Kissing Ezra Holtz (and Other Things I Did for Science)

by Brianna R. Shrum

  He says, “If you want to know, I’ll tell you, but I don’t care about your numbers and honestly I don’t want to get into mine. It’s more than you think.”

  I breathe out. I don’t even know what he means by hooking up. It could mean making out, it could mean like . . . intercourse. It could mean a number of things that . . . I guess don’t matter.

  I stare right at him. “It’s interesting,” I say.

  “What is?”

  “That you’re worried about pressuring me when you and I both know that however many people you’ve fooled around with, I’ve fooled around with more. That you’re not a slut. And I am. Just. That it would even cross your mind that I’m not the one seducing you.”

  He blinks. Then stares at me hard. He slides his hand over my jaw, up my face. “You’re not a slut.”

  “I am. According to everyone, I am.”

  “So the fuck what?”

  I blink hard and just look. Just wait a breath. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him drop an f-bomb. “No,” I say. “I know.” And I know. I know. I wouldn’t think this about anyone else. I wouldn’t be surprised that a boy wanted explicit confirmation before he tried anything with any of my friends who like to fuck around. I would expect it. I would demand it.

  But with me.

  With yourself.

  Suddenly everything is harder.

  “Of course I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “I’m tired. That’s a better adjective. Strike and replace.”

  He backs up a pace. “Okay.” He does an incredible job of masking the disappointment in his voice so it sounds almost neutral. Casual. How it sounds, more than anything, is genuine. I hear, then, what I said, and how he’s misinterpreted it. He thinks I’m putting a stop to things, and while he’s wrong, it’s . . . nice. Nice to know that it really would be okay. If I were.

  Which, well.

  I am most definitely, definitely not.

  “No, no. Come back here.”

  Ezra gives me a wry look. Quirks his eyebrow so it disappears under his hair.

  “Put your hands back on me,” I say.

  He smirks. And take a step forward. Links his finger in my boy shorts.

  I say, “I am tired. Of believing one thing about everyone else and another about myself. I’m tired of people calling me a slut. Like liking sex is a bad thing. But Jesus Christ—”

  He hisses, “Sssshhhh,” and I lower my voice.

  “Jesus Christ. A lot of people like sex. What’s supposed to happen? We turn eighteen and suddenly at the stroke of midnight, everything below the waist turns on?”

  Ezra laughs, low and close to me. Quiet. Controlled.

  “Maybe I am a slut.”

  “Amal—”

  “No,” I whisper. “Maybe I am.” I smile. I actually smile at him brightly. And what do you know? I mean it. I say, “And you should. You should obviously ask me what I want you to do.”

  Ezra blows out a breath. He’s shaking, his breath is shaking.

  “Amalia,” he says. “What do you want me to do?”

  He’s looking at me like I am the only thing that exists.

  Like we can’t hear two people just outside these tiny rickety walls splashing in the pool.

  I slip my hands behind his back and pull him into me. His hipbones jab into me and it almost hurts. I say, “I want you to touch me. With your hands.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  I smile and his nostrils flare again and god, the power is good.

  He leans over me again, one hand on the wall over my shoulder, the other still linked in my underwear, knuckle brushing my hipbone. He kisses me slowly, intentionally, precisely. Everything, every shift of his jaw, every movement of his tongue, every breath, every twitch of his fingers, is on purpose.

  Ezra kisses me with a plan.

  God.

  I pull back to breathe and say, so only he can hear me, “What do you want to do, Ezra Holtz?”

  He says, “Touch you. With my hands.”

  I say, grinning, “Where?”

  Before he kisses me again, he says, “Anywhere,” and slides his fingers all the way inside my underwear.

  Someone splashes outside.

  The moonlight streams in through the window, lights up Ezra’s hair, the planes on his face. I shut my eyes and lean my weight against the wall as Ezra dips down to fix the height difference between us.

  I never quite realized how much taller he is than me.

  I realize it now.

  I’m realizing everything now.

  The hard, lean musculature of his arms, the intense way he kisses me when he’s utterly focused, that constant characteristic precision that comes in . . . very very handy, it turns out, when applied to his hands—good lord.

  I dig my fingers into his shoulder and he asks, low and up against my ear, if there’s anything I want. Anything that would make it better.

  “Just—what you’re doing. Is good.” I make a little noise in the back of my throat, on accident, when he shifts his hand, and his mouth curls into a grin.

  “Ssshhh,” he says.

  I bite my lip. Hard. Hard enough to mute what things would usually sound like right about now if I weren’t trapped trespassing in a tiny, non-insulated building feet away from my classmates.

  Suddenly it seems like it would have been a better idea to wait it out in here, not hooking up against the wall. Suddenly it occurs to me, both of us breathing what feels like too loud, slipping just a little against the wood and the slick concrete floor, trying like hell to keep my voice out of this, dammit, that it would have been the safe play to just sit here and talk.

  But well.

  Who ever got a great story out of the safe play?

  Not that this is something I can exactly tell my grandkids about.

  Ezra scrapes his teeth over my neck and everything crests over me. I bury my face in his chest and make that same little noise into it, muffled by his skin.

  I think: There is nothing wrong with how I feel right now.

  There is nothing wrong with liking this.

  My god, this guy smells amazing—is it his deodorant? Or am I just high off this whole night?

  I think: It is worth it. To be called a slut. If all that means is that I am doing the things that I want.

  I want a lot of things.

  Right now, being trapped in this pool house, screwing around with Ezra Holtz, is what I want the most.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Psychological Symptoms Of Being In Love

  -or-

  How Being In Love Can Sometimes Feel Exactly Like Fasting On Religious Holidays

 

  1.Focus on the positives

  2.Inability to banish some obsessive thinking

  3.Emotional instability

  4.Intense emotional connection and intimacy

  5.Realignment of priorities

  Yom Kippur is like the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. Well, technically there is an argument to be made—and nine bajillion have been made—for Shabbat being the holiest. Or Purim, actually. I don’t know; Ezra probably has a very definite, four-hour-long opinion on it. I make a mental note never to ask him.

  But Shabbat happens every Saturday, and on Purim you’re supposed to celebrate and get totally drunk, so Yom Kippur just kind of feels holier as holy days go?

  No matter where you fall on that argument, it’s definitely one of the Big Ones. Like, if the Big Ones to a bunch of people are Christmas and Easter? Those are the ones that people give you time off for and come home for and all of that? Well, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and Passover—those are our Big Ones.

  Now. I’m extremely not saying that it’s Jewish Christmas (neither is Chanukah), and it’s not Jewish Easter—because we don’t have those. That’s like saying that mushrooms are vegan veal or something, which is stupid because vegans don’t have
veal. They’re not. Chanukah is Jewish Chanukah and Yom Kippur is Jewish Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah is Jewish Rosh Hashanah.

  The End.

  I’m just saying . . . they’re some of the ones that are extra holy, extra important, the ones that a lot of people go the extra mile to make extra holiday-y.

  Rosh Hashanah we already did ten days ago. Passover isn’t until Spring. Yom Kippur is today. And by today, I mean last night, because that’s how we do it on Ye Olde Jewish Calendarre. We go from sundown to sundown.

  Last night was Kol Nidre. It’s always my favorite because it’s more beautiful, more reverent, more haunting. The special melodies the cantor sings, the prayers that have this extra layer of gravity, of finality. It’s serious. It’s . . . I don’t know. Moving, I guess.

  I don’t know that I’d call myself much of a spiritual person. Kind of? I kind of, sort of am. But it’s not something that usually matters really deeply to me, when it comes down to it. Not the way, like, painting does. My culture matters to me. Tradition matters to me, sometimes. The spiritual part of it, I usually feel the least.

  But not on Yom Kippur.

  Especially not on Kol Nidre.

  This is the time that it always, always matters to me for some reason. That I feel things in my chest. That I actually feel the melodies and mean every word of every prayer. For me, today always feels significant, feels like for some reason, the religion itself is stitched into my bones.

  Kol Nidre is over, and today is the rest of it, which means that we are in synagogue almost all day. Mom and Dad had to fight again to get Kaylee’s and my absences excused, because everyone is an asshole, but either way, here I am.

  Temple is totally packed; it’s always packed on the high holidays. I like it, how full it feels today.

  The cantor starts reciting “Ashamnu” in his rich baritone and goose bumps pop up all over my skin. I smile over at Ben, and I am starving to death and my stomach hurts and we are singing the world’s most upbeat, catchiest song about like, ten billion sins we have committed during the year, but I am happy.

  I’m just.

  Happy.

  Kaylee is singing about a half a note off the whole time, loudly in my ear, and that is tradition, so it doesn’t bug me.

  I love all of this.

  The focus on repentance, on forgiveness, on acknowledging how deeply you really do screw up during the year and how there is always the chance to do better next year. To become a better person. This whole season, from Rosh Hashanah until now, is about becoming better. About seeking forgiveness from people you’ve wronged. Granting forgiveness to those who have asked it of you and tried to fix it. About doing tzedakah. Making the world better for everyone else. For you. About becoming the best version of you that you can possibly be. And about knowing that next year when you fall short, you can fix it all again.

  Like I said, something about today makes me feel it in a way that sometimes I don’t.

  The cantor sings about how on Rosh Hashanah our fates are written, and today, on Yom Kippur, they are sealed. It always gives me chills, even though I don’t know that I’m that superstitious about it all.

  Standing here with my family, praying, feeling the pangs of hunger twist my stomach and thirst drying out my mouth, standing and sitting and watching the sunlight stream in through the stained glass windows of the synagogue, I feel.

  Glad.

  Content.

  Fulfilled.

  The service lets out, and we have a couple hours to kill until ne’ilah.

  I think we’re gonna hang around temple because we live too far away to justify going back home and today is a fast day so it’s not like we’re gonna go out to a late lunch or something.

  We wander around as a unit, trying to find something to do; there’s a couple of like, social justicey things going between services—people from the community talking about social issues around the city. Some guided meditation stuff. Yom Kippury things to do that aren’t actual services for people like us who don’t want to have to leave and come back but who also do want to stick around for ne’ilah, the last service of the day.

  I find myself reading names on the walls here and there. Looking at little art pieces put up by some of the kids at the day school (which we’ve never been able to afford. Like, el oh el there’s three of us; public school was the only option there).

  I find my attention wandering.

  I find myself . . . looking for Ezra Holtz.

  Here is the unsettling thing about that: I am absolutely not looking for him so that we can hook up. I have zero dirty thoughts in my brain. Well, okay, let’s not get ridiculous; I have zero specifically directed at Ezra at this moment in time dirty thoughts in my brain. I have no plans to sneak off to some unoccupied area on the grounds and do terrible things to him. I can’t. Fasting on Yom Kippur means fasting from a lot of things. We don’t eat, we don’t drink—not even water. Nothing. No deodorant. No washing your face. And BEST of all: no sexy things. You are totally not allowed to bang on Yom Kippur.

  I have no intention of breaking that particular rule today, and I am absolutely positive that even if I did, Ezra doesn’t. So what’s happening here is: I am looking for Ezra Holtz.

  And I have no idea why.

  Before I can really think through the implications of that, Ezra is bumping into my shoulder with his.

  He says, “Hey, stranger.” His eyes are glittering. He’s so relaxed, like he knows me, like he’s comfortable, like we’re friends or something and hahaha I’m panicking.

  “Hey,” I say.

  I’m weird and stiff.

  I know I’m weird and stiff. I’m hoping it just comes off as hungry.

  “How you holding up?”

  I shrug. “Probably about as well as you are.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want to eat my hand. Or my forearm; it’s meatier.”

  He laughs, shoulders dropped, one hand in a pocket, the other adjusting his kippah. “You’re fasting today?”

  I scoff at him. “Yes.”

  He holds his hands up in a surrender and says, “No judgment either way, I’m just surprised.”

  And yeah, sure. I’m not super observant when it comes down to it; he knows that. And not everyone fasts today. Some people can’t, for health reasons, which is totally fine. Some people can but choose not to, and hey, whatever, that’s fine, too. None of my business either way; people observe in whatever way makes the most sense to them. But I’m a little annoyed that he would assume. Not for long; it’s just a twinge, one I’m used to with him. It dissipates about as quickly as it came and I just say, “There are a number of things about me that might surprise you, Holtz.”

  He raises an eyebrow and shifts just the slightest bit closer to me. Slight enough that were I not constantly, constantly aware of every way he moves, every little breath and facial tic, I wouldn’t even notice it, I don’t think. I doubt anyone else passing by notices the half-inch difference when he leans toward me. No one else can taste the sudden dryness in my mouth (well, sudden INCREASE in dryness) or the jump in my pulse.

  He says, “It’s usually the dehydration that kills me. Way worse than the not eating.”

  “Honestly,” I say. “Hope you slammed your Gatorade yesterday.”

  “Please,” he says, “do I look like this is my first day?”

  I smile, wide and relaxed, and I am so unsettled that I am enjoying this so much. If the rabbi passes by, he’ll wonder if we’re apologizing to one another for a whole year’s worth of transgressions and trying to swallow the idea of forgiveness. He’ll chuckle and roll his eyes and quicken his pace so he doesn’t get wrapped up in another ridiculous rivalrous discussion that will eventually devolve into barbs and fury.

  “How’s your day going?”

  “It’s good,” he says. “People make jokes about how this is no one’s favorite holiday, because it’s serious and you’re hungry. You don’t get to get wasted like on Purim—”

&n
bsp; “Or Passover.”

  “Yeah, WOW, first time I ever got drunk was on glass number two of Manischewitz at a seder when I was thirteen and holy—anyway.” He coughs. “Anyway.”

  “As you were saying, you alcoholic.”

  He narrows his eyes. “As though you were the model of restraint at your first seder as an adult.”

  “Of course I wasn’t. But I’m Amalia Yaabez.” I blow my hair out of my eyes and strike a dramatic pose, overly edgy, silly. I don’t know if it’s the lack of calories making me lightheaded and goofy or if it’s the hormones and Ezra, but it’s something. And I feel light and fun and free.

  Ezra laughs. I want to keep it in my pocket.

  He says, “I can’t argue with that point.”

  I say, “Are you ever going to finish your story?”

  “Right,” he says. “Right.” He looks just a little caught off guard, the smallest bit off balance. He’s fiddling too intently with his kippah and it’s dangerous how much I love that he’s never like this. That I only see him this way—sometimes—with me. “Anyway, I guess I’m weird—”

  “That’s the truth.”

  He smirks the slightest bit, then rolls his eyes. “I guess I’m weird, because I’ve always loved today. The whole process.”

  “No,” I say, “me too, actually.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes light up. In surprise, in camaraderie, delight? Something makes them pretty.

  “Yeah. Even the crappy parts.”

  “The crappy parts are what make it so meaningful.”

  “Part of it, anyway.”

  “Part of it,” he agrees.

  “Plus,” I say, “what food tastes better than whatever you break your fast with in . . . what? Five hours?”

  He glances down at his watch because of course Ezra, biggest dork of the century, wears a wristwatch. “Five hours and eleven minutes.”

  “Man, you’re a nerd,” I say.

  “I’m just hungry.”

  “Wow are those two things not mutually exclusive.”

  He purses his lips and says, “First chametz after Passover.”

  “Hm?”

  “The only food that tastes better than whatever we’re gonna eat in five hours. That first cookie after eight days of matzah and protein? Tough to beat.”