All Three Stooges

by Erica S. Perl

  Jenny and I walked to the car while Karen stayed behind to help Stacey. When we got in, Jenny let out a loud and long breath.

  “I wish I could tell you that paying your respects gets easier as you get older,” she said.

  “It doesn’t?”

  “Nope. I mean, maybe once in a while, if the person is really old or has been sick for a long time. But this…”

  Her voice trailed off and she turned on the radio. I guessed she meant because Gil wasn’t really old or sick. Which made me think now might be an okay time to get some answers about Gil’s death. So as she pulled out of the parking space, I asked, “Do you know what happened?”

  “What, to Gil?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not entirely,” said Jenny. “Stacey said a couple of cryptic things, but I don’t really have the whole story.”

  “Cryptic?” I echoed. “Like what?” It sounded like the plot to a movie. Did Gil die under mysterious circumstances? Was he actually a double agent? I tried to imagine Gil sneaking around in a trench coat, carrying on his secret life.

  Jenny didn’t elaborate. Instead, she said, “Noah, I know this whole thing has been really upsetting—it has been for all of us. But you must have known Gil had some problems, right?”

  “What kind of problems?” I asked, still picturing the movie version. Classified documents? A stolen formula? An elaborate cover-up? I saw Gil on the run, gasping for breath and looking over his shoulder while the bad guys closed in and—

  Jenny stopped at a light and looked at me.

  “I know you and Dash had a lot of fun with him. But the thing is, sometimes people work hard to keep up appearances. When inside they’re really feeling—”

  “Green,” I said.

  “What?”

  I pointed to the light.

  “Oh. Thanks.” Jenny looked up and started to drive again, adding, “Look, we probably shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. I’ll talk to Stacey. If I learn more about what happened, I’ll let you know. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Just then, we drove down Gil’s block and went right by his house. It looked exactly the same as it always did. His car was even parked out front, so it looked like he was home. Maybe showering after a run. Or reading the paper, or working at his computer in the basement. Or cooking something with his G-Force grill. Or drinking a seltzer.

  Except he wasn’t doing any of those things. And he wouldn’t ever again. I pictured Gil popping open a can of seltzer, taking a sip, and keeling over, poisoned. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I didn’t want to hear the gory details, if there were gory details. It’s one thing if someone’s telling you about a movie and they describe the blood and the guts and everything. It’s another thing if it’s not a movie. If it’s real life and someone you know. Someone you care about.

  We drove together in silence for a while, just listening to some kind of plinky jazz.

  When we pulled up in front of our house and Jenny switched off the radio, I realized there was still one question I needed to ask.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “What about me?”

  “You’re not going to…you know.”

  “What? Die?” asked Jenny.

  I shrugged, embarrassed.

  “I mean, eventually, yeah. But for the foreseeable future, you’re stuck with us. In fact, our plan is to persecute you for as long as possible. Ideally while wearing matching sweatshirts that read I’M NOAH COHEN’S MOST EMBARRASSING MOM.”

  “Great,” I said. Knowing my moms, she probably wasn’t entirely kidding. A couple of days earlier, I would have called that a fate worse than death.

  Now? Not so much.

  Dash didn’t come back to Hebrew school the next Tuesday, or the Tuesday after that. I tried texting him a bunch of times, including to ask if he was mad at me and to apologize for whatever it was I’d done, but he never replied. Meanwhile, miraculously, while Dash was out—I feel kind of guilty about this—Hebrew school got a lot more fun.

  Here’s why: they started giving us seventh graders “team time” to work together on our mitzvah project. Some of the kids hadn’t picked a comedian or joined a team, so the rest of us tried to suggest ideas for them. We started by making one list of all the Jewish comedy greats we could think of. Then people yelled out the names of other ones they thought might be Jewish, and Noa and I Jewgled them. (That’s when you use a search engine to find out if someone is Jewish or not.) Rabbi Fred had given Rabbi Jake a printed list of his suggestions: Mel Brooks, Rob Reiner, Allan Sherman, and someone named Lenny Bruce, so we tried to decide which ones should go on our master list.

  “Lenny…Bru…,” I repeated while copying the name into the search bar.

  “Wait, guys, don’t Jewgle him!” instructed Rabbi Jake.

  “Ooo…,” said Maya, raising her eyebrows and elbowing me.

  Rabbi Jake put a hand up to emphasize his point. “No Lenny Bruce, guys,” he said. “Inappro-pro.”

  “Hey, speaking of which,” asked Deena, “what about Amy Schumer? Or Sarah Silverman?”

  “Yeah, there are hardly any women on the list,” said Noa, sizing it up. “And no people of color, for that matter.”

  “Yes, there are,” I argued. I live in a house full of girls (except Spud), so I am of course aware—and in favor—of the need to be inclusive in all things. “Right here.” I pointed to the list. “See? We have Amy Schumer. And Gilda Radner. And Mayim Bialik. Tracee Ellis Ross from Black-ish is Jewish, too, I think. Plus Maya Rudolph. And Drake.”

  “Drake’s a rapper, not a comedian,” said Alex Weinberg.

  “I beg to differ,” I said. “He’s hosted SNL on more than one occasion, including doing a digital short with Andy Samberg. And did you see that skit he did about his bar mitzvah?”

  I was gearing up to launch into my rendition of the sketch when I thought I heard Noa say, “And crusty.”

  “Drake’s what?” I asked.

  Noa smiled. “Not Drake. Krusty the Clown,” she said. “You know, from The Simpsons? We should add him to the list.”

  I stared at her, surprised that such wisdom was coming from…her. She was right, of course. Krusty is definitely Jewish. His dad is a rabbi, and Krusty had a bar mitzvah and everything.

  “Yeah, totally,” I said. “I mean, unless we’re only allowed to do real people.”

  “I think we should be able to use him,” said Noa. “He’s Jewish. He’s funny. He’s even a comedian.”

  We turned to the ultimate arbiter: Rabbi Jake.

  He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  I couldn’t believe we were getting to spend Hebrew school time discussing The Simpsons. And then Rabbi Jake let me cue up a clip from the episode with Krusty’s bar mitzvah. The only thing that made the experience less than perfect was the fact that Dash wasn’t there.

  Usually, Dash and I texted back and forth all the time. But now, when I texted, I got nothing in return. My moms suggested that I actually “pick up the phone and call him.” To humor them, I gave it a try, but his voice mail wasn’t set up, so I just hung up.

  “Maybe he needs some space,” Karen suggested. “Why don’t you assume he’s fine and just reach out to him every now and then to check on him?”

  So I tried that. But no matter what I texted, the same thing happened. Or rather, didn’t happen.

  Me: Sup! It’s me noaH (duh!)

  Maxx:

  Me: Yo. Txt me back u tool. The Israeli dance police r holding me hostage!!

  Maxx:

  Finally, in desperation, I tried something else.

  Me: Where did u go? Take me wit u!!! Dying here…

  Oops. Didn’t mean to use the d-word. I quickly tried to fix things.

  Me: Sorry!!! Didn’t mean it like that!!!

  Me: R u mad?

  Me: If u want me to stop let me no.

  Me: Just text something. Unless ur fone is ded.

  Aaaaaand made things worse.

/>   Me: Gah!!! Sorry again!!!

  It was kind of nuts—no matter how chill I tried to make my texts, they came out the opposite. It was like at the shiva all over again. I kept saying the wrong thing, and every time I tried to make things better, I made them worse.

  After that, I made a conscious effort to text him really boring questions like “What’s up?” or “R u ok?” Still nothing. It got to the point where I began to get kind of worried about him. But when I called his house—that was also my moms’ idea—Stacey said that Dash was fine and that she’d give him the message I called. Moms can forget stuff, though, so I’m not sure if he actually got that message, because I didn’t hear back.

  During one of our breaks between classes at Hebrew school, I went on my phone and checked Dash’s social media accounts, which I did every couple of days. I was disappointed, but also relieved, to see that he hadn’t posted anything recently.

  “It’s really for the best.”

  Noa’s voice startled me into looking up. In a really condescending tone, she continued, “Dash staying off social media, I mean.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” I told her.

  “Rude,” said Noa, which was crazy because she was the one snooping over my shoulder. “I just mean that when you go through something like that, you need to protect yourself.”

  “Wow,” I said sarcastically. “We’re all so lucky to have you here, since you’re obviously an expert on everything.”

  “Not everything,” said Noa. “But what Dash is going through? Sure.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “Because your dad is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your dad is dead?” I repeated.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But I see him picking you up at temple every week.”

  “That’s my stepfather,” said Noa, looking at her fingernails and picking at a cuticle. “My dad died when I was little. He had pancreatic cancer.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling like an idiot. Then my shiva memory kicked in, so I added, “Sorry.”

  “Thanks,” said Noa. “So, like I was saying, I can totally relate to what Dash is going through.”

  “I can, too,” I told her. “I mean, I don’t have a dad.”

  “Did he die?” asked Noa.

  “No. It’s just always been me and my moms.”

  “Okay, so you’re aware that not having a dad in the first place isn’t the same as losing one?” said Noa, her voice rising as she stood up.

  “Yeah—I mean no! I just—” I didn’t know how to explain it. I love my moms. They are the awesomest. With them, I have exactly no need for a dad. But want is different. I always felt like, if I had a dad, I’d want him to be like Gil. Yet I didn’t see a way to explain that to her without making things even worse.

  “Just forget it, Noah!” yelled Noa, causing everyone in the social hall to turn and stare at us. “Leave me alone, okay?”

  And with that, she practically ran out of the room. Based on everything I’ve told you about Noa, you’re probably thinking that was awesome, right? Getting her to move far away from me and not want to have anything to do with me has been my goal for my entire life, practically.

  So why didn’t it feel awesome? Possibly because my best friend was already not speaking to me. And then when my nemesis stopped speaking to me, too, I didn’t have my best friend to tell about it!

  For all these reasons, I was super-happy when Dash walked into Hebrew school a few Tuesdays later during skills class. He gave Rabbi Fred a nod, took his old seat, and slumped down in it. He didn’t say a word, and when Rabbi Fred dismissed us for the break between classes, Dash practically, well, dashed on out of there.

  I looked all over the building, but he was nowhere to be seen. I texted him again.

  Me: Maxx! Welcome back! Wher r u?

  Me: Helloo??

  No response. And when I finally gave up looking, all the sign-ups for the good electives were already full, of course.

  Which is how I ended up in Israeli dance again.

  “If I didn’t know better, Noah, I’d say you were becoming an Israeli dance fan,” said Solly, the dance teacher, shaking a teasing finger at me. “Mayim, mayim, mayim, mayim!” he chanted along with the beat of the music, leading everyone toward the center of the circle. I clapped a beat too late, as everyone else was backing up. I could feel myself starting to sweat, so I signaled to Solly and jumped out of the circle for a water break.

  “And the song claims another victim,” joked Solly. He always says that because mayim is the Hebrew word for water.

  I was in no rush to return to class, so I stood at the fountain, pressing the button and waiting for the water to get colder. Spacing out, I watched the water flow and flow. I released the button and it stopped abruptly. No hidden pipe. No unending circle of replenishment, unlike Rabbi Fred’s water feature. The only thing that was unending was the stupid Mayim Mayim dance, so I went to the boys’ room to kill some more time. “Killing time”—where did that expression come from? I imagined a clock tower, like Big Ben, bending over to rest its head on a guillotine block. That made me think of the dumb old Popsicle stick joke about the guy who threw a watch off a tall building to see time fly. When the watch hit the ground and broke into a million pieces, the guy would definitely have killed some time, but you’d never see that joke on a Popsicle stick.

  Why did everything suddenly seem to be about death and dying? No matter what I did or said or thought, it was like the Grim Reaper was following me. I pictured him in his black hooded cloak, doing the grapevine step and waving his scythe at me.

  Just then, I saw Dash coming out of the room we had been in for skills class. I ran over to him.

  “Hey,” I said excitedly. Dash was carrying his coat and backpack, so I asked, “You taking off? You just got here!”

  “Yeah, I, uh, gotta be somewhere,” he said vaguely.

  “That’s cool,” I told him. “I’m just glad you’re back. I was worried, I mean, since you weren’t answering my texts and stuff. Not that you have to or anything,” I added quickly.

  “Oh,” said Dash. “Yeah, I lost my phone last week.”

  Which didn’t explain why he hadn’t responded to my texts in many weeks, but I decided not to point that out. Instead, I said, “That sucks. You getting a new one?”

  “I guess,” said Dash.

  “Well, if you get a new number, let me know what it is, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Dash.

  “Cool,” I said.

  Noa came up to us. “Your mom’s upstairs looking for you,” she said to Dash.

  “Okay, thanks,” he replied. To me, he said, “Later.”

  “Later,” I echoed, playing it cool. I put up my fist to bump, but he must not have seen it. I punched the air a couple of times so Noa wouldn’t be able to tell I’d been left hanging.

  As soon as Dash was gone, Noa turned to me.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in Israeli dance right now?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but Solly gave me permission to step out,” I told her. I invented a reason on the spot. “I need to grab my sweatshirt. I think I left it in skills class.”

  “Sure,” she said, sounding unconvinced, so I ignored her and went into our skills classroom and pretended to look for it. Funnily enough, I had actually left it there (ha!), hanging on the back of my chair.

  I was grabbing my sweatshirt, hoping enough time had passed that Israeli dance might be close to ending, when a flash of light caught my eye. I followed it to the floor and saw that it was a cell phone screen lighting up to announce a text message. I bent down to get it, fully intending to give the phone to Rabbi Jake or someone in the front office who could make an announcement.

  When I picked it up, I realized that I knew whose phone it was. It was Dash’s. I knew because of the case and also because I saw my final text—“Helloo??”—identified with our code name for each other: Maxx.

  And then another
text came in. It was from someone named CS. It contained one word exactly.

  The word was, in fact, “Exactly!”

  This single word told me several things all at once. Dash’s phone was not lost. That is, he might have dropped it on the floor of the classroom, but he had it when he came to Hebrew school today. So he didn’t lose it the week before, like he told me. Unless, I reasoned, the whole time he thought it was lost it was actually in his bag and then during class he somehow kicked or jostled his bag in such a way that it fell out on the floor without him realizing it.

  Which raised several questions: If that was what had happened, his phone would definitely be dead, so how would it be receiving texts? And if that wasn’t what had happened, why did he tell me he lost his phone? What possible reason would he have to lie to me about that?

  Was it possible that Dash was actually sending texts to other people while ignoring my texts? Was he just ignoring my texts and lying to me about his phone being lost?

  Why would he do that? I was his best friend!

  Or was I? Who was CS?

  As I stared at the phone, it dawned on me that I had several options. I could deliver it to Dash and wait to see what he’d do. But then he could just say thanks and pocket it and go back to acting weird, and I would have lost my chance to understand what was really going on. Or I could hold on to the phone to see what other texts came in, from CS or from others, and gather more evidence to use when I’d eventually return it to Dash and try to get some answers from him. All I’d have to do was wait for texts to arrive and read them on the lock screen, just like anyone else who had found the phone might do.

  Or, instead of waiting, I could go into the phone and read all his texts.

  Now, I know that last one sounds bad! But here’s the thing. It was like I was holding a Magic 8 Ball in my hand, but not one with dumb, cryptic answers like REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN. This Magic 8 Ball had real answers to all the mysteries of my life, such as:

  Why wasn’t Dash speaking to me?

  What was he saying to other people?

  How might I get him to be my friend again?

  I suddenly thought about that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry meets the guy with the fancy pen that writes upside down. The guy practically begs him to take it—“Take the pen! Take the pen! Take the pen!”—and Jerry hesitates and protests and finally, reluctantly, accepts it. The minute the guy leaves, Jerry’s mom confronts him: “Whaddya take his pen for?”