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first-place finishes, blah, blah, blah …”
    â€œBlah, blah, blah?” I repeated. “This is my competition and that’s all you can remember?”
    â€œI didn’t know he’d show up here.”
    I lifted the hair off my neck and fanned cool air against my skin for a second. “What about Doris Yeats? Is she here?” I’d Googled as much info about her as I could. She had bazillions from a business her husband had sold before he died. As far as I could tell, her official job now was Charity Do-Gooder—and her favorite cause was Benedict’s. She was on the school board, plus benefactor of the speech program. Google had turned up a picture of her at some charity dinner, but I wasn’t sure I’d recognize her in person.
    I waited while Megan looked around. “I don’t see her. She’s got silver hair and walks like there’s a stick up her butt.”
    I glanced around the edge of the auditorium where the adults had gathered. “I want to introduce myself as soon as I can.”
    â€œFirst impressions,” Megan muttered.
    â€œExactly.” Doris Yeats had a rep for being tough. Supposedly, she spared everyone five minutes of her time, and then made up her mind. Your first impression could be your last.
    â€œSo what did you think of Devon?” I asked.
    Megan looked in his direction again. “He seemed nice enough for a guy born with a perfect face. Wait until you see his eyes. They’re amazing.”
    I shrugged, unconvinced. The last time Megan said that, the guy in question turned out to have a lazy eye. She dated him for two months. Devon could have three eyes and Megan would call that amazing, too.
    â€œWelcome to CSSPA.” The pinched voice flooded the auditorium. Megan and I turned to the stage. The lady paused until everyone quieted down. “I am Mrs. Clancy, camp director.” Mrs. Clancy looked like she’d gotten up on the wrong side of the bed and fallen into a vat of lemons. Her mouth puckered into a circle of wrinkles as she talked.
    â€œYou should all have your schedules with group and room assignments. Other than assembly each morning, where we’ll share announcements and prayer, you will be spending your days with your group. Lunch will be held in the cafeteria from 12:00 to 12:45.”
    I glanced at Megan, my mouth puckered into a tiny o , but she’d puckered, too. We both sputtered a little, trying not to laugh.
    â€œWhen we break,” Mrs. Clancy continued, “you’ll please move quickly to your rooms. Your instructors are anxious to begin. Now, if you’ll bow your heads, in Jesus’s name we pray.”
    Here it was, as advertised—daily prayer. It was actually part of the syllabus. Zeydeh had loved that. But I also showed him the place on the website that said applicants of all religions were welcome. And no one said I had to pray.
    I kept my head up and looked around. Mrs. Clancy started saying something Jesus-y. I figured there would be other kids looking around, but all I saw were necks … lots of bent necks. I shifted in my seat, wishing she’d finish already. It felt weird. Christians thought Jesus was the son of God, but Jews thought he was a man. So listening to prayers in the name of Jesus made me feel traitorous to God.
    And Zeydeh. I sighed. If he could see me now, it would kill him.
    Again.

    The first time Zeydeh died, I was five years old.
    Zeydeh didn’t actually die in Aisle 12 of Fry’s grocery store—but Mom thought he had. It was the summer before I started kindergarten. Bubbe had died a few months before, and Zeydeh had gone into a depression. He’d always loved to cook, but now he wouldn’t even eat. Mom would take him with us to the grocery store, thinking he’d get interested in food again.
    That day, Benny and I were with Mom in the frozen foods aisle. Benny was strapped in Mom’s cart, and I was wheeling my toy cart