I’m 16, not six. I can control myself, right? Pretend to be a nice person even if inside I know I’m a snob.

The amazing thing about having your mother as your 11th-grade teacher plus mechaneches is that after braving it for the first day, you then have the privilege of doing it again, over and over and over.

I don’t think Debbi understands this. She keeps yapping on and on about how “the hard part is over” and how I “made it.”

I don’t want to be a downer, but if she doesn’t stop talking, I’m going to abandon her on the street corner.

“Oh, this is me,” I say, as if it’s the first time she’s ever seen my house.

She stops talking and looks at me like I’m insane.

“Okay, so byeeee,” I trill and I march into my house, very aware that I’m acting like a nuthead.

I don’t look back to see if Debbi’s watching.

Pushing the door open, I’m met by blessed cool and quiet. For like half a second.

“Tanta Naoooooooooooooooooooooooooomi!!!”

I’m almost bowled over by a tiny, gorgeous missile in fireman pajamas. I blink in shock.

“Levi?”

My nephew is jumping up and down, shrieking. “We came over! We came over! Mommy said we couldn’t for soooo long, and now we couuuuld!”

He wraps his little arms around my leg; I step-drag him into the kitchen where Yocheved is sitting at the table, drinking an iced tea and grinning at me sheepishly.

“How was the big first day?” she says.