The Most Dangerous Thing

by Leanne Lieberman

  “I won’t stop you.”

  And so I kiss his ear first, the full lobe and then the outer shell of it. I can hear his breathing pick up as I leave small kisses across his cheek to his lips. I think about my poem. I can do this, even as Paul’s hands come up and rest on the small of my back. My lips find his and we’re kissing, and I want to be here, under this tree with Paul, with my arms coming up to wrap around him. I am holding Paul. I can do this.

  We leave a few hours later, our clothes mussed, lips swollen from kisses, my hair full of grass that Paul patiently picks out for me before we bike home. We kiss for a long time in the back lane behind my house before I finally say goodbye and slip into the yard. I skip past Abby listening to music in the hammock and throw myself into the tent. Sofia wants to know how my date with Paul was. I text her, It was good. I add, I was brave.

  She texts me back a happy face, and I wrap my arms around myself. Paul and I are going to see each other later tonight maybe, and then at school tomorrow, and then maybe every day after that. And I won’t be nervous, because it’s Paul.

  Abby’s play is still in the tent, and I pick it up and riffle through the pages again, rereading “If My Vagina Could Dance.” Once I told Abby that my vagina doesn’t dance. And now? Maybe it does, a little bit. I pick up one of Abby’s pencils and write on a sticky note. If my vagina could dance, it would…well, it would be really shy. And private. And maybe it wouldn’t exactly dance, maybe it would swoon a little bit. But I wouldn’t tell anyone about it. I attach the sticky note to one of the last pages of the play and look at it there, in my handwriting, in Abby’s play. I decide this is where it should stay.

  Then I flip through my journal and reread the vagina monologue Sofia convinced me to write. I sit thinking about it for a few minutes and make some changes, adding a few ideas and cutting out extra words. I decide to call it “The Most Dangerous Thing.” Then I type it into my phone and send it to Sofia. She texts me back, I LOVE this. You are brave! I sit looking at this text for a few minutes, feeling proud of myself. Then I take a deep breath and copy the monologue onto a blank piece of paper. I slip it into Abby’s manuscript pages. For a moment I feel sick to my stomach and almost rip it out, but that feeling passes, and I carefully put Abby’s play back in the tent.

  Twelve

  PAUL AND I LIE UNDER THE BIG WILLOW TREE at the back of the field behind the school during lunch hour. For the first time I don’t feel on edge with him. When Paul wraps his arms around me and I breathe in the scent of his neck, it makes my head feel so clear I want to sigh. The sky over Paul’s shoulder is a bright blue, with the kind of fluffy clouds that make me think of angels. When the bell rings for class, Paul presses his face into my hair, and shivers run down my spine.

  “What are you doing after school?” he asks as we get up to walk across the field. We hold hands, swinging our arms.

  “I have to go see my zeyda today, and then I’m busy tomorrow too. It’s a Jewish holiday.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of holiday?”

  I tell Paul a little about Passover, that it’s a celebration of freedom from slavery. He listens intently and asks what we eat and if we have to wear special clothes, and I end up giving him a lot of details about the Seder. “That sounds interesting,” he says.

  “I guess it is,” I say. “Today I have to convince my grandfather to come. He thinks we’re heathens because my mom is changing some of the traditions.”

  Paul sighs. “I know all about family members being reluctant to change.”

  After school I walk all the way to Paul’s with him so we can kiss on his front doorstep. Then I bike to Zeyda’s and plunk myself onto a chair across from him on his back deck. The downtown buildings shimmer in the sunlight; the harbor is full of sailboats and kayaks. The tide is out, and I can see people walking in the wet sand along the beach. Zeyda is slumped in his chair, wearing a sun hat and the kind of old-man sunglasses that completely cover his regular glasses.

  “You’re extra late today.” Zeyda straightens himself up, and I can tell he’s glad to see me.

  “I was with Paul,” I say.

  “He must be your boyfriend.”

  I grin and duck my head. “Maybe you’ll even meet him one day.”

  Zeyda rolls his eyes. “How about a game of checkers?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t stay too long, because I promised Mom I would help her cook for the Seder.”

  “Oh, right. Passover is tomorrow.” Zeyda’s face falls into its usual grumpy lines. “What are you making?”

  “Tonight I’m making matzah balls, and tomorrow, probably a salad. Oh, and tsimmes.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “Well, if you came, you could try my new tsimmes recipe.”

  Zeyda crosses his arms, his face deepening into a scowl. “I’m planning my own Seder.”

  “Oh, who’s coming?” I ask.

  “Well, maybe you and Crystal.” Zeyda’s eyebrows rise hopefully.

  I bite my lip and then take a deep breath. “Zeyda, that sounds really sad. Besides, Crystal and I can’t come, so come to Mom’s, okay?”

  Zeyda flaps a hand in the air. “Bah. I’ll stay home and drink four Scotches by myself instead of four cups of wine.”

  I flop back in my chair. “Remind me why you’re so opposed to Mom’s Seder?”

  Zeyda grips the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. “Your mother changes the words from the way the prayers are written. She adds things that aren’t supposed to be there.”

  “But Zeyda, the only commandment for Passover is to tell the story. I know it’s important to eat the special Passover foods, but it doesn’t say anywhere you can’t add things. Doesn’t religion have to change to keep up with the times?”

  “Is tradition such a bad thing?” Zeyda asks.

  “Is it such a good thing?” I try a different tactic. “Why don’t you ask Mom if you can lead some parts of the Seder? What’s the most important part?”

  Zeyda thinks for a minute. “The blessings.”

  “Then ask Mom if you can do them. You can lead them any way you want. Mom will add extra stuff, but you can do your part.”

  Zeyda thinks about this. “You mean compromise?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve never been so good at that.”

  I tap Zeyda’s knee. “Well, maybe it’s time.”

  “There’s an expression about old dogs and new tricks.”

  “What’s this really about?”

  Zeyda looks away from me. I don’t say anything, just let the silence well up between us. Finally Zeyda says, “Your bubbie made the best Passover dessert, this thing with Cool Whip and meringues and coffee. I don’t know how she did it.”

  “I remember that. I think Abby’s making it for dessert this year.”

  “Your bubbie also made such good gefilte fish, from scratch, and matzah balls and delicious chicken soup and macaroons. Her turkey was very tender.”

  I listen to Zeyda list all the Passover foods Bubbie once made, and watch the sadness funnel up through him. When he finishes speaking, I sit for a moment, remembering all the Seders we used to have at Bubbie and Zeyda’s house, how much fun Bubbie always made the Seder for the kids. I get up and wrap my arms tight around Zeyda, tight enough that I hear him groan a little. I whisper in his ear, “We’re going to eat all those foods. Dad and Mom and their friends and me and Abby—we’re making it. All of it, the fish and the soup and even the gross macaroons.” I squeeze Zeyda a little tighter. “Dad and I are coming to pick you and Crystal up at 5:00 PM, okay?”

  For a moment I think Zeyda is going to wrestle out of my arms. Then I feel him relax, a kind of melting defeat. He nods and slumps his shoulders. I kiss his forehead and wipe away the tear that has edged down his cheek.

  After dinner I’m making a cup of tea in the kitchen when Abby corners me, her manuscript in hand. She’s been her normal self, singing and dancing and planning, since she agreed to put on the play at the Fox.
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  “I see,” she says, her eyebrows arched, “that you’ve been tampering with my masterpiece.”

  I focus on adding sugar to my tea. “No,” I say.

  “Then what’s this?” She fans through the papers to show me the sticky note and monologue I added.

  “I have no idea.” I turn to put the box of tea back in the cupboard, but I can feel Abby staring at me.

  “It’s in your handwriting,” she says.

  I glance over at the pages. “No it’s not.”

  “Syd, I know your handwriting.”

  “Fine. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it right back.” I reach toward the manuscript, but Abby pulls it away.

  “Leave it.” She smiles coyly. “Does this mean you want to perform?”

  “Oh god, no. I could never say those words in public.”

  Abby hugs her play to her chest. “You definitely have issues.”

  “I’m working on them,” I say quietly, sipping my tea.

  “You should. Paul will appreciate it.”

  I elbow her in the side. Abby holds her ribs and steps away. “You know, I used to think you were really shallow,” she says, helping herself to some nuts from a jar on the counter.

  “Thanks.”

  “Now I think there’s more to you.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “My whole life is more meaningful now that it has your seal of approval.”

  Abby cocks her head to the side. “Maybe you could do a voice-over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We could record you reading your monologue and play it during the performance. Sunita and I made a slide show that needs music or text. It might work.”

  “So I wouldn’t really be performing, but my words would be in the show?”

  “Right.”

  Neither of us says anything for a moment. Then I blurt out, “Sofia wrote a monologue too. You might like it.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about…girl parts, and you know…” I struggle to find the right word. “Sex,” I finally say.

  Abby grins. “Sounds interesting. We’re rehearsing in about an hour. Tell her to come.” She saunters out of the kitchen.

  I sit on the floor with my tea cradled in my hands. Then I pick up my phone. I type Sofia a message. Vagina monologue rehearsal tonight. A says you can come.

  Sofia types back, For real?

  I hesitate. Yes.

  I’m in if you are.

  I take a long time responding. Finally I type, Okay.

  An hour later I’m in the basement with Abby, Sunita, Sofia and some of the other members from the cast. Sofia is nervous and pacing around the room, the high heels she’s chosen to wear clicking on the linoleum. I hover by the door. When Abby invites her to read her piece, Sofia flips her hair around and changes her stance a few times before beginning. She speaks her opening line, “Every girl has a button,” with uncertainty, her voice wavering, but then gets louder, more sure of herself. She giggles nervously at the end when the other girls clap.

  “Wow,” Abby says. “That was powerful.”

  The other girls nod and start discussing the best place to add Sofia’s monologue. When Sofia sits down with the others, she beckons for me to join her. I perch on the edge of a cushion next to her. She wraps one arm around me and gives me a squeeze. I can feel her hands shaking. “Thanks,” she says, and I’m not sure for what exactly, but I also understand.

  “I think I found some text for the slide show Sunita and I made,” Abby announces. “It’s a short but really powerful piece. The author wants to be anonymous.” I bury my face in Sofia’s shoulder as Abby reads my title. “The Most Dangerous Thing.” Then she projects the slide show against the rec-room wall. I’d imagined embarrassing images of vaginas, but the pictures are of girls, all different girls, tall and short, beautiful and not, from different ethnic backgrounds. This is even more difficult to look at, as if I’m imagining all those girls and their dangerous desires, their anxieties and needs. Abby reads slowly, ending with my final question. “What if we talked about the dangers of sex for girls, but also the bliss?”

  Everyone remains silent for a moment, watching the final images. Then Sunita says, “I think we should end with this. I think it sends a really positive message.”

  Abby nods. “It would be nice to end on a happy note.”

  Sofia squeezes my hand tightly, and I squeeze back.

  “Who will read it?” one of the girls asks.

  “The girl who wrote it might record herself,” Abby says. “She’s thinking about it.”

  The other girls start talking about the lighting for the show and what music to play while people are entering the cabaret. I stand up and motion for Sofia to follow me. I run up the stairs, pulling her behind me, and then out the front door and onto the sidewalk. The night is clear and cool, with a brilliant sky. I feel like running down the street to release all the energy inside me, but Sofia grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me to her in a tight hug. She whispers in my hair, “You’re no chicken.”

  Then we run down the street toward her condo, holding hands, not stopping until we have to wait for the traffic light at Main Street.

  The next day I have permission to skip Mandarin to come home early for Passover. The turkey is in the oven, the soup and matzah balls ready to be reheated. The dining-room table has been extended to its maximum length, with two extra card tables added to the end of it, sticking out into the living room past the couch. Abby’s cutting vegetables in the kitchen while Dad makes the kugel. I help Mom set the table, putting out the plates and napkins while she arranges place cards based on her seating plan.

  “Zeyda called to announce he’s doing the blessings,” Mom says.

  I put down the stack of napkins. “I told him to ask or suggest, to make a compromise.”

  “Well, that’s not what it sounded like.”

  “I hope you said yes.”

  “Of course. I said, What a great idea.”

  “So he’s coming?”

  “It seems so.”

  Paul texts me a picture of a monarch butterfly. He writes, Do you know caterpillars liquefy before they become butterflies in the chrysalis?

  Gross, I text back.

  Where r u?

  I had to leave early to get ready for Passover.

  Oh, right.

  I can hear Paul’s loneliness even in his text. “Hey, Mom, how many people are coming tonight?”

  “Seventeen including Zeyda.”

  “Do you think you have room for one more?”

  “Probably. Miri’s son canceled.”

  “Do you think I could invite Paul?”

  Mom puts down the Haggadahs and looks at me, surprised.

  “I think he’s alone a lot, and it might be nice for him to be around people.”

  Mom presses her lips together. “But Syd, he’s probably never been to a Jewish dinner of any kind. Won’t he feel awkward?”

  “Maybe, but I told him about it, and he said it sounded interesting.”

  Mom hesitates a moment. “It would be better if he came another night.”

  “Oh. Is Sunita coming?”

  “Yes, but she’s been here for Shabbat before, right? But it’s up to you. If you think he won’t feel uncomfortable, then invite him.”

  “I’ll ask him if he wants to come.”

  Mom reorganizes the place cards to make a place for Paul next to me. Then she starts organizing musical instruments—shakers and drums in a basket, her guitar on its stand by the end of the table.

  I text Paul. Our dinner tonight will be weird and long, but you’re welcome to come.

  A few minutes later Paul writes, Thinking about it. I go back to setting the table. Then he writes, Would I have to wear a beanie?

  I smile. He means a kippah. I type, Beanie would be optional, I think.

  Then I’m in.

  Okay, come at 5:30.

  I’m nervous about exposing Paul to a whole family Se
der, and who knows what Mom’s got planned exactly. I feel extra nervous when she starts sprinkling little finger puppets around the table. “What are those?” I ask.

  “They’re plague puppets.”

  “What?”

  She picks up a red puppet in the shape of a drop of blood. “See, this is the blood plague.” She means the first plague, when the rivers turned to blood. I notice the other puppets are wild beasts, hail, locusts and even lice. There are ten in all, one for each of the plagues in the Passover story.

  “That’s gross and disgusting,” I say.

  “At least dinner won’t be boring,” she says.

  I pick up my phone and write to Paul. FYI, my mom is really crazy, and dinner is going to be like performance theater with at least an hour of ritual before we eat. Are you sure you still want to come?

  I’m in, Paul writes back. Should I bring anything?

  An empty stomach and lots of tolerance. And a sense of humor.

  “Syd, put the phone down, please.”

  Gotta go, I type. Dress like you’re coming to a party.

  No hoodie?

  No hoodie.

  Mom and I finish setting the table, and then I make the tsimmes while she works on the Seder plate. Abby washes the lettuce and cuts the carrots for the gefilte fish. By the time we’re done, there is just enough time to change for dinner and help Dad get Zeyda’s wheelchair up the front stairs of the house.

  Soon after we get Zeyda inside, Miri and Todd arrive with their daughter, Rachel, and her husband, then the Levs and Auntie Karen and Uncle Mark and Sunita too. The house fills with happy voices, everyone carrying food into the kitchen and wishing each other a Happy Passover. Paul is the last person to arrive. He’s wearing a white shirt with a tie and dark pants; his hair is gelled up. He has brought flowers and gives them to Mom for the table. “See?” I say to Zeyda as we watch Paul talking to Mom. “You said a nice boy brings flowers.” I point to the bouquet of tulips Crystal is putting in a vase.

  Zeyda says, “I didn’t know he was coming.”

  “It was a last-minute thing. He was kinda like you.”

  Zeyda raises both his eyebrows.