By the time breakfast is cleared off the table and the dishes are washed, I have been up for almost three hours. I am so jittery that it looks like I’m practicing for a role in a dance company. A very bouncy dance company.

“Are you ready to go, dear?” Ma pokes her head around the corner of my room as I am putting the finishing touches on my hair.

“I just have to finish my hair and grab the basket,” I try to smile, though I’m not sure how I feel about her at this particular moment. I’m still upset about last night, but I hope Alexei’s parents can talk some sense into her.

She looks as though she is going to come in and help me with my hair like she always did when I was little. But instead, she pauses in the doorway.

“I will go get the basket,” she says before leaving. “You make sure your hair and dress are done to perfection. I’ll be waiting by the door.”

Then, without a word of warning, she turns on her heel and heads back down the stairs. Why hadn’t she come help me tidy my hair and dress? I haven’t passed my exams yet. I’m still a girl. I . . .

Oh. Today is my practice exam. Somehow in all the fuss I had completely forgotten. Two days ago, that exam had been the only thing I thought about. Well, that and the possibility of what happens after the exam. Ever since the hand-holding incident, the exam is the last thing on my mind. Instead, all of my focus is on keeping Alexei safe.

I really should have studied last night.

I have to use the mirror to figure out what is wrong with my dress - an upturned collar. After I smooth down my hair and fix my collar, I think I am presentable for the day’s task.

I linger a while in front of my small mirror, my hands still gripping the edge of the counter. Deep breath in. Hold. Slow breath out.

I repeat this exercise another three times before I trust my hands not to shake. Testing the waters, I slowly release my grip on the counter and let my hands fall to my sides. I look at myself in the mirror. Well, it isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough.

“Coming, Ma!” I call when I hear her start to climb the stairs to check on me, “I had a stubborn piece of hair but it is under control now.”

We manage to leave at the perfect time because the whole way to the butcher, we only have to stop to greet one neighbour. Mrs. Richards is a kindly old woman who knits me sweaters and hats because she says her own grandchildren won’t accept her gifts. But I met her granddaughter once. We said hello to each other because we were wearing the same hat.

I tend to prefer not speaking to our neighbours, but if I had to pick one to talk to every day, it would be Mrs. Richards.