“Good luck!” Ms. Silver whispers to me, and gives me a gentle shove toward one of the chairs. The machine in my stomach churns.

“Milla! Milla!” I think I hear Max calling me. I hold my hand above my eyes like a visor and see him waving wildly from the front row, in a chair between my parents. My mom mimes a Wonder Woman “power pose,” and my dad flashes me a smile and thumbs-up. The whole front row is reserved for the parents of the contestants, but my mother has the best seat, front and center. I see her take her phone out, ready to video me and send it to our whole family, all the pieces of my locket.

It feels hard to breathe.

My palms are clammy.

I try to cross my ankles like the girl in eighth grade. The machine in my stomach whirs and pulses.

The auditorium is a cacophony of kids from the middle school and fifth grade turning backward in their chairs, screaming in excitement to friends and siblings. I put my hand above my eyes again and peer into the audience. The partitions have been pulled back to make the auditorium as big as possible. I look for Mr. Sandler in his usual spot in the back corner, but of course he is not there. I catch a glimpse of Miriam sitting with all the fifth graders. I give a small wave. She looks behind her like I might be waving at someone else. There’s no one behind her. She gives me a suspicious look and a half-hearted wave back.

“Milla!” I hear my name again above the racket and spot Honey, Natalie, Sophie, and Tali waving dramatically from a few rows in front of Miriam. “Whoop, whoop!” they shout, and raise their hands up like they’re raising the roof. The machine running in my stomach slows down a bit. I smile and wave shyly, catching eyes with Honey. She hollers, “Go, Milla! You can do it!” I give her a thumbs-up, and she gives me a vigorous one back. I have been surprised to discover that all my angry feelings are gone, dissolved like the fog on the dashboard of my mother’s car in the mornings. Me and Honey would’ve made up even if Mr. Sandler hadn’t died. I wish he were here.

“May I have your attention, please!” Rabbi Adler says crisply from the podium. He taps the microphone. “Silence, silence, please. We are about to begin.” The machine in my stomach picks up to a full-speed screech.

I sit up straight and edge forward so my feet will touch the floor. As Rabbi Adler quiets everyone down, I look at the contestants seated in a semicircle. To be fair, they look nervous too.

The boy with the tie is called first, and he flashes a smile at the rest of us before walking unsteadily to the front. I hear his voice, low and serious as he begins to talk about racism, but I can’t seem to hold on to the words. I hear applause, and then it is the eighth-grade girl’s turn and she glides like a ballerina to the front, where she talks in a musical voice about why she is a feminist. I check out my mother, who is listening carefully, her eyes glued to the girl. When she’s finished, there is thunderous applause.