I have to get Bert to carry all my supplies. We make sure to get there early to stash everything up by the whiteboard. There’s one speech before mine. Keith demonstrates how to dribble between his legs. But he never looks up at the class, and his ball hits his foot and knocks Mrs. Roman’s trash can over. Everybody still claps and whistles, though, because he’s on the basketball team.

While Keith is cleaning up the trash, I remind myself: Make eye contact, pause, enunciate, ask for questions. This is the first time I’m going to have to talk to the entire class and they will have to talk back. Class participation is part of their grade too. I cough into my elbow when Keith sits down and say a quick prayer. Then I roll forward as Mrs. Roman calls my name.

I’ve never baked in front of anyone before or had to narrate it like I’m on a cooking show. It’s weird, like I’m one of those kids with their own YouTube channel.

With Bert as my assistant, I take the class step by step through the cookie recipe I was making on Saturday. It was the miniature golf that gave me the idea. Bill and Will made something amazing because it was something they loved. They didn’t care if anybody else liked it or thought it was strange. So I decided to do the same thing—I would do something I’m good at, even if nobody else cared.

I set out the flour and butter and bowls. Nobody says anything. But technically, I guess they aren’t supposed to yet. When Bert drops the cookie sheet, it sounds like a thunderclap and everybody jumps. But it finally gets me talking.

I begin to explain the history of the snowball cookie, “otherwise known as a Mexican wedding cookie or Russian tea cake,” I say.

Keith starts to text under his desk, and only about a third of the class is even watching what I’m doing. But then, once I begin to scoop out the dough and roll it in the powdered sugar, people start to lean forward to try to see in the bowl.

Sierra raises her hand. I mean, she actually raises her hand to ask a question and not to fix her hair or pass a note. At first I don’t know what to do. You’re not supposed to take questions until the end, but then I nod to her because my hands are busy, and she says, “What’s that ice cream scoopy thing?”

“This?” I hold up the metal scoop I’m using to portion the dough. “This is actually a melon baller that I found in my grandma’s kitchen drawer. But they make real cookie scoops, and I’m going to get one once I become a professional baker.”