The Most Dangerous Thing

by Leanne Lieberman

  Mom and Dad both come home around eight, and then we eat lasagna with salad and some garlic bread Dad picked up on his way home. I love lasagna, but I don’t have much appetite tonight. Mom tries to ignore her buzzing phone while we eat. She had some important meeting of the hospital executive tonight, and now everyone’s weighing in with their opinions. She finally puts it on silent. After dinner Abby excuses herself to go downstairs, Dad drifts to his office to read, and I do some math homework in front of the TV. Mom’s trying to relax by watching some cop series that I can’t imagine she’s interested in, but her phone is back on and she keeps taking calls and returning emails and asking me what she’s missing. Finally she turns her phone off and shoves it in her purse. Then she pours herself a glass of wine. “I give up,” she says.

  “On what?” I ask.

  “This day. I’m not answering any more work emails until tomorrow.”

  I look at the time on my phone. “Tomorrow’s only a few hours away.”

  “Workwise it’s more than twelve.” Mom runs her fingers through her hair. “Do you think I need a haircut?”

  “It’s hard to tell.” Mom has long curly hair, the kind of curls you can uncoil down past her shoulders and then release and watch them bounce up.

  “You okay?” Mom asks. “You didn’t eat much at dinner.”

  “I had a big snack at Zeyda’s,” I lie.

  Mom eyes me critically, and I sit up on the couch and try to look perky. “You look tired,” she says.

  I am tired, even though I’ve been sleeping a lot. The fog makes me feel as if I’m carrying a heavy blanket on my back. I try to smile. “No, I’m good.”

  The fog is top secret, especially from Mom. If anyone knew about it, they’d pay more attention to me, and that would make me feel worse. I tried to look up my symptoms online, and they don’t fit into any real category. It’s true I’m tired and not that hungry, but I can still concentrate on schoolwork. In fact, concentrating makes me feel better—I can forget the fog for a few minutes. I’m not like those people who feel the whole world is black. The fog is just the latest version of my anxiety, and I’m coping just fine.

  If Mom knew about the fog, she’d want to talk about it, even tell other people about it, and that would be unbearable. She’d make me see Dr. Sandhu, our family doctor, or, worse, Dr. Spenser, the therapist I used to see. I’ve managed not to see her for almost three years by telling everyone that I’m feeling great.

  Mom made me see Dr. Spenser the first time at the end of seventh grade. She got suspicious that I wasn’t coping well when I started asking if I could be home-schooled or take online courses instead of going to high school. I’d always been a quiet kid, and my small elementary school suited me. When I thought about going to high school, I couldn’t imagine being with all those older kids, or making presentations in class. I started reciting multiplication tables to calm myself down, but then I couldn’t stop reciting them, and I couldn’t sleep.

  I was expecting Dr. Spenser to be this old guy with glasses and a tweed jacket. I thought maybe he’d have a couch in his office for patients to lie down on while they talked about themselves, but Dr. Spenser is actually a woman with short, spiky blond hair and funky red-metal glasses. Also, there’s no couch in her office, just regular chairs.

  Dr. Spenser helped me learn some coping strategies (other than multiplication) to deal with my anxiety. We did a lot of visualization practice together, imagining me going to high school, walking down the hallway, sitting in class, finding my locker, even putting my hand up in class. I still use some of these strategies, although avoiding people is always my first tactic.

  Dr. Spenser once asked me what would happen if people were looking at me and listening to me when I put my hand up in class or had to make an oral presentation.

  “I might get broken,” I told her.

  “Then what would happen?” she asked.

  I thought about this for a long while before answering. “If I felt broken, it would be even harder to talk to people, and I’d want to stay at home even more.” I couldn’t explain it any other way.

  I’m about to leave the living room when Mom announces, “I think I’ll start planning for Passover.”

  “Isn’t that a month away?” Passover is the Jewish holiday that celebrates the Jewish release from slavery in Egypt way back in biblical times. For eight days you’re not supposed to eat bread or baked goods that have yeast in them or have risen. Instead you eat matzah, which is like a very dry cracker. It tastes good the first day, but by the fourth day it’s unbearably dry and bland—plus it’s totally constipating. You celebrate the first two nights of Passover with a Seder, which is a dinner with lots of rituals and prayers.

  “Yes, only a month away!” Mom yawns and grabs a to-do list from the coffee table.

  “It’s a little early to start cooking and cleaning.” I tidy a stack of mail and magazines. When I find a copy of the Jewish Community Center catalog, I absently flip through the pages.

  “I’m not planning that part. I mean the actual Seder.”

  “What’s to plan?” Usually we go to Zeyda’s house, and he drones through the readings in this old yellow Haggadah, which is a type of prayer book. The Seder goes on forever, and then we eat Crystal’s matzah balls. In the JCC catalog I notice a seniors’ drop-in group that meets once a week. That’s what Zeyda needs—some company. They even have dancing and cards, just Zeyda’s thing. Well, the cards anyway. I fold over the corner of the page.

  “This year it’s going to be different,” Mom says.

  “Really?” I look up from the catalog.

  “Yep. It’s going to be here.”

  I smirk. “Zeyda is going to love that.”

  “The torch is being passed. And it’s going to be a totally different Seder. I’m going to invite Miri and Todd and the Levs and some other women from my spirituality group.”

  “Oh,” I say. “What about Uncle Mark and Auntie Karen?”

  “Yes, them too.”

  “That sounds crowded.” I bet Mom’s Seder will be even longer than Zeyda’s. “I could be your kitchen help,” I suggest, hoping to get out of participating.

  “Don’t be silly. I already asked Crystal to help out, and besides, I want you to be part of the Seder.”

  Great. It’ll be long and touchy-feely, with lots of extra bits to include oppressed people from around the world. “Do I have to be part of any bibliodrama?” I ask.

  Mom clasps her hands together. “What a good idea! You could organize the Levs’ kids to act out the story. You could even dramatize the plagues.”

  “That sounds more like Abby’s thing.”

  “Right. Right.” Mom has knotted her hair on top of her head and stuck a pencil through it to keep it off her face, and she’s scribbling furiously on her pad. “Do you think we could get Zeyda to sing ‘Go Down, Moses’? He has such a great baritone.”

  “You’re not serious,” I say.

  “I guess not. Maybe Dad will do it.”

  “You’re still not serious.”

  Mom chews on the end of her pen.

  “When are you going to tell Zeyda about your new-age intentions?” I ask.

  “Not new-age. They’re…meaningful. It’s Judaism with intent.” Mom taps the pen on her knee. “I thought maybe you could tell him next time you’re there.”

  I groan. I’m always the go-between because Zeyda has a soft spot for me. Anytime Mom and Dad have something planned, I’m the one who breaks the news. The biggest deal was Crystal. When Zeyda couldn’t live on his own anymore and refused to leave his house, I had to tell Zeyda that Crystal was my friend and that she was coming over for tea with me. The next time Crystal and I came over, this time for dinner, we told him Crystal was a super cook, specializing in Jewish cooking. Zeyda was rightly skeptical, since Crystal is from the Philippines, but she had worked for another Jewish family, so she could make some Jewish specialties, and Mom asked her to make Zeyda’s favorite kouffle cookies
. Zeyda really liked the cookies, and he got used to having her around.

  “I think you should share your own bad news,” I tell Mom.

  Mom sighs. “Zeyda wasn’t always this grumpy. He used to play cards with his buddies and tell dirty jokes and tease Uncle Mark and me.”

  “I remember that from when I was little.”

  “Good,” Mom says. “I hope you’ll keep those memories of him.”

  I nod. Then I head downstairs to my room to get ready for bed. I check my phone one more time before I close my eyes. Fen has sent me a biking article, and Sofia, a link to a shoe site. I look at my stocks for the contest and then check for another text from Paul, but there’s just his final See you tomorrow after my picture.

  Three

  THE NEXT MORNING I CAN SENSE the fog before I’m fully awake. I feel it in my fingertips and toes, like weights on the ends of my limbs, pinning me to my bed. The clock blinks 6:30 AM, which means I have half an hour to wrestle my way out of bed, to fight my way out of the heavy darkness. I’d like to roll out from under it, to imagine myself as thin as a piece of paper and leave it hovering in my room while I slink underneath it. Or if I were as light as a cloud, maybe I could rise above it. But as hard as I try and concentrate, neither image works. I grab my phone and play a game of Sudoku instead. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Finally I envision seeing Paul at school, and the nervous hum that radiates through me is enough to make me roll out of bed and crawl across the carpet to my closet.

  I pause there for a minute, trying to figure out what to wear. Then I see the spot under my clothes that I’ve left bare, a space big enough to curl up with my knees pulled to my chin. For a moment I want to step into the closet, close the door and forget about school. I quickly grab a pair of jeans and a gray V-neck sweater instead. If I start sitting in the closet, I’ll never get going.

  I arrive at school just as the first bell rings and slide into a seat next to Paul in chem class. We say hi and then both look away shyly, as if we had never texted. Class starts soon after, and the teacher lectures and we listen, and that’s the end of that. I feel the fog settle on me a little more heavily, and it hangs around me as I trudge through the rest of the day.

  The same thing happens Wednesday morning, until we start a new lab halfway through the period. Then Paul and I have to talk to each other, at least about the assignment. We don’t finish in class, so we work on it at lunch, hunched over our books in the hallway in front of Paul’s locker. When we finish, Paul pulls out a sandwich. “I like the picture you sent.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I look down, pretending to erase something on the lab.

  “Where was it from?”

  “Oh, just the beach near my grandfather’s house.” We’ve never talked about personal stuff before. Come on, Syd, make eye contact. I force myself to look up.

  “Can I send you another picture?” Paul asks.

  I duck my head again, feeling the heat rush to my face. “Um, sure,” I say. “I think I have to go now—get ready for my next class.”

  “What class is that?”

  “Oh, this writing thing.” I start piling up my books.

  “I didn’t know you did that.”

  “It’s just an elective,” I say. Why can’t I casually say, Yeah, I like writing? I’m not even sure if that’s true. I don’t know why Paul’s bothering to talk to me at all. There are lots of cute girls in his crowd, Chinese girls with great outfits and long shiny hair. There’s one girl I sometimes see talking to Paul who has gorgeous hair and a Hello Kitty phone case.

  “I’m taking photography,” Paul says as we stand up.

  I feel some of the heat leave my face now that we’re not talking about me. “Oh,” I say, hugging my books to my chest. “That explains the photos.”

  Paul cracks his knuckles. “Those weren’t my best ones.” We start walking down the hall together. “I like taking close-up shots better.”

  “Like portraits?”

  “No, more nature stuff.” Paul looks sheepish.

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what to say about that.

  “I could send you another picture, one of my better ones.”

  I glance up at Paul. He looks almost as embarrassed as me. I forget my own discomfort for a moment. He’s a lot taller than I thought. I’m used to sitting next to him, and he’s shorter when we’re at a lab bench. For a moment we look at each other, and then neither of us is sure what to do. I must be the most awkward person on earth, and Paul is going to see that and never talk to me again. “Yes,” I finally say, “send me more pictures.”

  Paul looks relieved. “You could send me some back.”

  “I’m not taking photography.”

  “Then send me something you’ve written.”

  I shake my head.

  “Then send me a photo from your biking.”

  I’m not sure how he knows I bike, but I smile. “Okay.” I take a step back. “I think I need to go now.”

  Paul waves goodbye, and I walk away from him and head back to my locker. Sofia is sitting on the floor with her phone. She looks up at me when I settle next to her. I feel strangely exhausted, like I’ve been fighting with someone instead of just talking to Paul.

  “Where were you?” Sofia asks. “I was looking for you.”

  “Oh, I was finishing a chem lab with Paul.”

  Sofia tilts her head to the side. “That’s so cute.”

  I let my head rest on Sofia’s shoulder, and then I pull up Paul’s cloud picture from earlier in the week. “He also sent me this.”

  Sofia slides her arm around me. “I told you he likes you.”

  “It’s just a picture.”

  Sofia sighs. “He’s totally courting you. It’s so chivalrous.”

  I shake my head. Sofia reads too many Harlequins. “Why would he do that? He’s my lab partner.”

  “Syd, don’t be thick. He likes you. He probably thinks you’re hot.”

  “I’m not hot.”

  She elbows me in the ribs. “You are too.”

  “No, look at me. I’m not hot.”

  Sofia pretends to frame my face with her hands. “You’re, like, model material.”

  “Model material?”

  “You know, skinny girls.”

  “I’m not model skinny.”

  “Okay, so you’re not exactly Vogue cover material, but maybe he’s into strong, muscular girls.”

  “That doesn’t sound so attractive.”

  “Are we going to go down this road again? Because if you need your ego pumped and a makeover to go with it, I can do that.” Sofia tosses her head. “You have amazing legs, great cheekbones, a beautiful neck and the straightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. Maybe you should smile a little and show them off.” I flash Sofia a grin. She pokes me in the arm and then strokes my hair. “You also have a cute haircut.”

  Sofia recently suggested I get my hair styled with bangs and layers at the front. She also helped me dye it auburn instead of its natural mousy brown. I like the cut because my bangs are long enough that I can hide behind them if I want to.

  Sofia continues, “Paul likes you—let’s leave it at that. You should send him a cloud back.”

  I take a picture of the pink suede ballet flats I’ve worn all week and send the photo to Sofia. “I’m courting you,” I tell Sofia when she gets the photo.

  Sofia ignores me and sighs. “I think it’s sweet you’re texting each other. Maybe you’ll even go on a date.”

  I frown. “I’d never survive that.” Even the thought of a date makes me queasy.

  “You’d be fine.”

  “No, if it’s more than homework, we’d have to talk to each other.”

  “You can talk to people. You talk to Fen and me, right? Besides, a date sounds so romantic.” She wrinkles up her nose. “Everyone else just hooks up at parties.”

  “We’re not dating. We’re just doing homework together.”

  Sofia grins at me. “We’ll see what kind of homework
you do next time.”

  “Sofia… ”

  “Yeah?”

  I want to tell her that I don’t even know how to kiss, but Sofia’s the kind of friend who would probably make me practice on her, so I leave it.

  “What?” Sofia says again.

  “I’m just nervous. What if I don’t like him that much?”

  She shrugs. “Then you’ll get a new lab partner.”

  I collapse against Sofia’s shoulder again. She makes everything sound so easy.

  In writing class Mrs. Lee has us do a free-write called “I Believe.” She says, “Don’t worry about what you think that means, and don’t edit as you go along or judge what you’ve written. Keep your pen moving, and if you go off on a memory or a tangent, keep going. Don’t censor yourself. There’s no right or wrong way to do this exercise, and we won’t be sharing these, so you can write personal things.” She nods, and everyone pulls out paper and pens or starts tapping away on personal devices. I pull out a journal I’ve been using for the course, a pink one with green hearts on the cover. I sigh. What do I believe?

  I believe in climate change, environmental degradation, the devastation of our pine forests, market indexes, biking, the power of the Internet, dentistry, grass, moss etched in sidewalks, rain, fog, dew, my shadow, the power of positive thinking (sometimes), cashmere sweater sets, patent leather shoes, Coach purses, concealer, Maybelline Volum’ Express Mega Plush mascara, pearls, pine nuts, pesto, bread pudding, steak, pinot grigio (not that I’ve tried any yet) and heirloom tomatoes. I also believe in all-white furnishings, retro kitchens and hardwood floors.

  I could go on, but Mrs. Lee switches the activity. “Now write what you don’t believe in. This is a way to flip your thinking, to get your brain to go somewhere different.”

  This is harder. I have to tap my pen for a few minutes before I start writing. I don’t believe in corduroy or crushed velvet or scarves. I also don’t believe in sweet pickles, sherbet (except between courses), pretzels or baked potatoes. I don’t believe in rouge, butterfly clips or roughing it. I also don’t believe in singing for your health or spirit, guitars or “Kumbaya.” I don’t believe in monsters, fairies, ghosts, heaven or hell, life after death or God. I don’t believe in beer, nacho chips, Cheezies or putting your hand up in class. I don’t believe in sharing what you write, unless you have to.