“Yeah, but I really flubbed that part at the end—when we had to talk about why we thought our speeches deserved to win.”

“That was so unfair for him to put you on the spot like that and make that part important,” she says indignantly.

“Yeah, but Kayla was really good with all of it,” I say. “Her speech was amazing—and she knew just what to say at the end.”

“Well, there’s always next year,” Honey says.

“Yeah,” I say, slumping against the seat. I sigh. Even though I came in second, people kept stopping me in the halls and saying congratulations. Everyone seemed to know who I am. But still, an uncomfortable feeling has been building all afternoon.

“Do you think it’s weird that I was funny when I’m still so sad about Mr. Sandler?” I ask Honey.

“Huh?” she says, starting to blow a bubble with her gum.

“Like, I was thinking about him before I did my speech. But instead of it making me sadder, I kind of tried to do the speech for him.”

Honey rolls her eyes. Her bubble has gotten huge. She sucks her breath in, and it pops with a loud crack. “Are you kidding?” she says, like she’s swiping away cobwebs. Or nahrishkeit. “He would be so proud.”

“I guess,” I say, feeling a bit better. I don’t know why, but like osmosis again, all the good feelings from this morning have been trying to seep out.

“Milla, don’t ruin something great you did with bad feelings. You’re trying to take something big that you did and make it small.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking how well Honey knows me. I take a deep breath. There is something I have been wondering about for a long time that I need to ask her. “Honey, did you let me win—in our class?”

Her eyes bug out, and she stops chewing her gum, her mouth hanging open. “Are you serious?” she says, raising her eyebrows and tossing her ponytail. “Milla—c’mon. How well do you know me? Would I ever purposely let anyone win?”

Hmmm. I do know her pretty well, and I realize she makes an excellent point.

She laughs, and then I laugh too.

It feels good.

When I come down for breakfast the morning of Passover eve, the kitchen has been transformed. Every surface is covered with heavy white plastic cloth, cut to the exact shape of the counters, blue electrical tape holding down the edges.

“Don’t give me that face, Milla Ruth,” my mother snaps when she directs me to where she’s set up a supply of paper plates, plastic cutlery, and other environmentally unfriendly disposables on a covered folding table next to her workstation. “It’s just for dairy meals, and it’s just for the week.”

“Okay,” I say, holding up my hands defensively. Passover celebrates how God took the Jewish people out of Egypt, where they were slaves to Pharaoh. Because they escaped in such a hurry, there wasn’t time to make their bread properly and let it rise, so for the eight days of Passover, we eat unleavened bread, which isn’t bread at all; it’s matzah. In fact, any type of grain is forbidden. The forbidden stuff is called chametz, and the house has to be scoured for any crumbs. For the last two weeks, my parents have been wiping down every cabinet, closet, and corner. Boxes of food stamped KOSHER FOR PASSOVER, plus new dishes, cutlery, pots, pans, and utensils only to be used on Passover have been piling up in our laundry room.