I met up with Isabella in the school courtyard after a chorus practice for me and a makeup student government meeting for her. I wasn’t even nervous, since chorus had wrung all the nervousness out of me. That was one of the reasons I liked it. That, and it reminded me of my old school. We spent a lot of time at Jewish school singing prayers and the Shabbat services as a group and with solos. Singing to me felt purifying, calming. I certainly wasn’t the best singer at school and harbored no pipe dreams about “making it big” or whatever, but I had fun.
Isabella did not have the same attitude about student government. She rolled her eyes at me as she jogged over, her satchel—much cooler than a backpack—bouncing heavily against her side. “I hate student government,” she said breathlessly, slowing in front of me. She didn’t even say hi, or give me one of those half-hearted half hugs. “But it’s going to look so good on my résumé when I run for student government in high school, which I’ll need for student government in college, which I’ll need when I run for real office when I’m grown-up.”
I didn’t get it. “If you hate it, why do you want to keep doing it?”
She blinked at me twice, bowing her head a little and looking up at me like I’d said something stupid. “Because I’m going to be president when I’m thirty-five, so I need a lot of experience.”
“Oh.”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “And I’ll definitely like being president. Who wouldn’t?”
I didn’t think I’d like being president. It sounded really stressful. One of my teachers last year would show us pictures of presidents on their first day of office and on their last day of office four or eight years later. All of them looked like they’d aged at least thirty years. Much grayer hair, more wrinkles on their faces. A sad look in their eyes.
But maybe Isabella was different. “You’d make a good president,” I said dutifully, even though I wasn’t really sure if that was true. If the point of a president was to model fashion sense before an entire nation, it was definitely true. Today she was wearing a sleeveless flowered sundress that would have looked out of place for chilly early April if it hadn’t been worn over a black turtleneck with some metallic silver leggings underneath. It made for a neat clash of nature and industrial chic.
She flashed a smile at me. She had a great president smile, that was true, too. One of those smiles that drew people to her, made you want to listen to whatever she said. “Thanks,” Isabella said. “What do you want to be? You should really be planning now so that you can take all the right classes and do all the right activities.”
Me? I had no idea. My parents were always telling me that I didn’t have to know yet, that I was still very young. Even if I didn’t feel very young. Take these years to try out a lot of things so that you know what you like, Mom liked to tell me. You’re smart. You’re very young. You have plenty of time.
Somehow I didn’t think this was the right thing to say to the twelve-year-old girl who’d just declared she was going to be president not only someday, but at the earliest allowable age, since you can only run for president if you are thirty-five years old or older. “Maybe a fashion designer,” I said. Julie had suggested that to me because I was always so interested in what people were wearing. She and Lexy used to ask me to dress them for all the bar and bat mitzvahs we went to. I loved going to the mall with them and wandering around and pairing them with clothes that not only looked beautiful with their coloring and body shapes, but that were also on sale. Julie was pale and blond, so she looked striking in dark, rich colors that contrasted with her skin. Lexy was very tall with brown hair even curlier than mine, so she could carry off a floor-length dress that made short people like me and Julie look like little kids playing dress-up in their moms’ closets. “I’m really interested in clothes and things. And I think I’m good at it. I don’t know. I’m still deciding.”
“Interesting,” Isabella said. “Is that a really high-paid job?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“It must be,” Isabella said. “Like, lots of fashion designers are famous, right? Famous usually means lots of money.”
A lot of money would be nice, but I didn’t think I needed a humongous mansion and a fleet of cars to be happy. I shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
She looked oddly disappointed for a moment, but I blinked, and then she perked up. “The bus is here. Let’s go.”
We climbed into the belching yellow monster. Isabella told the driver her address, and I followed her to the back, where she splayed out in one of the very back seats like it was hers by right. I was impressed. As a sixth grader, I’d never dared to venture all the way into the back where the eighth graders sat. I was a little worried they’d push me out the emergency door.
“If you really want to be a fashion designer, it’s probably good to be friends with Elsa,” she said. It took me a second to remember that Elsa was the golem. “Since her parents are a famous photographer and a model. Have you met them?”
I had to shuffle through all the stories Elsa’d been telling people, like a mental deck of cards. “Right, they are,” I said. It was good I hadn’t slipped and said something about skydiving. “I haven’t met them, though. I think her mom is … sick.” Better to stick with non-specifics. “So she isn’t really having people over to her house.”
“Yeah, that’s what she said when I tried to hang out with her,” Isabella said, looking disappointed for a second. But then she perked up again. That would be a useful quality in a president—being able to look happy on command. “I guess you don’t really need her parents’ help to get into fashion anyway, right? Not with your people.”
My people? My mom did something with taxes, and my dad did something in an office having to do with machinery. Uncle Marvin and Aunt Jessie were teachers, and Zaide was a retired farmer/electrician. I didn’t have any people in fashion, or know anyone even remotely connected to fashion, unless you counted faraway cousin Adelaide, who worked at a fancy boutique somewhere down south. Then again, I wasn’t positive the fancy boutique actually sold clothes. It might have sold fancy soaps or fancy hand-knitted stuffed animals for fancy children.
But Isabella didn’t have to know that. Not now that she’d (incorrectly) assumed I was much more interesting and well-connected than I actually was. “Right, my people,” I said with a wave. I tried for an airy affect, too, one like I imagined the queen of England might use when talking about her butlers and drivers. “They’re all so … fashionable.”
“Cooool,” she breathed. My insides clenched in worry that she’d ask more questions about these imaginary people, so I hurried to change the subject.
“So do you have any siblings?”
Isabella scrunched up her face. “Just one dumb brother,” she said, but she didn’t sound mean. Even when she pretended to gag. “Liam. He’s almost nine, but I swear he acts like he’s five. Don’t worry, we can just pretend he isn’t there.”
“I always thought it would be kind of nice to have a brother,” I said. When I was little, I’d beg Mom and Dad for one. That, or a sister. I wasn’t picky. I wanted someone to dress up in costumes.
“Feel free to take mine,” Isabella said. “Oh! This is our stop.”
We got off in front of a house easily twice as big as my own. It looked like one of those houses I’d see while I was doing homework and my mom had HGTV on in the background: big and brick, with maroon shutters and a wide lawn. If it were a person, I decided, it would be a girl dressed up for a fancy occasion. Not a single strand of hair out of place, not a single stain on her fancy dress.
“My dad works from home, so he’ll be here,” she said as we climbed her front steps. “And Liam, of course. But like I said, feel free to pretend he doesn’t exist.”
I was already fantasizing about making Isabella’s brother love me so much she’d have no choice but to have me come over all the time, but I said, “Okay.”
The inside of Isabella’s house was just a
s beautiful as the outside. The floors were a dark wood, and the walls were covered in patterned wallpaper in rich colors; professional photographs of Isabella, Liam, and their parents beamed at me from every surface between crystal vases and elegant glass animals. Isabella led me through the front hallway and beneath a grand staircase into a blindingly white kitchen. She went over to the fridge while I stared through the sliding glass door at a pool so clear and blue I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a mermaid hoist herself onto the concrete and shake the water off her shimmering tail.
“What do you want?” Isabella asked me, and I was about to say to live here before I realized she was talking about a snack.
“Oh, um, I don’t care,” I said. “Whatever you’re having.”
“But there are things you can’t eat, right?” she pressed. “Because you’re Jewish?”
I shrugged. “I mean, my family doesn’t strictly keep kosher,” I said. “I don’t eat pork, but that’s pretty much it. And I’m not eating bread right now because it’s still Passover, so maybe not a ham sandwich?”
I couldn’t see her face, but the sigh she gave and the way her shoulders slumped a bit made it clear that she was disappointed again. But why? I would have thought she’d be happy not to have to worry about my dietary preferences. I said quickly, “I like yogurt?”
A minute later, we were sitting on the stools at the kitchen island, spooning yogurt with honey and granola into our mouths. “We have ice pops for after if you want,” Isabella said around a mouthful of yogurt. “I’m not supposed to have them before dinner, but so what.”
“So what,” I agreed, feeling a little thrill at her daring.
Footsteps behind me. Before I could even turn around, Isabella rolled her eyes and groaned. “Go away, Liam.”
“I’m hungry,” Liam said. I was sure Isabella wouldn’t like hearing this, but the two of them looked exactly alike, except that Isabella was older and had longer hair. They even wore identically annoyed expressions on their faces right now. “I’m allowed in the kitchen.”
“Then get your food and go,” Isabella said.
Of course, he didn’t just get his food and go. If he were my brother, I had a feeling these antics would quickly get annoying, but to be honest, he was entertaining now. First, he walked incredibly slowly. Not just a stroll, but like he was losing a race against an exhausted snail. Every time Isabella huffed with frustration, he slowed down, so that after half a minute or so he was barely moving at all. A little smile played over his lips. He was very clearly enjoying this. Isabella looked as if she were about to burst into flames.
“So, what’s your name?” he said, still not even halfway across the room.
“You don’t have to answer that,” hissed Isabella, but I didn’t want to be rude. I could just imagine what my mom would say.
“Leah.”
“That’s a cool name. It sounds like my name, but it’s not the same. I’ve never met another Leah, but there are, like, ten Liams in my grade.” He actually stopped altogether now, his head tilting all the way to the side. “Isabella too. It’s a very common name.” That didn’t sound much like something an eight-year-old boy would say; I wondered if it was something Isabella had said to him. “It was on the top ten list for years. There are going to be a thousand Isabellas running for president in thirty-five years.”
“In twenty-three years,” Isabella replied. “In thirty-five years I’ll have served my two terms, and I’ll be out basking in the world’s adoration.”
“Not the whole world’s, because you’ll never have mine.” Liam returned his attention to me. “What’s your name mean?”
“I thought you were getting your food and leaving,” Isabella said, but I was already answering. He was super cute. Like a baby bunny or something, it wouldn’t stop jumping around, but you couldn’t help but coo over it anyway. Maybe I would take him home.
I laughed a little. “I like my name, but it doesn’t have the nicest meaning. My mom actually apologized to me when I looked it up. It’s a Hebrew name meaning ‘weary.’ Like tired. I guess I am tired a lot from waking up early for school.”
“Hebrew?”
“It’s the language Jewish people pray in,” I said. “They also speak it as an everyday language in Israel.”
His eyes were way too wide for the boringness of the information I’d just given him. “Wait,” he breathed.
You know that feeling you get when something is about to go horribly wrong? Like, the conscious part of your brain doesn’t realize it yet, but the lizard part of it that’s used to picking up on subtle movements and body language and maybe some psychic waves in the air knows, just knows, that something bad is about to happen? The one that’s like a can of beans falling on your toe, except in your stomach?
That’s what I was feeling right now.
“You’re the Jewish friend,” he said, and then he turned to Isabella. He lowered his voice in what might have been an attempt to keep me from hearing, but he was an eight-year-old boy. They only went so quiet. “Dad said you weren’t supposed to invite her over.”
Every part of my body froze. Even my heart. I swore I couldn’t hear it thump, thump, thump anymore. Maybe I would die. Maybe that would be okay right now.
“Liam,” Isabella hissed. “Shut up. I can do what I want.”
Maybe if I stayed still enough, they would forget I was here. Maybe they’d think their parents had ordered a bizarrely Leah-shaped statue for their kitchen.
“I’m going to tell,” he said, but he didn’t move from his spot. Instead, he turned back to me. His eyes roved over me the way my mom looked over the fish she was going to buy at the supermarket’s seafood counter. I almost expected him to step up and smell me. Would he throw me back if I didn’t smell like the ocean? “Do your people really control the media and the government?”
“Liam!” Isabella snapped.
What was I supposed to say to that?
No, really, what was I supposed to say? Because I wasn’t sure if I remembered any words. They’d all fled this beautiful house the way I suddenly wanted to.
Now Isabella’s comment about how I wouldn’t need any help getting into fashion made sense. Because she thought the Jewish octopuses would handpick me any job I wanted. And her comment about money, because that was another Jewish stereotype. And my head. She’d practically given me a head massage, and at that point I’d found that weird …
After a few seconds of silence, Isabella murmured, “I’m so sorry, I don’t know where he got that from.” And, somehow, that was enough to break me free.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I squeaked. I didn’t know where the bathroom was, but in a house this big, there was probably one in every hallway. I fled down the closest hall, then stopped. What if I accidentally opened the door to the dad’s office, and he saw my nose and immediately knew who—what—I was? Could I take that chance?
As it turned out, the door propped open right there was a bathroom. I sat on the lid of the toilet and called my mom.
“Leah? What’s up?”
“Mom,” I whispered into my phone. I bowed my head and curled into my shoulder. “I need you to come pick me up.”
“What? I thought I wasn’t coming to pick you up until five thirty.” Her voice was so loud, even through the phone. Isabella and Liam could probably hear it in the kitchen. Their scary father could probably hear it from wherever his office was in this huge house. He would hear, and he would come and get me and—
“Please,” I whispered. I cleared my throat, but it didn’t stop my voice from breaking on the next part. “Please come pick me up.”
A moment of silence on the other end. “Okay,” she said. A rush of gratitude swelled within me. I loved her so much right now. “Okay, I’ll leave now, but you’ll have to come back to work with me.” I would go to the doctor with her and voluntarily get shots if it meant getting out of here. “Be outside in twenty minutes.”
A gush of relief filled me. I s
tarted the timer on my phone and counted a slow and agonizing seven minutes, which I figured was about as long as I could spend in there without Isabella starting rumors at school of an explosive diarrhea attack. I flushed and washed my hands thoroughly, scrubbing with hot water and soap, and then rubbed some of their probably expensive floral lotion into my stinging hands. By the time I left the bathroom and walked very slowly toward the kitchen, I estimated it had been at least eleven minutes. Maybe twelve.
Liam was gone, but Isabella was waiting for me. She leaped to her feet as soon as I crossed the threshold into the kitchen. “Leah!” she said. “I…” And she trailed off. We stared at each other. She looked expectant, like she was waiting for me to say something first. But I wasn’t going to. What was I supposed to say to her? That it was okay she and her family didn’t think of me as a person like her?
“Thank you for the yogurt,” I said stiffly. No matter what else she’d said, I couldn’t get over my mom’s urges to be polite. I grabbed my backpack and slung it over my back. “My mom is coming. I should go wait outside.”
“Wait,” she said in a hurried whisper, blocking my way. “You didn’t answer my stupid brother. Is any of that stuff true? Like, that you people control the media and the government and stuff? You could help me. I’ll need to be class president in high school for my résumé. And then of course I’ll need to get into the right college. Like, every president went to an Ivy League school. I’m aiming for Harvard or Yale, but Princeton would be okay, too.”
I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to erupt at her about how stupid those beliefs were, how ridiculous, how absolutely insane. If we control the world, why do people still hate us so much? is what I wanted to say. Why are there bomb threats all the time at my temple? Why aren’t we rich? Why don’t I have a house like yours?
The Trouble with Good Ideas Page 12