She threw open the first door on the left, collapsing onto the bed before fully surrendering to her anxiety.
7:34 p.m.
“Miri?”
Aaron’s voice. It had been three minutes or three hours. She stared at the ceiling, one hand on her diaphragm as she breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, the way her therapist had taught her. The worst of it was over now.
“Sorry,” she said, turning her head to face him. “I just needed to be alone for a bit.”
“It’s my room.” He gave her an odd look. “You’re, um, on my bed.”
“Oh.” She’d been too panicked to even take in her surroundings, but now, as she glanced around, squinting in the dark, it felt like Aaron—at least the parts that weren’t in disarray. The bookshelf overflowed. The closet was ajar, revealing the plaid shirts he wore most days over T-shirts with sayings on them. There was a poster of Albert Einstein on the wall, and opposite it, a Star Wars poster, Einstein and Kylo Ren locked in a staring contest. It didn’t look like the rest of the house—or what the rest of the house looked like prequake.
Aaron’s bed smelled so very Aaron that she couldn’t believe she’d missed it.
Suddenly the lying-down part made her feel intensely vulnerable, exposed in a way she was not at all ready for. She shot up to a sitting position too quickly, her head throbbing. She smoothed the hem of her dress.
“I brought this. For your head.” He presented a package of frozen peas. “Figured we might as well use some before everything in the freezer melts.”
“Thanks.” In spite of everything, it tugged at her heart.
She held the frozen peas to her head. The bedsprings squealed as he sat down next to her—not too close, though. She appreciated that he respected her space, but she also wanted him closer. It was a night of contradictions.
“Highest-grossing movie of all time—when adjusted for inflation?” he asked softly. He stretched out his legs so they dangled off the bed, then stared down at his hands as though unsure what to do with them, what to do with his entire body now that there were two people on a bed that had only ever held one.
“Gone with the Wind,” she answered, but instead of throwing a question back at him, she said, “You know I have OCD.” He nodded. “I have bad anxiety, too, and I get panic attacks sometimes.” All she wanted in that moment was for him to understand her, as best as he could.
“Oh. That’s okay,” he said softly, then backtracked. “I mean—it’s not okay, it sucks, but, like, you don’t have to be embarrassed about it.”
“Your parents must hate me. I’m, like, this total anxiety monster, and a fake Jew on top of that.”
“I don’t even—what’s a fake Jew? Actually, what’s a real Jew?” He sounded almost amused, genuinely interested in how she’d answer the question.
She crossed her legs, part of her still unable to process that she was sitting on Aaron Kaufmann’s bed in the dark with none other than Aaron Kaufmann. “Someone who goes to temple? Someone who has become a bat mitzvah?” The emphasis she placed on it was crueler than she meant. “Sorry. I just…You shouldn’t have invited me tonight. I’m not Jewish enough for you. Or for your parents.”
To her shock, he laughed. “Miri. What?”
She covered her face with her nonfrozen hand. “I don’t know the prayers. I didn’t even know who Miriam was.”
“Aaron’s sister,” he said with a wry smile, and she swatted his arm.
“I eat bacon.”
“The horror,” he deadpanned. “I’ve seen you eat bacon. You had a BLT when we all went to that overpriced new sandwich place after practice last month.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know why this felt so odd, like he’d observed something about her she hadn’t realized she was advertising. Something else was bothering her, though. “Your parents said they wanted you to date someone Jewish.” Her face burned despite the bag of peas she held to her head. “I’m the only other one in our grade. So I guess it doesn’t matter how little I know about Judaism, just that I’m Jewish?”
He looked stunned. “No! No. I—I liked you before I knew you were Jewish. You don’t have one of those Very Obviously Jewish last names. Lowe could go either way.” He paused for a moment, and then: “I feel like an asshole. I shouldn’t have corrected you about the bat mitzvah thing.”
“You shouldn’t have,” she agreed. The bag of peas was starting to leak water onto her hand.
“I won’t lie—I do like that you’re Jewish,” he said. He opened his mouth again, but then closed it abruptly.
“What?” she pressed.
“It might sound ridiculous. I almost don’t want to say it.”
“Well, now you have to.”
He sighed. “Fine, fine. But—I think I do feel more connected to you because you’re Jewish. Because we’re both this thing that no one else in junior year is.”
Something inside her cracked open, a new understanding. “I think I know what you mean.”
“I swear, though, it’s not the only thing I like about you,” he said quickly.
“My Scattergories skills are pretty impressive.”
“You are a Scattergories master.” He shifted, ever so slightly, closer to her. Was he opening his palm because he wanted to hold her hand? “And…you are really, really cute. I’ve…uh…thought that for a while.”
He was never open like this. Maybe it was the darkness, or the way the natural disaster had upended their evening, or the fact that they were alone in his room.
“You are too,” she said, heart leaping into her throat as she laid her free hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, and she closed her eyes for a moment to savor the feeling, thumb against thumb and pinky against pinky. His hand warmed her cold one almost right away. “Cute.”
In the dark, he was braver. There was a fearlessness with which he rubbed his thumb against hers, back and forth, back and forth. He dipped it into the grooves between her knuckles, releasing wild amounts of oxytocin into her bloodstream. Holding hands was a freaking gateway drug.
“I’m pretty sure I’m the nightmare boyfriend,” he said glumly, as though disappointed in himself. “This is my first relationship, if that wasn’t already obvious, given my inability so far to act even marginally human around you. It hasn’t been a week, and I feel like I’ve already ruined it because I’m so…weird.”
“You haven’t ruined it. If I haven’t managed to ruin it yet, then you haven’t either.”
“Maybe…maybe it’s that I can’t wrap my mind around you wanting to be with me? Finding out a crush is mutual…it’s scary. You’re just together, and what is that supposed to look like? What are you supposed to say?” He snorted. “I was too nervous to even talk to you at school this week.”
“I tried to find you at lunch.”
He made a pained face. “I was eating in the library. I’m so sorry. I…want to be a good boyfriend. Honestly, I think I’m terrified of messing up. That’s why I invited you tonight. I was nervous about being just us somewhere, that I wouldn’t know what to do or say because I haven’t all week. Like somehow it would be less weird with my parents?”
Both of them laughed at this.
“Little did you know, I’m awkward as hell around other people’s parents,” she said. Slowly, without releasing her grip on him, she leaned down so she could drop the bag of peas onto the floor.
“Miri.” He held up their joined hands to gesture to himself. “So am I. I know we like each other, but…what now? That’s kind of what it feels like. A big what now.”
Her heart slammed against her rib cage. “Can we be awkward together?” she asked in a soft rasp, spreading her fingers out across his knee like a starfish.
“Please,” he said, and it sounded like a request for something else.
They were so close
now that it was so, so easy to lean in and press her mouth to his. He met her there, his lips warm, gentle.
Their first kiss lasted only a few seconds before they moved apart as though to confirm neither of them was messing this up. Aaron let out this shaky exhale that made her toes curl with delight. She had done that, and it gave her the most incredible thrill.
“Hi,” he said, and it was maybe the perfect thing to say in that moment. This between them: it was a beginning.
“Shalom,” she said back, a joke.
He grinned like he’d just been told their Quiz Bowl team was going to nationals.
They dove for each other again, wilder this time. Aaron tangled his hands in her hair, drawing her closer, and she clasped hers behind his neck. They breathed each other in, exhaled in tandem. Their lips tongues teeth hands fingers arms legs hips were all awkward, but they’d learn. After all, the two of them were nothing if not overachievers.
When the next aftershock shook the floor beneath them, Miri wasn’t sure if it was a natural phenomenon or the shuddering of her own heart.
GOOD SHABBOS*1
BY GOLDY MOLDAVSKY
Kayla and S.T. stood outside of shul, and though the two girls had places to be, neither of them budged. Kayla because S.T. wasn’t moving, and S.T. because she was too busy spying on the group of guys huddled together by the men’s entrance. Or, more specifically, she was spying on one guy in particular.
“He’s not the one with the basketball yarmulke, is he?” Kayla asked.
“Yep,” S.T. said.
“You do realize it’s a basketball yarmulke.”
S.T. ignored the tone in Kayla’s voice. She didn’t mind the choice of yarmulke—it stood out in the sea of black suits, and it meant that the boy who wore it was quirky. And that could only be a good thing. Maybe. Probably.*2
“It’s the color and texture of an actual basketball,” Kayla continued.
“I see what it looks like, thank you.”
Kayla, S.T. thought, was way too preoccupied with the topping to notice what was underneath. Which was Moe’s truly excellent hair.*3 Not that S.T. was superficial or anything. Moe had a great face, too. He had a lot of greats about him. He and S.T. were friendly over two different social media platforms, which was more than one, which meant something. Maybe. Probably. Thanks to his social media, S.T. knew that he davened at this shul, which was the only reason she’d come. And tonight, S.T. had decided, she would talk to Moe in person.
Except shul had been over for ten minutes, and S.T. still hadn’t made a move. Kayla was only there for moral support, and even though there was a basketball yarmulke involved, she’d come too far to walk away now. She took her best friend’s hand and marched over to the group. S.T. was both mortified and relieved. Of the two of them, Kayla had always been the one with beitzim.
“Excuse me,” Kayla said, breaking through the knot of guys until she and S.T. stood before Questionable Yarmulke Choice. “You’re Moe, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You know my friend S.T., right?”
He looked over at S.T., a spreading smile of recognition on his face. “Oh, hey.”
“Hey,” S.T. replied.
And that was it. If Brooklyn had crickets, they’d be chirping right now. Awkwardness settled in like it’d bought tickets to this show. The rest of the guys were already starting to walk away, and S .T. and Moe didn’t seem to have the training to resuscitate the conversation. Kayla did not have the patience for this. The mission was complete. Saw the boy. Said words to the boy. Time to go.
“Great meeting you,” Kayla said, pulling S.T. away. “Good Shabbos.”
“Wait, where are you guys eating your meal?” Moe asked.
“The Wexlers’!” S.T. said, quiz-show fast.*4
“Cool. Hey, there’s gonna be a party later tonight. Maybe you guys want to come after your meal?”
“We’ve got pl—” Kayla began, but S.T. cut her off.
“We’ll be there!”
“Awesome—3497 number Two-A East Eighteenth,” Moe said. “See you later.”
As he walked away, S.T. repeated the series of numbers to herself, etching them into her mind.*5
“What about the Shabbaton?”*6 Kayla said.
“Doesn’t the party sound more fun?”
“So you’re just going to go to meet up with a random schmuck?”
Kayla was thinking this, but to her surprise it wasn’t her who’d uttered the words. They came from a different random schmuck about their age standing behind them. S.T. looked at him sideways. Now she was the one to grab Kayla’s hand and pull. “That’s none of your business.”
“You’re right. But I know that guy, and I don’t think you’d like his kind of parties.”
While Kayla may have totally been on his side—and even thankful for his advice—the chutzpah of him to butt in like this. “Excuse me, but do we know you?”
“No,” he said.
“Then stop acting like it.”
“Sorry I said anything,” he said, but his chortle betrayed him.
The two girls crossed the street, only for the guy to do the same. He was taller than either of them, blond, and kept his head down like he was bracing against the cold, even though it was June.
“And quit following us,” S.T. said over her shoulder.
“I’m not following you,” he said. But minutes passed, and he remained a few paces behind them.
“Yes you are!” Kayla said. The girls sped up.
“You’re going in the same direction I am!”
“Weirdo,” S.T. whispered.
“It is decidedly so,” Kayla said.
The girls reached the Wexler house and walked up the lawn to the front door. The boy saw them, stopped a moment, and then walked to the front door too.
“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Kayla said. “We’ll call the police.”*7
Mrs. Wexler answered the door. “Hi, girls. And Sruly.” She seemed surprised to see him, but not in a get-off-my-front-porch sort of way. “Girls, this is Sruly. He’ll be joining us for the meal.”
S.T. caught control of her bottom lip just as it threatened to fall. She watched as Sruly’s mouth turned up into a smirk, directly proportional to Kayla’s snarl.
“Good Shabbos,” he said to them.
The girls mustered a “Good Shabbos” back, and there was nary a less enthusiastic “Good Shabbos” uttered in all of Flatbush.
* * *
***
The class Shabbaton would officially get under way the next day, but there would be a small get-together tonight for a kumzits.*8 Until then, everyone in class was split into pairs and put up in the homes of host families.
Mr. and Mrs. Wexler sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, their twin six-year-olds, a boy and a girl, sat on one side, and next to them sat Sruly,*9 the weirdo guy who had followed them home.*10 His presence at the meal was still a mystery, since he was clearly too old to be Mr. and Mrs. Wexler’s son. And what kind of teenager was friends with adults?*11 The couple had been too busy serving food—and telling their children to stop playing with it—to explain anything about Sruly, leaving the girls to wonder about him more than they liked.
“So how was shul?” Mr. Wexler asked.
“Really good,” Kayla said.
“Inspiring,” S.T. said.
“What was Rabbi Sherman’s speech about?” Mrs. Wexler asked.
In all their time spying on Moe, the girls hadn’t even noticed that the rabbi had given a speech, let alone what it was about. Even so, they did not hesitate to answer the question/make something up.
“Doing good?” “Learning stuff?” they said simultaneously.
Mr. Wexler considered the girls’ words and nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like a classic Rabbi Sherman speech.�
��
“That’s not how I remember it,” Sruly said. The tone in his voice was all innocence, but the look he directed at Kayla and S.T. was pure accusation. “Wasn’t it about how on Shabbos we should disconnect from the material world and open ourselves up to the possibility of more spiritual connections?”
He hadn’t contributed a single thing to the dinner conversation thus far, and now he decided to articulate the entire meaning of Shabbos? Kayla and S.T. shot him a look across the table, but he didn’t even blink, watching them right back as he took a bite of kugel.
“Sounds like Rabbi Sherman covered a lot of subjects tonight,” Mrs. Wexler said.
Thankfully, there were no more questions that resulted in lies Sruly could catch the girls at. But he continued to spend the rest of the dinner in his shifty/sullen mood. Kayla made up a nickname for him: Surly Sruly. She’d have to tell S.T. when he was out of earshot.*12
The meal wound down with Mr. Wexler trying to wax philosophical about spirituality but ending up on tangents about how kids don’t play with real toys anymore and that car insurance was so much cheaper in New Jersey.*13 As Mrs. Wexler stood up to clear dishes, S.T. popped up too, her own dish in hand. “Well, we’ve gotta get going if we want to make it to our kumzits.”
At this, Kayla bounced out of her chair. Maybe S.T. had changed her mind. Maybe she hadn’t spent the entire meal thinking about Basketball Yarmulke. But as soon as the girls stepped outside, all hope of that was gone. “Ready to party?” S.T. asked, her eyebrows dancing suggestively on her forehead.
“So we’re definitely not going to the kumzits, then?”
“Tell you what: we’ll go to the party first, stay a bit, and then if you really don’t like it, I promise we’ll go to the kumzits. Deal?”
Kayla didn’t want to agree, but in the end it wasn’t like she had a choice. She’d asked to be paired off with S.T. this weekend because they were best friends. And best friends stuck together. Plus, even if they were ditching the kumzits, they were still ditching it together, so really, she couldn’t complain. “Fine. Which way do we go?”
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