“I thought that was your category,” Mia whispers to me.

“Naked mole rats?”

She laughs a little, and Coach Pearlman casts us a warning look. “Not specifically, but you know.”

She’s right. I’m usually pretty good at the Nature and Wildlife category because Dad always listens to all these biology podcasts in the car. So I’ve grown up around facts like cows kill more people a year than sharks and the average snake sheds its skin four times per year, but when they are babies, they shed their skin every two weeks.

But honestly? I don’t have a favorite category. Math, spelling, history—I’m pretty good at them all. Well, usually. Today though I don’t seem to be capable of recalling any facts that don’t have to do with wormholes.

Even though I ran off on Quinn, I can’t stop thinking about the idea of time travel. I stayed up late last night rereading all the articles that were in the box and googling tips for making wormholes appear. I know it is all probably nonsense, but I can’t stop looking things up.

A loud timer goes off. Coach Pearlman stands up and clears his throat. “Okay, that’s round one. So far, we’ve got eighth grade with eleven points and seventh grade with three points.”

Mia, Owen, and I all exchange a frown.

“But take heart, I have a feeling you may do well with the next category. Middle Eastern Geography,” Coach Pearlman says and looks right at the seventh-grade side of the room.

Owen and I exchange a glance. We both make faces, and I’m not sure whether I feel like laughing or crying. Owen and I talk about this a lot. Like how uncomfortable it is that teachers ask him strangely personal questions about the economy in Japan, and the people who assume I know everything about the war in Iraq just because my dad is from Lebanon, which I guess is vaguely in the same region but definitely not the same thing. I’ve always been a little jealous of Owen because he does at least know some things about Japan. His parents took him one summer to visit his grandparents in Kyoto. I’ve never been to Lebanon, and Dad hardly ever talks about it.

I’ve also seen people confuse Owen as being Chinese and have witnessed classmates ask him if he’s related to Ben Park, who is in our grade and is Korean. Sometimes people ask me if I’m Mexican or Indian. It’s just hard to constantly feel like your identity is up for debate or that it’s okay for strangers to make random guesses about it. Owen understands how strange and bad that can feel. No one ever asks Mia where she’s from.

“Is Coach P. talking to you?” Mia whispers at Owen. “Japan isn’t even in the Middle East. That’s ridiculous.”

“He probably meant Cora. But it’s ridiculous either way.” Owen flashes me a broad smile. I know he’s annoyed, too, but he’s better than me at hiding it.