I guess I sounded upset, because Rabbi folded his hands and said, “Is something wrong, Tara?”
I sighed. “You know Rebecca?”
Rabbi smiled. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, then you know she got Mishpatim—Laws—and, well, I don’t understand it.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“About the slaves.”
“I know, right?” Rabbi said, sounding just like Rebecca. “Think about that.”
“I am thinking about it. And what I think is—isn’t that a little bit hypocritical?”
“Maybe a lot!” Rabbi agreed.
“To own slaves, I mean, when your entire religion is about being freed from slavery.”
“I wouldn’t say that’s what the entire religion is about, Tara,” Rabbi said. “But you ask a valid question.” Not that he was going to tell me the answer, as I could see.
“I know.” I sighed. “You’re going to tell me to look it up.”
“Actually, I was going to ask you to be patient and save your questions for later. We’ll be discussing it in the spring. I expect your friend Rebecca will be something of an expert on the topic by then.” Rabbi looked at his watch. “Before you go … I’d like to know: Do your parents know your grandmother liberated you from Hebrew school yesterday?”
I gulped. It was probably a sin to lie to a rabbi, so I didn’t answer him.
“How did you know I was with Gran?” I asked. “Did Sheila Rosenberg snitch?”
“Sheila Rosenberg is many things, Tara Feinstein, but she is not a snitch. Your grandmother called me herself, yesterday afternoon.”
“She did?”
“She did indeed,” said Rabbi. “Her timing was fortuitous. I was about to call your parents. Which is why I am asking you, do they know?”
I shook my head. “They don’t, but they will soon, I promise. And I won’t be absent again.”
“Very well. And no more fighting, you understand?”
So he knew about that, too.
ebecca’s lesson was right after mine, so I sat on the steps to wait for her. My head was full of the topics Rabbi and I had just talked about. It was a lot to take in, and I had a sneaking suspicion he had been demonstrating that “dialectics” thing on me with all his questions.
In a way, it was a relief not being told exactly what to think. If everything was open to discussion, then just maybe there were no wrong answers. I mean, there’s the Ten Commandments, obviously. I think we can all agree about those. Beyond that, there was room for debate. Just like in real life.
I still hadn’t worked up the courage to ask Rabbi about believing in God. I didn’t know if I ever would.
I started thinking about my speech. What was there to say about Joseph that hadn’t already been said a million times? The gist was, Joseph was the second youngest of twelve brothers, the older of the two sons of Jacob’s favorite wife, Rachel. Jacob loved him the best and gave him a special coat that made his brothers mad jealous. Then Joseph started having these dreams that meant his brothers were going to have to bow down to him, and he was conceited enough to tell them about it, so of course they hated him and plotted against him.
I took out my Hebrew school notebook and started doodling with a fine-point green Sharpie. I drew a stick-figure Joseph falling into a ditch, while his brothers all pointed and laughed. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, but if I did, I could kind of understand how Joseph’s had felt. I mean, he sort of had it coming. If you went around telling people your big-headed dreams about how you’re destined to rule over them someday, you shouldn’t be surprised when they rip your coat and tell people you’re dead.
I could also see how they were wrong—how they were too quick to get mad, instead of seeing the possibilities. I mean, if your brother was going to be the king or whatever, didn’t that have some advantages? “We make our own opportunities”—Gran always said that. Meaning, change could be good, if you seize the day or whatever. Sometimes.
I wondered if I could do something with the many-colored coat and my many-colored sari. I mean, there had to be some symbolism in that. I sucked on the pen cap, pondering where I could go with it.
I drew a big savage green X through the paragraph and went back to doodling in the margin: big, loopy vines and flowers and paisleys and stuff, like mehndi—those henna tattoos people do for Indian weddings or just for fun. When I ran out of room in the margin, I switched to doodling on the palm of my left hand and up the inside of my arm.
“What are you doing?”
I looked up to see Sheila Rosenberg standing on the bottom step. I sighed and closed my notebook.
“Nothing,” I said. “Thinking about my parashah.”
“Which one did you get?”
“Vayeishev,” I said. “It’s the one about—”
“—Joseph,” she said. “Mine’s Bereishit.” In the Beginning.
“That’s a hard one,” I said, thinking, Mostly because you have to say “Bereishit” with a straight face.
Sheila nodded. “Rabbi says it’s the most important one. Because it’s first.”
She kept talking, but I wasn’t really listening. Sometimes I couldn’t help staring at her. She had enormous, curly black hair, pale blue eyes, and paler bluish skin that Mum said looked like porcelain and Rebecca said looked like skim milk. She was pretty, kind of, in the way dolls are pretty. And dolls gave me the creeps.
Sheila was still talking about our parashahs when I tuned back in. “Kind of ironic,” she was saying. “You getting the one about clothes.” So rude.
“That’s not really what it’s about, you know.”
“I know,” she said, awkwardly. “I was just kidding.”
I stared her down. I really wanted to shove her again. Down the steps this time.
“So,” she said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, “what do you think?”
“About what?”
“What I just asked you,” she said. Her cheeks went bright red, and she stared at her feet.
I had no idea what she was talking about. Also, I still had a tingling in my arm from wanting to push her down the stairs, and I was afraid if she didn’t move away IMMEDIATELY, I might accidentally do it. Probably she only wanted me to admit that Bereishit was the most important parashah or something equally petty. If it would make her go away …
“Fine,” I said.
She smiled. “Yay!” she said, making little cheerleader motions with her hands.
Whatever. I didn’t really care.
When we saw Rebecca coming out, Sheila looked at her watch. Her lesson was next. “Gotta go!” she said.
I saw them stop and chat amiably in the vestibule, and I couldn’t help noticing they seemed kind of chummy all of a sudden. What’s that all about? I wondered. But then Sheila went in and Rebecca came out, and we got to talking about something else entirely, and I forgot all about it.
ran was playing a round of solitaire when I got home from my bat mitzvah lesson.
“How come you don’t play on the computer like everyone else?” I asked.
“Because you can’t cheat at computer solitaire.”
“You cheat?” I squealed.
“Keep your voice down. It’s not cheating if it’s solitaire.” She gathered up the cards in a neat stack. That was when she noticed my arm doodles. “What’s this shmutz all over you?” She licked her thumb and started scrubbing my arm, hard.
“Eww, Gran, quit it! That’s how you spread germs.”
“What germs? I’m your grandmother.”
“It’s not shmutz,” I said. “It’s supposed to be a tattoo.”
“A tattoo?” Gran shrieked. “I’ll murder you.”
“Not a real tattoo. A temporary one. Mehndi.”
“Mendy who?”
“Mehndi is a what, not a who. Henna tattoo. Except I used a pen.”
“Go scrub that off.”
“I would, Gran, except … it was kind of a permanent mark
er.”
“Meshugge kid,” Gran muttered. She stood up. “Ready to get down to business?”
“Ready as I’m gonna be,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. “Let’s do this.”
We knocked on Mum’s office door.
“It’s open,” she called.
I shuffled in behind Gran.
“Now, Rita, don’t have a meltdown,” Gran said, right to the point. Which was not an auspicious start. Mum looked up in a panic. I handed her the ruined sari and sat down meekly in one of the chairs opposite her desk.
“My God, Tara,” she said when she saw the damage.
“Take it easy, Rita,” Gran said. “We have a plan.”
“We,” Mum echoed.
She sat absolutely still as Gran explained everything. When it came time to describe the dress, Gran draped the fabric over me as if I was a human mannequin. Mum nodded slowly.
“Marvin is capable?” she asked reasonably.
“Absolutely!” Gran said.
“He’s already in on this, then?” Mum shot me a look. I stared at the floor.
“Why not?” Gran said. “We’re coming to you with a solution instead of a problem.”
“We,” Mum repeated.
“The child was terrified,” Gran said. Terrified? Okay, maybe a little. She pinched the back of my arm. “She came to me for help. We didn’t do anything before talking to you.”
Mum unpinned the old photo from the wall—the one of her and Meena at their aunt’s wedding—and stared at it grimly, her lips pressed thin. She sighed.
“Do you know, I was never allowed to wear that sari as a child? Meena was the older, responsible one. How I begged Mumma to let me wear it.”
“I never knew that, Mum.”
“Of course you didn’t. How would you?”
“I’m really sorry,” I whispered. I felt my chin wobble. Mum seemed to make up her mind.
“It is a lovely piece of fabric,” she admitted. “And I always would have preferred you in a dress.”
“It’s settled, then!” Gran cried, clapping her hands. “I’ll call Marvin.”
“No,” Mum said, sitting up straight. “You’ve done quite enough. I’ll call Marvin.”
“Suit yourself,” Gran said. “Tell him I’ll call him later.”
“Of course you will,” Mum said darkly. “You two, out now. Shoo.”
“Gran,” I said, flinging myself at her after we closed the door behind us, “you’re my hero.”
“Get off me,” Gran said. “I just had my hair done.”
“When?” I teased.
Gran shook her fist at me. “You’re a rotten, ungrateful kid.”
“So I’ve been told,” I said, hugging her even tighter.
n Social Studies on Wednesday, Jake Solomon brought in an article about the Middle East, and he kept referring to the Palestinians as Pakistanis, as if they were all the same.
“Pakistan isn’t even in the Middle East,” I said. “It’s right next to India. That’s like mixing up Israelis and Icelanders.”
For some reason, that sparked a heated debate, even though I was only pointing out geography. People can be oversensitive. And Ms. Ross lost control of the discussion, of course.
At lunchtime, the whole seventh grade was still obsessing over it, even kids who weren’t in Ross’s class.
I was just minding my own business, eating lunch with Ben-o and Rebecca at our usual table. Sheila Rosenberg was next to Rebecca, her nose buried in a book. Aisha Khan was down at the other end of the table with Jenna Alberts.
At the next table, Ryan Berger was imitating Ross’s high-pitched, nasal voice, which made everyone laugh. Then he got up for a second helping of lentil chili and the table quieted down.
A minute later, he was standing behind me.
“Settle a bet,” he said. “Are Indians Muslim?”
“What?” I turned to give him a quizzical look.
I was getting that uneasy feeling like a fight was about to happen. I didn’t want to go blank and start swinging. Not with Ryan asking such a stupid question and everyone at both tables watching, suddenly quiet again. Why was he singling me out? I wasn’t even the only Indian in the lunchroom. I mean, why didn’t he ask Aisha, who does happen to be both Indian and Muslim? Asking if Indians are Muslims was like asking if Americans are Jews—some are, and some aren’t. It depends.
“Some are, yes,” I said slowly. “Some aren’t.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“A Muslim. Duh.”
“I’m in your Hebrew school,” I reminded him. I felt defensive, backed into a position of denying being Muslim, as if it were somehow the wrong thing to be. Aisha was watching, waiting to hear how I would answer. Even Sheila Rosenberg looked up from the book she was reading to give Ryan a withering look.
“You know full well she’s a practicing Jew,” she said.
“Why’s she still practicing—doesn’t she get it yet?” Ryan asked, cracking himself up so hard, I was afraid the plate of chili was going to slide off his tray and onto my head. But he did have a point—something about the way Sheila said “practicing” made it sound like I wasn’t a real Jew, just acting like one, maybe even hiding a secret Muslim identity.
“Would you please move, Ryan?” I said. “You’re making me nervous back there.”
“What? You scared of everyone finding out you’re a terrorist?”
“If anyone is terrorizing people, it’s you,” I yelled.
And then he said it, the horrible thing: “My grandpa says all Muslims are terrorists.”
Just maybe he was kidding, being sarcastic, mocking people who thought that way. But it wasn’t funny. And those soulless eyes of his weren’t giving anything away. I glanced toward Aisha. She and Jenna had stopped talking and had turned around to listen.
“A, I’m not a Muslim. B, you’re a racist.”
“It’s not racist if it’s true.”
Gran once taught me a handy trick that I use all the time. She said to take any remark that you suspect might be racist and substitute the word Jew. If you’re insulted by it, it’s probably racist. I wouldn’t stand for anyone saying all Jews were terrorists, or all Indians for that matter, so I stood up and let Ryan Berger have it, accidentally-on-purpose knocking the tray back into his stupid face. I honestly didn’t mean to hurt him physically, just knock the lentil chili off his plate and onto him and his clothes.
Ryan yelped and put his hands up to his face. The tray clattered to the floor in a gloopy mess. Lentils were oozing down the front of his shirt. Ben-o handed him a well-used napkin, which broke the mood. Jenna Alberts laughed. But blood was beginning to trickle from Ryan’s nose. I panicked.
“Fight! Fight!” some sixth-graders chanted. Sully, the ex-Marine-turned-lunchroom-supervisor, came barreling toward us and grabbed Ryan by the collar.
“She hit me!” Ryan told Sullivan, removing one hand from his face to point an accusing finger at me. And then, you wouldn’t believe it, but Sheila Rosenberg came to my defense. She even lied a little bit.
“She didn’t hit him, Mr. Sullivan. He was standing behind her when she stood up. She knocked his tray by accident. She didn’t push him or anything,” she added, giving me a pointed look.
“What’d I tell you about fighting with girls, Berger?” Sully bawled, frog-marching Ryan to the nurse’s office.
When they were gone, I straightened my shirt and sat down, glaring around the table.
“Still think Berger has a ‘thing’ for me?” I spat, rounding on Ben-o.
“Sure, why not?” he said. “Couples fight all the time. Just look at my parents.”
Disgusted, I ignored him and turned on Sheila. “And you—who asked you to get involved?”
She shrugged. “He’s been asking for it,” she said, wiping a lump of lentil chili off her math book.
I should have left it alone, but I was still pumped up. “Why did you say that about me being a practicing Jew? Li
ke I’m not completely Jewish?”
“That’s not what it means.”
“Why didn’t you just say ‘she’s Jewish’?” Sheila didn’t answer. “It’s because of my mother, isn’t it? How many times do I have to tell you, she’s Jewish.”
“I know,” Sheila said. “You’re being a little paranoid.”
Maybe I was. I stomped over to an empty table to cool off.
Aisha touched my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just catching my breath.”
“You really shouldn’t get into so many fights. You’re going to get in trouble someday.”
“But you heard him—”
“He said his grandfather,” Aisha cut in hastily. “He can’t help that. My grandparents have some pretty outrageous things to say about Jews. Nothing I can do about that, except ignore it.”
I looked down at my hands, wondering if I’d ever learn to ignore things, or if I even wanted to.
“Look,” Aisha went on, “Ryan’s just a doofus. I’m pretty sure he thought he was being ironic. He doesn’t even know when he’s being offensive.” She laughed. “But I think he knows it now, thanks to you.”
I was surprised when Ryan showed up for Robotics Club later that afternoon, still smelling faintly like chili.
“It’s not broken,” he said.
“What?”
“My nose.” I wouldn’t look at him, so he stuck his face close to mine and said, “Wanna try again?”
I almost smiled, but then I remembered what he said that had set me off. “You shouldn’t say stuff like you said at lunch,” I said. “You shouldn’t even think it.”
“I know,” Ryan said, getting out of my face. “I didn’t even mean it. I was just mocking Ross, at first. It was mean and stupid.”
“You should tell that to Aisha, not me.”
“I already did.”
“You did?”
“Yep.”
“What did she say?”
Ryan shrugged. “We’re besties again.”
“You were never besties.”
“I know—listen,” he said, scratching his head, “somebody said something dumb about Adam. I got mad. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you or anyone else.”
My Basmati Bat Mitzvah Page 9