Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust

by Leanne Lieberman

  “Poker,” I say loudly.

  “Wow, when did that start?”

  “Well”—I turn and face her—“since you’d rather eat lunch with Smoker girls, I thought I better find some more friends too.” Now I’m really sweating. I start walking toward the gym, leaving Brooke still digging for her running shoes.

  “Hey, Lauren, wait up,” Brooke calls.

  I keep walking.

  I ignore Brooke all through phys ed. We play volleyball on opposing teams, and I try not to even look at her. All through history class, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it the first seven times, then take a peek when the teacher has his back to the class. Bathroom, Brooke’s latest text says.

  I don’t go.

  After school I don’t wait for Brooke or Chloe or Em at the lockers; I just hurry out of the building. As I head for the field, I see Jesse playing basketball with Mac and Justin and some grade-twelve guys. I catch Jesse’s eye, and he waves me over. I stop abruptly. It’s cool outside, and I don’t have my jacket zipped up, but I feel sweaty again. Great. Am I going to break out in a sweat every time I see a cute guy? That’ll be attractive. I feel the nervous beat of my pulse as I head toward him.

  “Hey, you should play with us.” Jesse points back to the court.

  I raise one eyebrow. “With the guys?”

  Jesse bounces the ball. “Sure.”

  “You’re all so much taller,” I murmur. My phone buzzes in my bag, but I ignore it.

  “Yeah, you are a bit of a shrimp now.” Jesse lifts his hand up, showing off his reach. I make a face and stand up taller.

  “Hey, Jesse, you in or out?” Justin calls.

  Jesse looks back at the guys. “I’m in.” He turns back to me. “I still want to take you on. One-on-one.”

  I think I might actually need to change my shirt at home. I start walking backward, away from Jesse. “Well, sure. Some other time.” I feel my face burning again.

  I stand and watch the guys play. Jesse is not the tallest, but he’s definitely the cutest. And he moves down the court easily, like he’s dancing. I watch him run his hands through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. Mac says, “Dude, you’re going to need a ponytail, like a girl.” Then Jesse pulls a red terrycloth headband out of his pocket and shoves his hair back. Mac points and laughs, but Jesse says, “You wish you were cool enough for the headband.” If only Brooke was here to see how hot he looks. Oh right, she’s too busy with her new friends. I turn my buzzing phone off and bury it in the bottom of my bag.

  Back at home, the landline keeps ringing. Mom has left me a flyer in front of the computer, about the youth-group convention that Alexis is going to. It promises a weekend of praying, singing, friendship and study. I rip it in half and shove it in the recycling bin. I spend a few minutes on Facebook, but the phone keeps ringing. I know it’s probably Brooke, so I go up to my room, where I can’t hear the phone. Eventually, Mom comes home from work, answers the phone and calls that it’s for me. I reluctantly pick up.

  “Hey,” Brooke says, “I’ve been trying you for hours.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I was busy.”

  “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Oh, good. You looked really pissed off at school.”

  “No, everything’s fine. Great.”

  “I can’t believe you were playing cards with Jesse.”

  I hear a hint of jealousy in her voice. I feel like saying, We’re going to play one-on-one, him and me, too. Instead I say, “Yeah, well, it was no big deal.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “You could have played too, if you were around.” Even as I’m saying this, I doubt it. If Brooke had been there, I don’t think Jesse would have asked me.

  “I wanted to talk to you about that. Chantal’s kinda having a hard time right now. Her parents are getting a divorce, and we’re talking a lot about it. Also, there’s this guy she’s totally in love with. We have a lot in common.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, Chantal and Kelly are going to a party at Dmitri’s tonight. Want to come?”

  Kelly is Chantal’s best friend. She’s a little overweight, with huge breasts that look like melons. She has dyed-blond hair and a smoker’s cough, and she always wears bright red lipstick and too much eyeliner. Most of the Smokers, like Chantal, won’t make eye contact with non-Smokers, but Kelly talks to everybody and even participates in class. She’s like the Perky Smoker. I know her a little bit because she was on my geography project team last year. We did a study of cliff erosion at Towers Beach, which is right next to Wreck Beach, where people hang out naked. There were gross, wrinkly, old naked people right where we were taking soil samples.

  I’m not sure what to say to Brooke about the party, so I ask, “Is Kelly still going out with Dmitri?” Dmitri graduated from our school last year but looks like he’s thirty.

  “Yep. The party will be fun. I’ll ask my sister for some coolers.”

  “Well, I’m not sure…”

  “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “Okay. I’ll have to ask if I can go out.” I know I don’t sound enthusiastic.

  “Tell your mom we’re going to get coffee and study.”

  “Um, okay. What are you going to wear?”

  “Jeans and a sweater.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up the phone. I’m not entirely sure about going to hang out with the Smokers. It sounds like something I’m going to suck at. I think about calling Brooke back and telling her to forget it, but at least she’s making an effort to include me.

  When I’m ready to leave, Mom and Dad are sitting in the living room with the glass doors to the front hall closed. I open the door a crack. Mom looks exhausted, Dad frustrated. He’s slumped on the white couch, his feet on the glass coffee table. I know from their conversation at dinner that Zach’s bar mitzvah lessons started today and did not go well. His session ended with Rabbi Birenbaum chasing him through the sanctuary and Zach hiding under the stage in the auditorium. Mom had to leave work early to get him to come out, and now Zach is refusing to leave his room until they call off his bar mitzvah.

  “I’m going out with Brooke for a while,” I say.

  “Be home by ten,” is all Mom says.

  Brooke and I ride our bikes to a house in Kitsilano and wheel them around back. A group of kids is hanging out on lawn furniture in the backyard, all smoking. I see Dmitri and Kelly and some other Smokers who graduated last year. There are some older guys too, friends of Dmitri’s, I guess. Kelly waves to us, and Chantal turns around in her chair. She and Brooke exchange creepy air kisses, like they’re old Mafia ladies. I hang back and wave hi.

  Chantal’s wearing leggings and a black sweater with a plunging neckline that shows off her cleavage. Shit, I think, I’m dressed all wrong. Everyone is wearing black, and I’ve got on my red hoodie, like I’m going to watch a football game. Brooke is wearing a charcoal sweater over a skimpy tank top and tight jeans.

  Brooke pulls out coolers from her backpack, and we perch on a lawn chair together. Brooke and Chantal start talking in low voices about some guy Chantal likes who hasn’t shown up yet. I pretend I’m part of the conversation.

  I sip my sickly sweet raspberry cooler, take a deep breath and look around. Everyone is smoking. Brooke and I tried smoking last year in my back alley, but it made us cough too much. Besides, athletes shouldn’t smoke. The guy sitting in the lawn chair beside me has blond curls poking out from underneath a ballcap. He looks like he might be twenty. Alexis says I should get over my fear of talking to guys, so I take a deep breath and say, “So, you think the Devils will win this year?” I point to the basketball logo on his ballcap.

  “You like Duke?” he says.

  I nod. “They’re okay.”

  He sits up straighter. “Just okay?”

  “Well, they’re not North Carolina or UCLA.”

  “You sound like you know your stuff.”

  I sh
rug.

  “Hey, check it out.” He nudges the guy next to him with his foot. “A chick who knows college basketball.”

  I sigh inwardly and ignore the chick comment. I sip my disgusting drink and discuss my favorite players. I pretend to be interested in his fascination with Duke.

  Then Brooke and Chantal get up. “We’re going to the bathroom,” Brooke says.

  I feel like saying, “So?” or “I don’t have to pee,” but I get up and join them. Chantal leads us into the basement and down a grotty hallway to a bathroom reeking of cologne. She leans against the sink. “I can’t believe he didn’t show,” she moans.

  I try to look sympathetic while Brooke hugs her. “Maybe he’ll be here on the weekend,” I say. “It is a school night.” Could I sound any more like my mother?

  Chantal ignores me and leans toward the mirror to apply more of her cherry-red lipstick. “But I’m horny tonight!”

  Brooke sighs. “Me too.”

  I catch Brooke’s eye in the mirror. We’ve never talked that way before. Brooke turns away from my questioning glance.

  We walk back to the party and sit down. I blink twice when Brooke lights up a cigarette and inhales like she smokes regularly. The party continues around me, but I’m no longer in the mood to attempt conversation with random guys.

  An hour later, after more smoking and beer, Brooke and I say goodbye and get on our bikes. “Thanks for coming with me,” she says. We ride side by side down the quiet, leafy streets.

  I shrug.

  “So what did you think?”

  “It was okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Well, sure, you know, it was a party.” It wasn’t any different from the parties we’d gone to before—just people sitting around and drinking.

  “It was much cooler than other parties,” Brooke announces.

  I’m saved from having to answer, because a car comes up behind us, and I fall back to let it pass. Was the party cooler because the guys at our parties usually play silly drinking games, or was it because the girls at our parties don’t announce they’re horny?

  Brooke drops me off and I go inside, say hi to Mom and Dad, who are holding hands on the couch—talk about gross—and then head up to my room.

  I lie in bed, looking at the streetlights creeping in around the edges of my blinds. My hair smells like smoke, and even after brushing my teeth, I still taste the cooler. Also, I can’t get the sound of Chantal saying she’s horny out of my mind.

  The Perfects don’t talk about their…I don’t know. I’m not even sure what to call it—their desire? Lust? The Perfects talk about how cute boys are, or how in love they are. And they always fall in love with someone safely out of range. Em will say she’s “maddeningly” in love with someone from her Bible class or drama troupe who is too old or dating someone else. Chloe shows no interest in any of the boys at school who salivate when she flounces down the hall. She only talks about her sister’s older friends. Even Brooke’s comments about liking men, not boys, put her safely in the same category as the rest of us. Since we only obsess over guys who will never acknowledge us, we’ll never have to freak out about how far to go.

  And me? Well, having a crush on Jesse is perfect. He is entirely in the realm of the impossible, not the actual. I can safely fantasize about him for the rest of high school and nothing will ever come of it.

  And what if it did? What would that be like? What if we walked home from school together and then came down the lane behind our houses instead of down the sidewalk? We could talk simile and metaphor some more. I could come up with my own: your cheekbones are like ski slopes, your eyes are burning coals. You make me feel like a melting candle. What if he leaned me up against the back of the garage and bent down to kiss me? Shivers crawl down my spine as I imagine what his lips would feel like on mine, how his long arms would wrap around me and squeeze my back. I jolt up in bed. It’ll never happen, not with Jesse. I can’t even talk to him. I sigh, turn over in bed and pull the covers tight around me.

  Five

  The leaves turn red and yellow, then fade to orange and begin falling off the trees. I endure a long day at temple for Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, a holiday where you fast for your sins and ask God to forgive you for anything bad you’ve done in the past. Throughout October, Brooke continues to hang out with Chantal and Kelly, but one Saturday night she invites Chloe, Em and me over for dinner, just like old times.

  When I arrive at Brooke’s, Em and Brooke are making pizza and pretending to be on a cooking show. Chloe is videoing them with her phone.

  “Ah, Signora Yanofsky, our guest taster, here to try the provolone.” Brooke holds out a plate of cheese and Chloe pans the phone over to me.

  I do my usual deer-in-the-headlights stare and say, “Very tasty,” while shoving a large piece of cheese into my mouth.

  “Ew,” Chloe says. “Cut!” She pretends to be annoyed with me and then bounds into the living room and puts her phone in the speaker dock. She cranks up the volume, and we bounce around the living room. I follow Chloe’s moves, even joining her in some surprisingly porny rolling around on the floor. This is the way it used to be: Brooke and Em doing their cooking show—“Now for another episode of the singing chef!”—and Chloe and me rocking out in the living room.

  When the pizza is ready, Brooke carries it to the dining-room table. Then she brings a half-empty bottle of red wine. “Lookee, lookee, shall we start the evening with a little”—she reads from the label—“Chianti Classico? Ooh, so classy.”

  “None for me,” Em says.

  “But Em,” Brooke says, swinging the bottle, “this isn’t mere debauchery and drunkenness, this is an Italian cultural experience, compliments of my mother’s latest boyfriend.”

  Em waves her napkin in the air and says, “Still, I think I shall not partake” in her poshest British accent.

  Brooke shrugs and pours me a full glass. “Here, you’re a lush. Drink up, babe.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brooke reaches for Chloe’s glass. “Oh, that’s okay,” Chloe says, putting her hand over the top.

  “What, you going all straightedge too?”

  Chloe shrugs uncomfortably. “Sort of.”

  “That’s retarded,” Brooke says. She starts filling her wineglass and doesn’t stop until it almost spills over the top. When she puts the bottle back on the kitchen counter, I hear her mumble, “Stupid Jesus freaks.” She sits down at the table. “I bet you’ve even got a grace you’re dying to share with us.”

  I look over at Brooke and scowl. I know Jesus isn’t her thing, but does she have to piss off Chloe and Em? Chloe is frowning and looking down at her hands. Em looks concerned but composed, as always. She says, “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I have the perfect grace. Yub-a dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Yay God!” She punches her fist into the air. Brooke and I stare at her. Chloe starts to giggle.

  “Yay God?” I ask.

  “Yep, yay God,” Em replies. “Pizza, anyone?”

  We all start eating. Brooke tells Chloe and Em about some Smoker party, but I’m not paying attention. Throughout dinner, as I drink all my wine and let Brooke fill my glass up again, I wonder, Do they really believe in God? They’re intelligent people—surely they don’t believe a divine force created the universe. I mean, there’s science, people. There’s no Sky Daddy up there saying, Em and Chloe, you better be good girls. And think of the gazillions of wars, like the Crusades, that have been waged for religious reasons. Christians rode across Europe killing Jews to save Jerusalem from Muslims because they didn’t believe in the one true God. That’s insane. I consider asking, “What’s the point in believing in God?” but we’re finally all together, and I don’t want to ruin the evening by alienating Chloe and Em. Besides, if you want to believe in God, I’m okay with that, as long as you’re not using your religion as an excuse to kill other people.

  Still, I feel a list brewing in my head. I think I’ll call it “Reasons Believing in God is
Stupid.”

  1. No one has any proof.

  I’m about to list numbers two, three and four (evolution, the existence of evil in the world, how prayer doesn’t work) when Brooke starts describing a sex act Kelly performed on her boyfriend using cough drops during a blow job. Totally gross, yet totally intriguing.

  After dinner we walk to Quilchena Park to meet the guys. I’m excited because I know Jesse will be here tonight. I dressed carefully, wearing my lucky purple jacket and my favorite skinny jeans. It’s a crisp night, without a hint of the usual fall dampness, so I’m not even worried about my hair.

  When we get to the park, the guys aren’t there yet, so we sit on the stairs by the washrooms. I tap my toes and sip from a water bottle full of orange juice and vodka, which I took from my parents’ liquor cabinet after school, when they were still at work. Brooke keeps pulling out her phone and checking her messages.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask.

  “Chantal and Kelly said they’d be here tonight.”

  “Oh.” Great.

  In front of us, Chloe and Em practice a number from Grease. I pretend to watch while scanning the road for the guys’ cars.

  “Summer days drifting away, to uh-oh”—Chloe adds an emphatic pelvic thrust—“those summer nights.”

  “Tell me more, tell me more, was it love at first sight?” Em sings in her clear, high soprano.

  “Summer dreams, ripped at the seams, but oh, those summer nights,” they harmonize.

  I clap when they finish.

  “So,” Chloe says, hands on her hips, “do you think Jesse will be here tonight?”

  “Not sure.” I feel Brooke tense beside me. I glance at her, but she’s focused on her phone.

  Em sighs. “If only he was playing Danny.”

  Chloe gives her a shove. “Back off, baby. He’s Lauren’s lover boy.”

  “Oooh.” Em leans toward us and wiggles her fingers. “Lover boy.”

  Brooke stands up and pushes past them. “You guys are so lame.”

  Chloe and Em jump in the air and high-five each other. “Y-a-y lame!”

  Brooke rolls her eyes, and Chloe and Em run across the park to the swings. I sip my drink, not wanting to get too drunk, just buzzed enough to keep the edge off.