Playing With Matches

by Suri Rosen

  The letter on top of the tray was from a board member, but wasn’t addressed with her first name. I rifled through the papers underneath, but couldn’t find anything there either.

  I stepped back from behind the desk just as Mrs. Abrams poked her head in the office again.

  “Rain, Mrs. Levine has a school emergency. There are some broken pipes in the boiler room. She said to let you know that you can leave now.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled. Mrs. Abrams turned to leave.

  “Mrs. Abrams?” I asked in a halting voice, pointing to the cluster of family photos on Mrs. Levine’s desk. “Are these … are these her grandkids?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “They’re her sister’s children and grandchildren. Beautiful, aren’t they?” She turned back to the reception area.

  I nodded, my mouth hanging open. I stole across the room to the bookshelf, and furtively pulled out a worn Hebrew prayer book, opened it with shaking hands, and read the bookplate.

  This book belongs to Esther Levine.

  I snapped it shut and returned it to the shelf, my heart pounding so hard it had to be scarring my insides.

  It was too much to absorb. As much as Mrs. Levine and I disliked each other, our alter egos had completely connected. Actually both my secret identity and I liked Esther, and Esther and Mrs. Levine liked Matchmaven. It was just Rain and Mrs. Levine who couldn’t stand each other. It was too complicated. We weren’t just two people anymore. We were like a complicated clique of girls.

  I needed a vomitorium.

  I fled the office. All day I scurried between classes petrified of running into Mrs. Levine in the halls. I felt like I was sealed in a Ziploc baggie of silence, oblivious to everything going on around me. My internal volcano spewed a cascade of emotions and thoughts that alternated between terror and confusion. Deb and Ilana had figured out who I was. What if Mrs. Levine discovered Matchmaven’s real identity? She’d be humiliated — and furious that she had confided in me.

  When I opened my inbox that night, of course there was another lovely email from Esther. That would be Esther the elegant. Esther the intelligent. Esther the soft-spoken friend. But Mrs. Levine, the cold and heartless? How could they be the same person?

  It was like mixing equal parts nail polish and nail polish remover.

  It had never occurred to me that fixing people up was like playing with matches. Running away was looking like a mighty fine option right now.

  I needed an island.

  Quickly.

  Dear Matchmaven,

  I hope you’re doing well. Thank you for the advice about a present for Mo. Meeting him has been a gift. I know you’re overwhelmed, but hold on. Good things happen in the end. I hope that work issue resolves itself for you soon. I have some challenging issues at work too, but I’m so much more optimistic about everything! There were some facility problems today. And I’ve got a lovely young individual who has tremendous potential but is somewhat self-destructive. She has such a lovely spirit, though. I know that everyone has to make their own mistakes, but it’s hard to watch. I guess it all comes back to second chances. And I’m grateful you gave me one.

  Best regards,

  Esther

  I thought of the previous email I had sent to her referring to problems she was giving me. I had complained about Mrs. Levine to Mrs. Levine.

  I had no idea how to talk to her anymore. Especially because the discussion was veering toward an awkward topic: me. It’s not like I was going to argue with her about me not really being self-destructive. That was the thing about Matchmaven. Except for the fact that it was all falling apart, it was actually a fantastic surveillance system that fed me information that I never would have learned otherwise.

  Leah and Mrs. Levine had told Matchmaven insights about me that I couldn’t have learned, because people just don’t say these things to your face.

  Even when your face needs it.

  It was pretty amazing to realize that living a double life could actually lead you to the truth about yourself. But the problem is that as awesome as it can be for your emotional growth, it’s not so great for your relationships. In some ways, the secrecy in my life was my friend; it allowed me to connect with Leah and with Esther and gave me the ability to try to help them and other people.

  But all the good things were making me look very bad. Thanks to Matchmaven, Leah and Mrs. Levine had a low opinion of me, and who could blame them? Because of Matchmaven’s activities, Leah thought I was stalking her and getting into trouble, and Mrs. Levine thought I was just blowing off my studies and didn’t care about school.

  I did nothing all evening but compose draft after draft until 11:30, when I finished the email and hit the send button.

  Dear Esther,

  I’m delighted that things are going so well with you and Mo.

  I think sometimes when we suffer regret for our actions it’s hard to watch a younger person make similar mistakes. Maybe this individual just needs to go through her own learning process and that’ll be a thousand times more valuable than any lecture or advice.

  Warm regards,

  MM

  I pulled out the Post-it notes from my drawer and made a new list.

  Bad Things that Are Happening to Me:

  #1. Leah hates me — it’s permanent now.

  #2. Mrs. Levine still hates me.

  #3. I’m about to get kicked out of school again.

  #4. Mr. Sacks might be dying.

  #5. Mrs. Levine IS ESTHER !?!?!?!?

  Oy.

  chapter 30

  Dragon Lady

  Everything was so broken now. Especially me.

  At this point Leah and I avoided each other like we would a communicable disease. Dahlia was still home with the flu so I was completely on my own.

  I was still hoping that Leah would at least contact Match­maven, so I kept popping into the bathroom all morning to check my email. At lunchtime I passed Shira, Natalie, and Sarah chatting in the hallway just as Mrs. Levine walked by.

  “Raina!”

  I did a double take. The colour was obviously all wrong, but Mrs. Levine was wearing lipstick!

  “How are your exam preparations coming along?” she said. Earrings too!

  “They’re okay. I’m trying.”

  “Oh really?” She smiled slightly.

  I repeat. Mrs. Levine smiled at me. I thought about her most recent email.

  I’ve got a lovely young individual who has tremendous potential …

  “I hope you’ll be focused, Raina. There’s not much time left.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Levine,” I said quietly. Natalie snorted.

  I trudged to the bathroom more confused than ever. How was I supposed to make amends with Mr. Sacks? And what was I supposed to do about Mrs. Levine? If she found out I was Matchmaven, it would definitely get back to Mira — then Leah. I sat on the covered toilet and pulled out my phone from my pocket just as a group of familiar voices entered the bathroom.

  “Shira, you should have seen Dragon Lady on her way out,” a voice that sounded like Natalie’s said.

  “Well, guess what my next Purim costume is,” Shira said. I had a feeling that what she was about to say was going to turn Purim, my favourite holiday of the year, into a personal nightmare. “I’m dressing up as Dragon Lady,” Shira said.

  It felt like my heart was clattering inside me. What if Esther found out? I’m sure she had no idea that the girls saw her as mean. It would be so embarrassing. What if Esther started wearing her necklace more often, I thought with rising panic. And what if Shira found a silly plastic elephant as part of her costume?

  I shot a glance at my cell phone. I’d been trapped in there for four minutes but it felt like four epochs.

  “That is brilliant,” Natalie said, as all three of them burst out
laughing. “Everyone at school is going to love it.”

  I clenched my fists. She was right. The entire student body would talk about Shira’s horrible Dragon Lady costume for years to come.

  “I’m going to the Salvation Army store, I swear I’m doing this, and I’m going to get an old lady outfit,” Shira was saying, struggling to spit out the words through her laughter. “Then I’m going to stuff a pillow in my butt and another pillow down my top.”

  If this costume included the elephant necklace, the most private detail of Mrs. Levine’s history would become the subject of knee-slapping hilarity on the graduation trip, year-end parties, and in yearbook signings.

  “You should have heard her talking to Resnick,” Natalie said. “Oh, I hope you’ll be focused, Raina. Because your life will be completely ruined and you’ll end up homeless.”

  “You know what my father told me?” Sarah said. “He’s been at board meetings at ten o’clock at night and she’s still in her office. That woman obviously has no life.”

  You have no idea.

  “She’s totally pathetic,” Shira said. “Girls, we care so very deeply about your development as individuals and students, we’ve decided to cancel all extracurricular activities, and keep you at school until ten at night so you can be as miserable as I am.”

  Natalie chimed in on the fun. “Misery is in the student handbook, girl. Have you read it again today?”

  I considered rising to Mrs. Levine’s defence but decided that it was better not to incite the micro-mob here.

  As an ex-Shira myself, I knew that all too well.

  That night Professor K. and Esther got engaged.

  The announcement on MazelTovNation was short on details. They were after all, three times as old as the typical couples on the site. I should have been happy, but what did it matter anymore? The l’chaim — a small and impromptu engagement party — was going to be held at the home of one of the board members of Moriah.

  Dahlia hadn’t been at school and her cell phone went straight to voicemail, and frankly this news was too important to text. I was still alone with this knowledge of Esther’s identity.

  At home, Leah wasn’t making eye contact with me. She had told Matchmaven that she needed a break from dating, that she needed some time to recover from the humiliation and the pain of Jake. With Professor K. busy with Mrs. Levine, Tamara away, Leah cutting me off, and Dahlia sick, I felt completely lost. I was down to Bubby.

  The worst thing of all was the nagging fear that Mr. Sacks might not make it.

  The night of the l’chaim, I had to force myself to get dressed for a party. I had little desire to sit around with five senior citizens and discuss the upcoming wedding. I also didn’t really know how to relate to Mrs. Levine/Esther anymore. On top of that, Leah was probably going to beat herself up over the fact that two seniors could find love but she couldn’t.

  While Aunt Mira and Leah finished dressing, I threw on a black pencil skirt and a maroon cardigan and trudged to the family room hoping to find Bubby.

  Thankfully, she was watching a ball game, the voice of an unfamiliar announcer filling the room. “It’s a clear sky today at Citi Field. The temperature is a balmy seventy degrees in New York City.” The only image of New York my head could conjure right now was Mr. Sacks lying in some random hospital there.

  “It’s just the Mets,” Bubby said dismissively.

  “I wish I was there,” I said out loud.

  Bubby glanced at me, and then turned back to the TV where the pitcher was releasing a cut fastball. Applause filled the stadium as the ball sailed past the batter. The catcher finally marched up to the mound and huddled with the pitcher. The batter wiggled his thighs and sliced the air with his bat a few times while he waited for the catcher to finish conferring with the pitcher.

  Instead of improving my mood, the game just taunted me and stoked the ache that was in my heart.

  The catcher was done now and he strode past home plate and crouched down on his haunches. A forkball came next and narrowly missed the bat, much to the crowd’s delight. The camera then zoomed to the catcher, whose gloved hand stretched below his left knee while he quickly flicked out four fingers with the other.

  “What a pain,” I blurted out, helpless to the growing misery that was drowning me.

  “What are you talking about?” Bubby said.

  “Well, what if there’s a runner on second?” I said. “He could see the catcher.”

  She threw up her hands in annoyance. “What’s the matter with you? You know they always change the signals.”

  “Well, when you think about it, it’s a lot of effort to go through when you could just communicate directly.” What was the matter with me?

  I shifted on the couch, uncomfortable in every position. We watched in silence for a few minutes, until Bubby turned to me.

  “You know, Raina,” she said in a quiet voice. “You don’t always need to go to the mound.”

  I bit my lip.

  She turned her gaze back to the TV. “We’re probably going to leave soon anyway,” she said.

  I sprang up from the couch. “I’ll be two minutes.”

  “Sure you will,” she said. “I’ll tell Mira you have the runs.”

  I bounded up the stairs to the bathroom, slammed the door behind me, then began searching for names of random hospitals in New York City. A force of energy overcame me as I started jotting down numbers. Maybe I could do a long-­distance apology.

  “Rain.” Mira rapped on the door. “We’re leaving in ten minutes. You okay?”

  “Be right there,” I said.

  I searched for more phone numbers: Lennox Hill, Mount Sinai, and Columbia Presbyterian. I started calling. Mordechai Sacks wasn’t at any of those hospitals.

  No matter. I kept dialling until I was down to my last hospital when another loud knock jarred me.

  “Raina!” It was Mira. “Uncle Eli and I are heading out to the car.”

  “One second,” I said. The fact was that my work with Professor K. and Esther was done. None of it mattered.

  My hand shook as I pressed the screen on the phone for my last hospital, New York General.

  I ran the faucet so nobody could hear me talking. I dialled the number. I found him. It was like hitting cardiac jackpot at New York General Hospital.

  Mr. Sacks was in the coronary care unit. “Can I please speak to Mordechai Sacks? This is his daughter.” Spoken like the true liar that I’d become.

  “Hold the line, please.”

  “Hello?” a woman said. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, my grandfather, Mordechai Sacks, is in the intensive care unit. Can I speak to him?”

  “People in the unit don’t usually have conversations,” she said. “Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m calling for my mother,” I said. “Her father — my grandfather — is in the unit. Mordechai Sacks.”

  “Hang on,” she said.

  A male voice finally got on the line.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this … Mr. Sacks?” I said.

  There was a pause. The sound of beeping could be heard in the background.

  “Hello?” I repeated.

  “Who is this?” the man said.

  “It’s Rain, Raina Resnick. I had sent Mr. Sacks a letter and I’d like to talk to him.”

  After another hesitation he finally spoke.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this,” he said. “But my great-uncle passed away a few hours ago.”

  My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  “His heart gave out in his sleep,” he said. It felt like the air was being suctioned out of my lungs. And it hurt. It hurt so badly. I crossed my arms and hugged myself and dropped to the floor. But the floor wasn’t low enough for me.

  “Are you okay?” the man on th
e phone said. “Are you still there?”

  I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand.

  “I … I wanted to speak to him,” I said. “I was his student. It was me. He … he was fired. I …” Between the sobbing and hiccupping it was impossible to communicate. I inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I was the one who sat down at the computer before he logged off his server,” I said. “I sent those emails from his name. It was me that got him fired and then he got the heart condition and now he’s —” My chest began heaving again.

  “No, no, no. Please, stop.” He actually chuckled. “I’m not sure who you are, but you did not kill my great uncle. Nor did you get him fired. He was supposed to retire a year and a half ago, but the school insisted that he stay on for another year.”

  “What?”

  “He was doing them a favour the last year that he taught. And his heart condition? He’s had that for years.”

  “But I embarrassed him,” I said in a voice that seemed to come from a distant place.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Raina Resnick.”

  “That name sounds familiar.” I felt the back of my neck heat up.

  “Wait, I know. I’ve been going through the stuff in his apartment the last few weeks. I just might have seen an envelope with your name on it, but there was no address. I’ve got three boxes full of papers in my van. I was just going to dump it all out. I sure wouldn’t have known how to send it to you. Let me check.”

  “Please … do you think you could go down to your car and look for the envelope?”

  “The funeral’s in a couple of hours.” I should have known that. The burial traditionally takes place as soon as possible.