Mia looks incredulous. That’s a million-dollar word I learned in preparation for Quiz Bowl. “Cora?” she says, her mouth pinching into an O shape.

Owen glances at me, his goofy smile morphing into something more awkward. “Her dad.”

“Oh. That’s right,” Mia says.

I can’t decide if it’s worse when people totally forget about that part of my identity or when people make assumptions about it. Both of them feel like losing. I hate losing.

The questions start. “The capital of Saudi Arabia is—”

Mia reaches for the buzzer. She looks over at me. I give her a blank look. The timer beeps.

“Eighth grade’s turn,” Coach Pearlman announces.

“Riyadh,” Molly Waldheim answers confidently. Molly is an eighth grader and my Quiz Bowl idol. She’s the singular reason our school’s team made it to state last year. She wears these shiny silver barrettes in her hair. I really want to buy a pair for myself, but I don’t want it to seem like I’m copying her.

Mabel would be able to tell me whether it would be too geeky slash too creepy for me to get the same ones as her. My older sister knew about things like that. She’s the one who taught me to look right at the space between someone’s eyebrows if you’re too nervous to look them in the eye. When Mabel was still alive, I kept a running list of things to ask her. These days, I still have questions, but I don’t have anyone to ask.

“Correct.” Coach Pearlman gives Molly a thumbs-up and awards the eighth graders another point.

I might be imagining it, but I swear he also gives me a look. My cheeks burn. I know that it’s silly that Coach Pearlman thinks I should know more about the Middle East than anyone else, but also, I feel like I should.

The round continues. We get a couple of questions right but end up losing pretty badly. “Okay. I’ve got one more section of practice questions planned, but let’s take a short break. Regroup in five minutes,” Coach Pearlman announces before heading to his desk to pull out his supposedly secret stash of snacks that we all actually know about. He not so discreetly shoves a handful of pretzels into his mouth.

Mia rests her weight on her elbows. “You sure you’re okay?”

“You keep asking me that.”

She grimaces like she’s offended. “Well, you keep acting—”

“Acting like what? Because I didn’t know the answers to the capitals of those countries? My dad’s from Lebanon, not Saudi Arabia—in case you forgot,” I say, raising my voice.

“I know. I’m not talking about that. You don’t have to yell at me.”

I cross my arms. “I’m not yelling at you.”

“Hey,” Owen interjects. “Quick question. Do you trust self-driving cars?”

“Definitely,” Mia says. “Robots are more reliable than humans.”

“Humans are the ones that will build the robots, though. They’ll only be as reliable as their code. So I don’t know,” I say. “Though theoretically speaking, you could say all of us are simply made up of codes.”