All Three Stooges

by Erica S. Perl

  It felt like that pen guy was in my head, badgering me like he did Jerry: “Take the phone! Take the phone! Take the phone!” It might sound crazy, but in that moment I felt like Jerry. I didn’t want to take it, but I also felt like I had no choice. I desperately wanted to know what Dash was thinking and feeling so I could do a better job of helping him or even just knowing what to say. And since his head, along with his mouth, was closed, peeking inside his phone seemed like the next best thing. It occurred to me that maybe he even left the phone on the floor under his chair on purpose, hoping that I might find it. Sort of like a message in a bottle, only intended for one particular person: me.

  I hesitated for a moment, finger out. Then I entered Dash’s password—which, thankfully, he hadn’t changed—and tapped the messages icon. It took me to a text conversation between Dash and CS.

  The most recent text, like I said, was “Exactly!”

  The one before that was from Dash. It read:

  Dash: Or underwater or something.

  The one before that was also from Dash:

  Dash: Or like I’m numb or asleep

  And the one before that was from CS:

  CS: I know what you mean.

  Before that:

  Dash: It’s like I’m not here. Or like a dream but not a good one

  It was getting confusing reading the conversation backward, so I scrolled all the way to the beginning. The first text was from CS.

  CS: Hey!

  Dash: Hey.

  CS: I just thought you might want to talk more. I mean text. You know.

  Dash: Yeh. Thanx.

  CS: You don’t have to say anything.

  Dash: U sound like dr. G.

  CS: OMG. You see Dr. G? She’s my therapist too.

  Dash: I know. My mom got her from yr mom.

  CS: LOL. Do you like her?

  Dash: She’s ok. I just don’t feel like anyone gets what it’s like.

  CS: I know.

  CS: I get it.

  Dash: I no you do. Noah doesn’t.

  Dash: Like I no I’m not supos 2 but I kind of hate him now.

  Wait—what?

  It hadn’t occurred to me that the texts might be about me. Here I thought I’d get a window into why Dash was acting so weird. Well, I got one all right. And, through that window, I could clearly see why Dash was avoiding me: he “kind of” hated me.

  But why? I hadn’t done anything! I mean, sure, I had read his texts, so maybe now he had a reason to be mad at me. But not when he wrote that text! Obviously, it was because of something that had happened before today. I scrolled back up and checked the dates. Sure enough, the conversation with CS started a few days after his dad died, on the day of the funeral.

  The conversation went on and on. It jumped around a bit with “GTGs” and “TTYLs,” but at least once a day it would pick up again. Every single day—including the week before, when he said his phone was lost—he had texted back and forth with CS.

  CS. Who had those initials?

  Chris Stern? That was the kid who thought skateboarding would be a good mitzvah project theme. He lived in Bethesda, too, I was pretty sure. Maybe he went to Dash’s school? But Dash didn’t hang out with him much, as far as I knew, though he did get a ride to Hebrew school with him sometimes. Chris Stern made sense because clearly CS knew who I was. After all, CS didn’t say “Who’s Noah?” when Dash mentioned me.

  But why would Dash be texting with Chris Stern?

  “Noah? Aren’t you supposed to be in your elective?”

  I jumped at the sound of a voice. Rabbi Fred was at the classroom door.

  “Yeah, uh,” I mumbled, wrapping my sweatshirt around Dash’s phone to hide it and clutching the bundle to my stomach, “I gotta go. I don’t feel so good.”

  I slid by him and bolted for the boys’ room.

  I locked myself in a stall and pulled out the phone again. Scrolling obsessively, I read and reread Dash’s texts with CS. I checked out his other texts, too. There were also a whole bunch of unanswered ones, including mine and some from other guys from Hebrew school and regular school, plus quite a few from girls. I had no idea so many girls had Dash’s number. I didn’t see any from Noa, but she didn’t strike me as one of those girls who do a lot of texting.

  Dash didn’t seem to be answering anyone’s texts, except for his mom’s and CS’s. But most people just sent him one or two unanswered messages. “Sorry about yr dad” was a popular one, and a couple of the girls wrote “Thinking of u” with a bunch of emoticons, mostly little sad faces and flowers and stuff like that. My texts looked particularly pathetic all strung together and unanswered.

  CS: Hey, you there?

  I jumped when the new message came in. It hadn’t occurred to me that Chris might not know that Dash’s phone wasn’t with Dash. I quickly ran through my options mentally. I could do nothing. If I ignored him, maybe Chris would stop texting. Or I could text back to let Chris know I’d found Dash’s phone, recognized it, and would be returning it promptly to its rightful owner.

  Or I could text back, pretending to be Dash.

  Okay, once again, I think it’s important to point out that I didn’t mean to hurt anyone or mess anything up. Really!

  CS: Want to come over after your therapy appointment?

  Oh no. I had to say something, but what? Yes? No? Maybe? All options seemed destined to get me in trouble. But then I had a great idea. Instead of answering his question, I could try to get Chris to tell “me” (as Dash) why Dash was so mad at the real me (Noah). That way, I could understand what the problem was, apologize, and act like a better friend. And I promised myself I’d proceed carefully, making sure no one got hurt, and stopping as soon as I heard what I needed to know.

  So I took a deep breath and tapped out a text:

  Me [as Dash]: I’m just still so mad at him.

  CS: Sure. I would be too.

  Okay, good, we were getting somewhere. CS would also be mad, too…but he didn’t say why. I decided to play dumb, figuring I could always backtrack if CS got suspicious.

  Me [as Dash]: U wd 2 if what?

  CS: You know. If my dad had.

  Uh-oh. Chris was confused. He thought Dash was talking about being mad at his dad, not at me. I tried to address his confusion by acting confused back at him.

  Me [as Dash]: Yr dad?

  CS: Aren’t you talking about your dad?

  Good—confusion resolved. So I decided to try and clarify things.

  Me [as Dash]: Not my dad. Noah.

  CS: Why are you mad at Noah?

  Now I wasn’t just pretend-confused. I was actually confused. I typed quickly while trying to play it cool.

  Me [as Dash]: Why do u think?

  My hands started to feel slick with sweat as I anticipated the next text’s arrival.

  CS: I’m confused. Thought you were talking about what your dad did.

  What Dash’s dad did? What did that mean? Was Dash’s dad a secret agent after all? Did he break the law? Or do something dangerous that got him killed?

  I started to type a response, but just then, the bathroom door opened.

  “Noah? Everything okay in there?”

  The unmistakable sound of Phyllis’s voice danced into the boys’ bathroom.

  “Gahhh!”

  I’ll admit it: I panicked. I stood up quickly, feeling a rush of embarrassment like my pants were down—even though they totally weren’t. In my haste I lost my grip, and the next thing I knew—

  KER-SPLASH!!!

  Dash’s phone stared up at me from the bottom of the toilet bowl.

  “Augh!” I shrieked. Then, realizing how things sounded, I stammered, “I mean, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, no worries,” said Phyllis. “Just take your time and come out when you’re finished.”

  Great. I stared down at the phone and tried to figure out if reaching in and retrieving it would make things better or worse. I really wanted to just leave it there and wash my hands of the whole me
ss—literally. Except sooner or later, probably sooner, someone else would find it. And Phyllis would know that the person who had been lingering in that particular stall on the day in question was definitely me.

  With my eyes closed, I reached into the icy cold, disgusting water and fished the phone out. I took it over to the sink, rinsed it off, wrapped it in paper towels, and shoved it in my sweatshirt pocket. I assumed it was dead, but it still seemed inconceivable to throw it away. My moms had made a big point of showing me exactly how much mine cost when they got it for me.

  Now what?

  I trudged back to Israeli dance.

  That night, Enid showed up in my room.

  “You know what I’m in the mood for?” she asked.

  “To do my homework for me?”

  “Vegan gingersnaps,” continued Enid, ignoring my suggestion. “Wanna help?”

  I considered. I was still feeling pretty lousy after the day I’d had. Cookies could definitely take the edge off. Even vegan ones.

  “Okay,” I said.

  I followed her to the kitchen, carrying my algebra book in case our moms asked if my homework was done. Enid got out our moms’ binder of recipes and started gathering ingredients, including molasses, brown sugar, flour, salt, cinnamon, and ginger. I saw her pull down the big glass jar of brown rice to get something behind it. And then I heard her go “Huh?” and I realized what had happened before I could stop her.

  Enid being Enid, she got right to the point. “Why is there a phone in the rice jar?”

  I didn’t really have time to think. I just said the first thing that popped into my head, which was, “I don’t know. It’s not my phone. I have my phone.” I held it out to show her.

  Enid tilted her head to one side, so the long purple swoop of hair in the front slid down past her ear piercings. “Duh,” she said. “I know it’s not your phone. But it’s cool. If you don’t know anything about it, I’ll just go ask the moms.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Wait, don’t!” I blurted out. Enid pivoted to face me. “You can’t say anything,” I begged.

  “About what?” said Enid innocently.

  Stalling for time, I turned my attention to creaming the vegetable shortening and sugar with the mixer. I hadn’t planned on telling anyone what had happened. That was the best way to keep the world from knowing my secret—even I knew that. But then again, if anyone had to find out, it was probably best that it was Enid. It’s not like she would tell my friends. Though she might tell our moms, unless I could convince her otherwise. When the mixture was so creamy I couldn’t beat it any longer, I switched the mixer off.

  “Sooo?” said Enid.

  “It’s Dash’s phone,” I said.

  “What is Dash’s phone doing in our brown-rice jar?”

  “Trying to get more fiber in its diet?”

  Enid didn’t even crack a smile.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “He left it at Hebrew school and I found it. I was going to give it back to him, except I, um, dropped it. I put it in the rice to dry it out.”

  Enid scooped some applesauce into the batter. It felt like she was plopping it in to make a point. “Dropped it?” she asked.

  I turned away and stirred the bowl of dry ingredients, talking nonchalantly. “It was an accident. I was going to give it back but then Phyllis surprised me in the bathroom and it just—”

  “Noah! You dropped Dash’s phone in the toilet?!”

  “I didn’t mean to!”

  “Why were you holding it over the bowl in the first place?”

  “I wasn’t holding it over the bowl. I mean, I was holding it, but I wasn’t, like, dangling it. I was just—”

  “And you put it in with our rice? Ewww!” Enid made a face. Then all of a sudden she said, “Wait a second, you were just what?” I stared at the floor and didn’t answer. “Noah, tell me you weren’t looking at Dash’s private stuff on his phone.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said again. “I just…He got a text, and it popped up, you know, so anyone could see it. But the message didn’t make any sense. So I wanted to make sure he was okay. That’s all.”

  “So you just went into his phone and read his texts?”

  I nodded, eyes closed and shoulders hunched as I awaited the lecture on violating someone’s privacy that was clearly about to rain down on me. Which I totally deserved. Even for me, it was a pretty spectacular sequence of dumb decisions: picking up the phone, not returning it, reading the texts, and—worst of all—texting back as Dash.

  Hearing nothing, I cautiously opened one eye. Surprisingly clear skies: Enid had added the dry ingredients to the wet ones and was mixing thoughtfully. Next she pulled out two cookie sheets, lined them with parchment paper, and began rolling pieces of the dough between her hands until they turned into little balls.

  “So, what did you see?” she finally asked.

  “You have to promise not to get mad,” I said. “Seriously, I’m not going to tell you anything else unless you do.”

  “I promise,” said Enid.

  “No crossed anything?”

  Enid held up both hands as proof. One at a time, because she was holding a ball of cookie dough. I rolled up my sleeves, reached into the batter, and joined her.

  “I saw some texts that were between Dash and this kid we go to Hebrew school with, Chris Stern. I guess he and Dash are friends now or something. Dash told Chris he was mad at me. And Chris said he would be, too, because of what I did. But that didn’t make any sense, because I didn’t do anything! And when I asked what he meant, Chris said he wasn’t talking about me, he was talking about his dad—that is, Dash’s dad. And then—”

  “Wait a second, Noah. You answered his texts? You texted back pretending you were Dash?”

  “I, uh, not exactly,” I said, backpedaling. “I mean, I never said either way. I just—”

  “Noah!!” Aha, here was the storm. “I can’t believe you! This goes way beyond violating someone’s privacy!”

  “I had no choice! Dash wasn’t talking to me. So I had no idea what he was thinking or feeling.”

  “Oh, so that makes it okay?”

  “No. I mean…” I looked down and the vegan cookie dough caught my eye. “Let’s say you had a list in your pocket of everything you eat and don’t eat. If someone was making you lunch and they couldn’t read that list, they’d have to guess and they might serve you something totally offensive to you. Like a tuna melt or a meatball sub! But if there was some way for them to peek at that list, it would help you get a lunch you could actually eat and save a lot of innocent animals’ lives! Wouldn’t that make it okay?”

  Enid raised an eyebrow. “That is the stupidest analogy I’ve ever heard. Animals were not going to end up as lunch if you didn’t break into your friend’s phone and read his texts.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said weakly.

  “Noah! Jeez! Get the sugar.”

  I did as I was told, and she poured out a generous quantity into a shallow bowl. I joined her in taking the cookie dough balls we’d made and rolling them in the sugar until they were fully coated, then lining them up in rows on the cookie sheets.

  “Go back to the part about what you read,” she ordered. “What else did this Chris kid say about Dash’s dad?”

  “He said he’d be mad, too, if his dad did what Dash’s dad did.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then nothing,” I told her. “That’s when I dropped the phone. It didn’t work after that, so I couldn’t ask anything else. I mean, even if I wanted to.”

  “You don’t want to know?”

  “Know what?”

  “What happened to Gil,” she said.

  “I mean, of course I want to know. But it seems like no one really knows the whole story,” I informed her, adding more dough balls to the bowl of sugar. “I asked Jenny after the shiva, and she said Stacey was ‘cryptic’ about the details. She said she’d tell me if she found out more, but she hasn’t
.”

  “I know,” said Enid softly.

  I froze. “What do you mean, you know?”

  “I mean, I heard our moms talking. But I already kind of suspected. They just confirmed it.”

  “Confirmed what?” I saw her hesitate, so I grabbed her arm. “E, come on, you’ve got to tell me. He was a spy, right?”

  “A what?”

  “I dunno.” I felt embarrassed. “I just thought—”

  “Look, Noah. Gil had a lot of problems.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  “Because he did. And I guess they must have gotten to be too much for him.”

  “So?”

  “So Gil committed suicide,” said Enid.

  I felt like I had been punched in the throat. I shook my head slowly from side to side, unable to breathe or swallow. I didn’t say it, but the word echoed throughout my head. I put my hands over my ears as if that could block it out or take it back.

  “No,” I said, my breath rushing back like I had just run the hundred-yard dash in PE. “There’s no way Gil killed himself!”

  “He did, Noah. I’m sorry.”

  “No, he didn’t! You must have heard wrong.”

  Enid didn’t say anything, but we both knew that was impossible. Her hearing capabilities are the stuff of legend.

  “Gil would never do that, no way,” I insisted. I stormed around the kitchen, unable to sit still any longer.

  “Okay. So what do you think happened?”

  I didn’t want to tell her about the spy movie scenarios I’d been playing out in my head. They suddenly seemed as ridiculous as what she was suggesting. So instead I said, “I don’t know. He was old. Old people just drop dead sometimes. You know, of heart attacks and old age. Or, what do they call it? Natural causes!”