You notice she doesn’t say she’ll work at Gertie’s until the day she dies. “But I thought you fell in love with baking,” you say. Had Ma wanted to go to college?
“Ari, the point is you’re a smart girl even if Miss Field doesn’t think so.”
“But Miss Field didn’t say I wasn’t smart.” She actually said the opposite.
Ma keeps pointing her spoon at you as she talks. “These young people like your teacher, thinking they can change the world. But it makes things more complicated. Sometimes it’s not so complicated. Work hard, be honest, don’t dwell. That’s all we can do.”
You open your mouth to say something more. Whenever you try to talk to Ma, the conversation starts to zigzag, and then it ends before you feel like you understand her or she understands you. You want to ask her what she means when she said she was lazy but never gave in to laziness. Ma doesn’t have a lazy bone in her body. In fact, you wish she’d act a little lazier sometimes.
“Now off you go. Gabby needs help in the front.”
You don’t want to get in the way of that spoon she’s waving around, so you hop off the stool and head to the front. You push through the swinging door separating the front from the back area, but you turn and take a last glance at Ma before the door swings closed.
You expect to see her hard at work again, spooning her meringue on the pie. But instead, she leans against the stool, a little hunched over, one hand on her hip, the other hand rubbing her forehead. She looks worried and sad. It scares you to see her suddenly so wilted.
You wonder if the reason they’re selling the bakery is because Ma needs a break. The thought of Leah somewhere out there, married and pregnant, must be really tough on her. That’s probably why she’s getting more headaches. If you just listen to Ma and work harder, you’ll get better at writing, at school. It’s the least you can do for her.
The next morning, you get up extra early, wash carefully, clean your nails, and smooth a little Breck cream rinse through your dry hair, a trick Leah taught you to make your curls less frizzy. The school dress code changed last year, and girls can now wear pants just like the boys, though you’re one of the only girls who does. But today you put on your blue plaid jumper, clean socks, and your Mary Janes. You even swipe on some of the frosty lip gloss Leah left behind: a new beginning.
You try to organize your schoolbag, which is stuffed with loose-leaf papers, folders, and textbooks. You dump everything out and then try to put it back neatly, piece by piece. Then you cram your lunch bag and thermos on top.
“Is it picture day?” Jane asks with a panicked look in her eye when you arrive at the bus stop.
“Can’t I just look nice?” you say, annoyed.
The bus comes rolling down the street, and you hurry on, Jane trailing behind you.
“Sure,” she says slowly as you both head to the back. “But you’re up to something, aren’t you? Trying to impress a fella?” A sparkle dances in her eyes.
“This has nothing to do with any silly boy,” you say loudly. Some older girls in front of you turn around and giggle, and you shrink down in your seat. “I’ve got to finish my math homework.”
Jane gives you a puzzled look in return. You’re not sure why she’s making you feel angry. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she noticed how you looked, that trying to be better is actually different than what the world normally sees. You ignore her for the rest of the ride and do the last problems on your math homework, which you usually try to rush through during the morning announcements.
Carefully, you place your book bag and coat in your locker instead of tossing them in. Most people are in class already, standing in groups around desks. Chris isn’t at his desk, but when you sit down, you feel his eyes on you. He must be somewhere watching you. It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself and take out your books and papers and place them neatly in your desk. Then you clasp your hands in your lap and wait, ready for anything.
“Ariel.” Miss Field calls you over to her desk. She’s not smiling. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, you tell yourself as you walk over. You will handle it like a very grown-up girl who has never known a lazy day in her life. You will handle it the way Leah would.
“Yes, Miss Field,” you say, standing tall before her.
“I’d like to speak to you at the beginning of lunch today.”
You nod. Your shoulders slump a bit. It’s okay, you say again in your head, and you hope that whatever happens, Ma never knows about it.
“Yes, Miss Field,” you say politely and return to your seat.
As you stand for the Pledge of Allegiance, your stomach isn’t just turning, it’s hurting. It starts to hurt more with each hour. As you work your way through several long division problems, your hand starts to hurt along with your stomach. You write slowly, pressing the pencil hard into the paper, and it goes right through. You pause to shake out your fingers. Suddenly a tiny ball of paper lands on your desk.
You look to your left, and Chris is busy with his workbook. You glance up at Miss Field, who has her head down, correcting papers. You open the note, and in tiny dark letters you find the words you’re going to get it staring back at you.
Chris seems absorbed in his work, too absorbed. You take the ball of paper. You want to write you don’t scare me in small, neat letters on the back and toss it on his desk. But you can’t. You’d never be able to write that on a little piece of paper. You smooth out the paper, stick it in your notebook, and promise yourself not to look at him.
At lunch, you hang back, pretending to rummage in your desk until everyone leaves. Then you walk up to Miss Field. She gets up and pulls over a chair for you.
“Have a seat. I read your poem.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left it for you like that,” you say and keep your eyes on your shoes, which are killing your feet.
“Ariel,” she says in a gentle tone. “I was alarmed by it. But it’s a powerful poem.”
You’re so confused now. “Oh, so am I in trouble?”
“I’m sorry Chris treated you that way. Has he ever treated you like that before?”
You think of what Chris did to you last year, when he asked about the horns. “Yes,” you say.
“I know there aren’t many people in this school who practice Judaism.”
“No,” you say, and now your stomach growls. You put your hand over it.
“There must be some other kids in the grade,” Miss Field says.
“I guess. A few,” you say and can think of two people who go to your synagogue. Sarah Pearlman and Michael someone, but they aren’t your friends. It sounds so formal, the way she puts it, and you think about what it means, to practice Judaism. Ma goes to synagogue more than Daddy. So is Daddy less Jewish than Ma? Where do you fit in? You don’t go to Hebrew school. You don’t see your cousins very often. You only have one friend, and she’s not Jewish. What would it be like if lots of kids were Jewish at school and you didn’t have to explain that part to anyone? A feeling starts to float up your body, a lightness. Is that what other people feel like every day?
Miss Field sits back and clears her throat. “Chris should not have said what he said. I know he was lying to me.”
“So you’re glad I wrote the poem?”
She thinks for a second. “I’m glad you’re writing poetry about your real feelings, but please come to me if something happens with Chris again. Pushing people’s stuff off desks won’t solve anything.”
“I understand.” You still want her to make Chris apologize to you. Was she really on your side? You think of the little ball of paper you got this morning, most certainly from Chris. Something tells you not to show her. You start to get up.
“One more thing before you leave. Have you and your parents discussed what I said at our meeting?”
“A little,” you say and smooth your dress over
your legs. You’re not even sure Ma told Daddy. “I think if I just try harder . . .”
“Ariel, you try very hard. If you have a learning disability, there’s more we can do to help you reach your full potential. The goal would be to make things easier for you, not harder.”
It doesn’t sound easier. “Ma says nothing is wrong with me.”
Miss Field opens her mouth to say something else, but then she closes it. Her lips become straight and serious.
“I don’t think something’s wrong with you. I’m just trying to help.”
“Thank you.” You both look at each other for a second. “I don’t want to miss all of lunch.”
“No, you shouldn’t. I’m looking forward to hearing your report next week. And keep writing poems. Show me anything you’d like, but just in a different way.”
You get up, give Miss Field a weak smile, tug your dress down, and head to your locker. You grab your lunch bag and walk down the hallway, slipping into the bathroom before a teacher asks you for a hall pass. You go inside a stall, but you forgot the toilets at school don’t have lids, and you don’t want to sit on the open seat, so you come back out and sit on the ledge of the heater near the window.
Ma packed you a tuna sandwich and an apple. You sniff it, but it just makes you feel nauseous. After a minute, you take a bite and force yourself to swallow. It goes down like a piece of wet wool. You throw the rest of the sandwich out, take a few bites of your apple, and toss that.
There’s nothing left to do but wait for the bell to ring. You spend the rest of the day just trying to concentrate on your work, and now you have a dull throb in the middle of your head. Maybe you also have a headache problem like Ma.
You really want to be good and not cause any more trouble for Ma. You want to try hard and do better at school. You don’t want to push things off anyone’s desk. But you wonder, if you were who everyone wants you to be, would it even make a difference?
How to Miss Her
Dinner is so quiet you can hear your parents chewing the turkey and gravy, and it’s disgusting. You press your fork on some peas and mash them down. Daddy raises an eyebrow, and you stop. You taste the mashed potatoes. They’re creamy and salty, just the way you like them.
“How was school?” Ma asks, breaking the silence.
“Fine,” you say and take another heaping forkful of mashed potatoes.
“Did Miss Field talk to you more about her disability ideas? Tell me if she doesn’t leave you alone about it.”
“No, she hasn’t,” you say to keep things simple, and you think of Miss Field today, her bright smile, the extra-calm way she speaks. She seems like she wants to help you. Maybe she’s right about some things and wrong about others. Can teachers be that way?
Daddy perks up. “Disability ideas?”
Ma stiffens. “Ariel’s teacher called me in for an appointment. She wanted to discuss her writing. She has an idea that Ariel is learning disabled. But I said that Ari doesn’t need a special class or evaluations like she’s not as smart as the other kids.”
Ma gets up and starts cleaning some of the things off the table. You’re not completely done. Daddy isn’t, either.
“Sylvia, please sit down,” Daddy says. Ma puts her dish in the sink and starts wiping the counter with quick motions. You take an even bigger forkful of mashed potatoes.
“Sit down so we can talk? This sounds important,” Daddy says.
Ma has an exasperated expression on her face that reminds you so much of Leah it hurts. She sits down slowly on the edge of her seat, still holding a dish towel. Ma doesn’t like to sit still for very long.
“I want to know what’s going on with Ari’s teacher.”
Ma sighs. “She wanted to talk about Ari’s handwriting. You know these young hippie types, thinking they know everything now.”
“But what exactly did your teacher say?” Daddy asks slowly, turning to you.
You think of what Miss Field said about poetry and typewriters. That’s not the part that Ma seemed to hear.
Ma takes a deep breath. “It’s mind over matter. I never liked school much, either. Ari’s just a late bloomer like me.” She smiles.
“Ma,” you say and roll your eyes. You don’t want to think about blooming. It’s too embarrassing. “It’s not because I don’t like school. I mean, I don’t like school, but . . .”
“But what?” Daddy asks.
Suddenly you feel so tired from the day, the week, the months, these hard and strange months. You could just put your head down on the table and go to sleep. “Nothing. Really. Can I be excused?”
Daddy looks disappointed.
“May you be excused,” Ma says.
“Fine. So may I?”
“I suppose so. Maybe we should talk alone,” Daddy says, looking at Ma. You’re out of your seat before he finishes his last word. They switch to mostly Yiddish, so you can’t really understand them anymore.
In your room, you put on your Elvis record and open your notebook to a fresh page. You want to tell Leah everything: how things are so hard at school and that you’re not sure if Miss Field is trying to help you or if Ma is right and what’s happening to the bakery and why it seems like everywhere you turn is filled with lies. You want to ask her how she feels, if Raj is a good husband, if she’s excited about having a baby. You want to ask her if she’s thinking about you.
But it would be so hard to write all this. Once your mind comes up with a sentence and you start working on each letter, the idea starts overlapping with another idea, or you forget what you wanted to say in the first place, and you have to start all over.
If only Leah were here so you could say your thoughts out loud, and she would write them down for you, but then you wouldn’t need to write her a letter. Writing poems feels different. The lines are short. The idea stays clear. You don’t have to think of the introduction, the supporting paragraphs, the conclusion. You just have to think of a few words, write them down, and then you’re ready to think of the next few.
As Elvis tells people to step off of his blue suede shoes, you lie down on your bed, head on the pillow, legs raised, and feet resting on the wall. You look at Leah’s empty bed. You hate looking at it. You’d rather look at your own empty bed, so you switch and lie on her bed. It’s starting to lose her smell.
Your parents’ voices drift out from the kitchen, getting louder and softer and then louder again, but you’re too tired to spy on them. You and Leah used to spy on them all the time together, especially when they had company. After a little while you get an idea for a poem. You get your notebook and sit down on Leah’s bed to write. Each word appears in your mind one at a time, like it’s on a billboard, bright and clear.
Leah, Do You Remember?
Do you remember
when Ma and Daddy
had friends over
to play cards
on Saturday nights?
Do you remember
how we would
spy on them
from the hall bathroom,
trying not to make a sound?
I didn’t know
the last time we did that
would be the last time
we ever did that.
You write the poem in your notebook as small as you can with a black ballpoint pen. You don’t want to mess up, so you go really slow and bite your lip until it hurts. You do each letter, hoping you don’t forget the next word you’re thinking of by the time you finish the last. Then, after a long time, you’re done.
You hold the notebook up and look at it. It’s the neatest thing you’ve ever written. You almost want to frame it. Ma was right. Look what you can do when you try.
Your hand feels stiff, and the headache you had before returns, but you don’t care, because now at least you have something to send Leah eve
n if you can’t find her address. If you can’t figure out how to find her address, you’ll try sending it to her without one. If she gets it, she’ll have to write you back. She’ll have to remember how much she misses you. Then you’ll ask her to help you find out what’s going on with the bakery, because you don’t want to ask Ma and Daddy yet. You don’t want to deal with the answer all by yourself.
In a way it feels like she’s dead. You know she’s not, but she’s so not here. You look at the closet with most of her clothes still hanging in it. You want to wear something of hers. You start rummaging through it all, the closet stuff and then the clothes in the dresser. She’s taller and skinnier than you, so you can’t wear a lot of her clothes.
Ma always says Leah has a dancer’s body. You wonder what kind of body Ma thinks you have. You pull out a pair of white flannel pajamas with little roses on them. The sleeves and bottoms are too long, but you put them on anyway and detect a faint smell of Breck shampoo around the collar. You get back into her bed and let Elvis’s velvety voice sing you to sleep.
How to Mail a Letter
That morning you wake up early, but not too early. Daddy leaves a little before 4:00 a.m. and Ma doesn’t get up until 6:30. So you pad into the kitchen at 6:00, find an envelope and a stamp in the drawer by the refrigerator, and hurry back to your room like a squirrel with a nut.
Writing Leah’s name in the center of an envelope isn’t easy, but you do it as neatly as you can and wonder if you should put a return address on it. You hesitate and then write it anyway, even though it’s hard to keep your writing in the top left corner. After you put the stamp on, you look at the envelope and remember: Leah’s last name is different now. What is Raj’s last name? You think and think and think. It starts with a J. That you know.
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