers at her.

“I’m not your darling!” she says, her voice sharp. But she pushes her chair away from the table and then leans on it to hoist herself up.

“Okay, sweetie,” the caretaker says good-humoredly as she comes to take Aginéni’s arm.

“It’s good to have friends,” Aginéni says to me, adjusting her pink turban and then clasping firmly to the caretaker’s proffered arm. “But you can only be a truly good friend if you think of yourself to the same standard as you think of your friend. Friends aren’t made to be statues you admire on a pedestal.”

As she shuffles away, I think again with surprise at the wounded look on Honey’s face in the bathroom when I didn’t wish her good luck. Could it be that I can hurt her as easily as she can me? I wonder if Aginéni is right: that I want to see Honey as perfect and knowing everything and always in charge. I guess us being in a fight has made me see how much I rely on Honey for being that person.

When the screen door slams shut, I realize I never got to look in Aginéni’s box of costume jewelry for a pin to wear to the contest.

The next morning, my dad is sitting at the kitchen table when I come down for breakfast. Usually, I don’t see him in the mornings, or in the evenings, or during the week at all. Why is he still home? I go to give him a kiss on the cheek. He is wearing his yarmulke, which he doesn’t wear when he’s going to work.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” I say when I see his face up close.

“Milla,” he says, and pauses for a minute. He rubs his freshly shaved chin and looks at me. “I’m not sure how to tell you this. Raphi Sandler … He died. His funeral is this morning.”

“What?” I say.

“Mr. Sandler had a heart attack yesterday.” My dad’s face is gray and pinched. “Milla, he’s dead—” His voice cracks. “Baruch Dayan ha’Emet.”

What?

My brain cannot compute what my dad has said.

Heart attack. Dead. Mr. Sandler? He has dark wavy hair with only a little gray in it. He has a booming voice. He has young children. I just saw him on Friday.

“I’m sorry, Milla,” my dad says. He collects me into his arms, and I stand stiffly. It must be a mistake. Mr. Sandler will stride into class later this afternoon, put his hands up, and say, “Mea culpa, kids, just kidding. Here I am.” My dad holds me tighter.

I think I’m supposed to cry, but all I can do is blink. I need to tell Honey.

My phone rings. It’s Honey.

“Mr. Sandler—” she chokes.