“Those guys invited me to play cards once before,” Sruly said. “I thought it would be poker, and then the cards had, like, ogres on them. I left and never looked back.”
“Maybe I like ogres.”
Sruly cocked a skeptical eyebrow, and a laugh bubbled up in S.T. that she couldn’t tamp down. Both of them laughed, actually, and it was sort of nice. In the back of S.T.’s mind, if she really thought about it, it was even kind of flirty. Which made her suddenly self-conscious, and a moment languished awkwardly between them, where the only sound was that of the cars whizzing by.
“So, you eat by the Wexlers a lot?” S.T. asked.
“Pretty much every Shabbos.”
“That’s a lot.”
“My parents aren’t religious,” Sruly said. “They don’t really do the whole Shabbos thing. But I love it, so…the Wexlers have been really good to me.”
Another moment. Though not as heavy. This time Sruly picked up the slack. “So was your Shabbaton everything you thought it was going to be?”
“Not exactly. Still not bad, though. We met some interesting people.”
“Yeah, I once heard something about Shabbos and surprising connections.”
S.T. smiled, but her unmatched ability for letting conversations die slow, painful deaths came back with a vengeance. She didn’t know why it was suddenly awkward, and thinking about it made her cheeks burn. A sneaky look at Sruly revealed that his cheeks were looking kind of ruddy too. Though that could’ve easily been explained by the exertion of carrying Kayla around.*31 Thankfully, there wasn’t any pressure for more convo, because they were back at the house. They spied Mrs. Wexler in the window.
“We can’t let her see Kayla like this,” S.T. said.
Sruly put Kayla down. She stayed on her feet but leaned on S.T. for support. “I’ll distract her,” Sruly said.
“Really?” S.T. said.
“Sure. Just promise that next time, she takes it easy on the drinks. Or at least invite me to join.”
S.T. nodded, her blush coming back as her mind lingered on that “next time.” She would have to figure out a way to finagle an invite back to the Wexlers’ in the near future.
Sruly took off toward the front door and knocked. S.T. and Kayla stood off to the side of the house and waited. Mrs. Wexler let Sruly in, and through the window S.T. could see that he led her to the kitchen. She helped Kayla up the porch steps and then straight to the guest bedroom in the basement.
* * *
***
Kayla was all tucked in, and though there were two twin beds, S.T. climbed in beside her friend. She thought Kayla was asleep, but then she spoke.
“Thanks for bringing me back here.”
“Sruly’s the one who carried you.”
“Surly Sruly’s strong. He probably could beat up muggers.”
S.T. agreed, and her mind wandered to a scenario where he did just that. She was thankful that it was dark and that Kayla couldn’t see her face.
“He’s not a garbage person.”
“No, he’s not,” S.T. said. “I’m sorry everything turned out awful.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Kayla said. “We got to spend Shabbos together. That’s a win in my book.”
S.T. thought of the whole night—of running around town with her best friend, of discovering the other side to a surly boy, even of the disappointing “party” in the basement. It all lived inside a sort of bubble she didn’t want to pop. “The biggest win,” she agreed.
They curled up like best friends do, and went to sleep.
*1 Shabbos, aka Shabbat, is a time to relax, unplug, and find joy for twenty-five hours between Friday sundown and Saturday sundown.
*2 My money’s on no.
*3 Debatable.
*4 Yeah, the type of quiz show where the prize was a lifetime supply of things nobody wanted. Okay, okay, I know I’m being kinda hard on S.T. and Basketball Yarmulke, but just because I’m narrating doesn’t mean I can’t ship. Or in this case, anti-ship. I’m with Kayla on this one. I don’t see it for these two.
*5 Maybe you, upon hearing a convoluted series of numbers, would’ve written them down or voice-recorded them into your phone. But it being Shabbos, S.T. couldn’t do any of those things. Shabbos was a day of rest, and right now that meant a very restful feat of mental gymnastics for a girl who frequently forgot her own phone number.
*6 A celebration held on Shabbos that may consist of a series of programs or activities. Kind of like a corporate retreat, only no one does trust falls. Kayla and S.T.’s school was hosting one.
*7 A bluff, unless she meant to call the police with the sheer volume of her voice.
*8 Sitting around, singing. A proper kumbaya sesh.
*9 Short for Israel.
*10 Except he hadn’t really followed them. And this wasn’t their home. And “weirdo” seems kind of over-the-top. But I digress.
*11 Maybe one who was mature for his age. I’m just saying.
*12 Clever, but way too quick to judgment, imho. I would’ve gone with something more like Simpatico Sruly or Some Kind of Wonderful Sruly. But that’s just me.
*13 Nisht Shabbos geredt. (And if you think I’m adding a footnote to this footnote, think again.)
*14 Again, no.
*15 Very true. With no need for money on Shabbos and no phones on them, Kayla and S.T. really were terrible mugging targets. The thing of most value between them were Kayla’s shoes, and considering they were a faded mouse brown, there was little chance anyone would want them.
*16 Though if there ever were a frum boy who’d throw down, Sruly seemed to fit the bill. Confident yet steady. Head-down attitude. And buff. What I’m saying is, Sruly was buff.
*17 Can’t use pens, phones, or Facebook on Shabbos, but did you also know you can’t use elevators?
*18 A checkered blue button-down. Which, among the light-colored button-downs, kind of made him a rebel. Maybe. Probably.
*19 Messy or expertly tossed? Let’s go with the latter.
*20 Way harsh!
*21 Excellent point.
*22 No electronics, remember? Keep up!
*23 This is, like, a Thing. It is an established mark of Jewish life, as cemented as latkes on Chanukah. The fact that the girls stumbled into a singles party by accident wasn’t all that surprising. More surprising was that they’d never stumbled into one before.
*24 Fun fact: “come sit” is exactly where the Yiddish word “kumzits” originates, so while still a painfully unfunny joke, let’s cut Mrs. Bingheimer some slack.
*25 It was “Despacito,” by Luis Fonsi, and everyone in the room besides Mrs. Bingheimer was definitely familiar with it.
*26 Although Magic: The Gathering is one of the most popular games in the world, it is a well-known fact that its players lose their attractiveness almost as soon as the cards come out. There’s really no way around that.
*27 Akin to a gathering of magic, some might say.
*28 And let’s face it, a party of Magic: The Gathering nerds is a certain kind of hell.
*29 “Bump” may be too light a word. She crashed into it. She struggled against it. And the mailbox won.
*30 If you wanna know the truth, there were so many issues with this. Among them, a boy and girl touching and him carrying, which is technically work, which—like cell phones and elevators—is not allowed on Shabbos. But, considering the circumstances, I’d give the guy a break. Plus, Kayla didn’t mind being carried around. And did I not tell you this boy was buff?
*31 That wasn’t it.
JEWBACCA
BY LANCE RUBIN
“Dude, no one is gonna know how Jewish or not Jewish you are. It’s just people hanging out.”
Rye had heard this from Josh before, but for whatever reason, this time it actually worked, which is why
he was now at an open mic hosted by the Temple Beth Shalom youth group, nodding his head to an unimpressive acoustic guitar rendition of Ed Sheeran’s “Galway Girl” as he clutched a cup of Sprite. He didn’t feel like he belonged, exactly, but he didn’t feel like he didn’t belong either. So. That was something.
Josh was next to him, talking with two girls. One of them was Jamie Stein, who’d gone to school with them since first grade, but the other—tall, sparkly-eyed, gesturing a lot—Rye did not recognize. He instantly liked her, which created a weird tension in the center of his chest, the desire to endlessly stare countered by the desire to look literally everywhere except at her.
“Oh,” Jamie said, possibly noticing Rye’s brain melting down. “This is Rye. He goes to our school too. Rye, Dara. Dara, Rye.”
“Hey,” Rye said.
“Hi,” Dara said.
And there it was, the full extent of their interaction during the open mic. Rye generally thought of himself as a quick-witted person, but in the sanctified space of Temple Beth Shalom’s all-purpose room, he felt more like an amoeba.
Luckily, the universe or Jewish God or some beneficent force smiled upon him, somehow aligning his stars so that after the event wrapped up—with a rhyming spoken-word poem about nuclear disarmament—and everyone headed to Friendly’s, Rye ended up squished into a booth next to Dara.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi again,” Dara said, twisting her body to take off her purple coat.
He then stared forward, elbows held tight to his body, fingers tapping the table, no clue what to say next. His body tingled from the close proximity. He could smell strawberry lip gloss.
“You didn’t perform anything,” Dara said.
“Oh,” Rye said. “Nah. I don’t really do that.”
“Me neither.” The relief and gratitude that coursed through Rye upon finding a shared experience was palpable. “Jamie and I and one of our other friends did a song from Pitch Perfect at the last one, and I was shaking the whole time. I don’t think I’m designed to perform in front of other people.”
“Are you designed to perform not in front of other people?” Rye asked, surprising himself with how calm and confident he sounded.
“Oh, definitely,” Dara said. “At home in my room I’m amazing. I win Grammys.”
Rye laughed, and Dara smiled. A server came by and took the table’s orders. Rye pointed blindly at something ice cream related on the menu, scared that if he stopped talking to Dara for too long, the moment would end, and it would be too hard to get one started again. “At least you can sing,” he said, turning back to her. “All I have is a Chewbacca impression.”
“Seriously?” Dara said, her face lighting up. Rye wasn’t sure she’d even know who Chewbacca was, which he realized was probably sexist. “Why didn’t you do it?”
“Um,” Rye said, “I don’t know. Because it’s weird. And really short.”
“I love weird, really short things.”
Rye laughed again, reveling in that flirtatious “love,” uttered to him by a girl he was liking more every second.
“Can you do it?” Dara asked.
“Wait, what? The impression?”
“Duh, yes. You can’t mention a Chewbacca impression and not do it.”
“Oh!” Josh shouted across the table. “Yes! It’s so good.”
“What is?” Jamie Stein asked.
Rye felt his face getting warm.
“Rye’s Chewbacca impression.”
“Who’s Jewbacca?”
“Do it, dude,” Josh said, and Rye felt all eyes at the table on him—and some from the tables behind and in front of them too—though he was, of course, most aware of the shiny green eyes immediately to his left.
“Okay, okay,” Rye said, ignoring the panic welling in his chest, never having done his impression for an audience larger than his family or Josh.
“This is so exciting,” Dara said, giving Rye the necessary boost of encouragement to turn off his mind and unleash his inner Wookiee.
He knew he’d nailed it.
“Whoa-my-god,” Dara said, one hand over her mouth as she laughed in disbelief, everyone else joining her.
“Easy, Chewie,” the server said as he walked by.
Rye was elated, adrenaline pumping, endorphins dancing.
“My parents would love that,” Dara said. “They’re Star Wars freaks.”
“Not mine,” he said. “They’re just regular freaks.”
Dara laughed, her shoulder pressing into his with extra pressure, and that’s when he knew something was starting.
* * *
***
Still cracking up about that impression, Dara texted later that night, sending a jolt of electricity through Rye’s body.
That wasn’t actually an impression, he texted from bed. I’m part Wookiee.
I KNEW IT
Rye sent a cry-laughing emoji as he laughed in real life.
Win any Grammys lately? he texted the next day.
Oh yeah, Dara replied. All the time. Best Female Vocalist in My Room for over a decade now.
I’m so proud of you. Rye held his breath, unsure if that response, which he’d spent ten minutes deciding whether to send, was too much.
Dara emoji-blushed.
The texting grew exponentially every day until, almost a week in, Rye texted: I’m worried we’re gonna run out of inside jokes to make about the night we met.
Me too, Dara wrote back within seconds. Guess we should meet up. Get some more material.
Good call, Rye said, unable to stop smiling.
Is your temple having another open mic anytime soon?
Rye’s breath caught in his chest as he read the words, wild panic squirming around his insides.
Dara thought Temple Beth Shalom was his temple. Of course she did.
Rye was technically Jewish—his last name was Silverstein and everything—but it was more complicated than that. Or maybe it was simple: His family never went to synagogue, didn’t fast on Yom Kippur, had no problem devouring yeasty foods during Passover. Oh, and also, Rye’s dad had become a Buddhist right after college and had a shrine room in their house, where he meditated, sometimes multiple times a day.
See? Simple.
The whole situation had been a perpetual source of anxiety, especially when Rye was younger. Everyone assumed he was Jewish, and Rye, knowing it was at least kind of true, never corrected them. “What’d you get for Hanukkah last night?” Josh would ask in elementary school, and Rye would scramble to fabricate a gift, the truth being that most of his presents weren’t coming till Christmas. Because, oh right, Rye’s mom hung stockings every year, and he, his parents, and his younger brother, Cliff—none of them even part Christian—celebrated Christmas. Because, as his mom had once said, “It’s fun!” To this day, it was a relief when Christmas fell during Hanukkah.
Presents weren’t the only thing Rye had lied about, though. In second grade, his imposter angst had compelled him to google a temple a few towns over and tell Josh his family went there. It was a falsehood that he had maintained for years, until they both turned thirteen and Rye realized manufacturing a fake bar mitzvah was a lie too cumbersome, perhaps impossible, to run with.
Josh thought it was hilarious that Rye had gone to so much trouble for no reason, but he hadn’t actually cared.
And here Rye was again, mistaken for someone who belonged.
He knew he needed to respond, that Dara had been staring at three dots for at least two minutes now. He couldn’t start their relationship with a lie.
It’s actually not my temple, he wrote.
But before he hit send, Dara wrote, I’m totally kidding. We obviously shouldn’t wait for another open mic to meet up.
Rye replaced what he’d written with Haha good and sen
t that instead.
* * *
***
Rye was hoping it wouldn’t come up again for a while, but halfway into their first date, eating a couple of greasy slices at Antonio’s, Dara said, “My parents love that I’m out with a nice Jewish boy.”
Rye knew this was the moment to clarify. A text could be misread, but not speaking now would be a more active form of deceit. Still, he didn’t want to risk the look of disappointment on Dara’s face when she learned the truth.
And so: active deception it was.
“That’s me, all right!” Rye said, wiping his mouth with a napkin to catch any stray tomato sauce.
Turns out, Rye’s knack for impressions extended beyond hirsute aliens from the planet Kashyyyk. Over the next couple of weeks, he became the nice temple-attending Jewish boy Dara and her parents assumed he was. And it wasn’t that hard! Just had to throw in the occasional reference to going to services with his family. Sure, part of him felt a little guilty, but the rest of him felt great. At Rye’s homecoming dance, he and Dara barely left the dance floor, decided they were officially boyfriend and girlfriend, and made out afterward in Dara’s car for forty-seven minutes straight. It all felt vaguely unreal, this private joy Rye carried around every day.
But, not even twenty-four hours later, things became more difficult.
Rye and Dara were on the phone—yes, they liked each other that much—talking about the freakishly warm November weather, and climate change, and what the world would be like by the time they were adults. “It’s so disturbing,” Dara said. “My dad puts it into his sermons a lot, so there’s that.”
“Oh cool,” Rye said, sure he’d misheard. “Wait, puts it into his what?”
“His sermons. Hopefully reprogram some of the more conservative brains in our synagogue.”
“Oh yeah, that’s great,” Rye said, trying to disguise the alarm in his voice. Sermons. “ ’Cause your dad’s a…rabbi?” He barely got out the last word.
“Ha, yeah,” Dara said. “At Temple Sinai. You didn’t know that?”
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