Zach lies back down and closes his eyes. “It’s not hard.”
“Could you do it without the notes?” When you read from a Torah scroll, there’s no musical notation for the chanting. You just have to know it.
“I already memorized it.”
“Right.” I pause for a moment.
“What are you thinking?” Zach asks.
“Mom and Dad want you to have a bar mitzvah. And you don’t mind doing the reading, but you don’t want it to be a gong show, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, so you could learn this fast and have your bar mitzvah soon to get it over and done with, right?”
“Yeah…”
“So then the next question is, how many guests do you think you could handle?”
Zach thinks for a second. “Seventeen.”
“Seventeen?”
“Yep.”
“That’s the exact number?”
“Yep. Any more and I can’t do it.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“When I had to do a speech for the speech contest, there were seventeen kids in the class, and that was fine.”
“Okay. Gotcha. What about the party?”
“No party.”
“Mom won’t buy that.”
Zach hangs his head.
“Wait. What if the party was here, and you had to say hi to people, but then when you’d had enough, you could go to your room or come out here?”
Zach presses his lips together. “That might be okay. If there were only seventeen people.”
“Do you think you could handle twenty?”
“Maybe. But only if I get to choose. And I don’t have to wear a suit.”
“Zach, you can wear a suit. And have your picture taken. And lead the whole service.”
Zach closes his eyes. For a moment I think he might be falling asleep or passing out. Then he looks at me and grimaces. “I guess I could.”
“Deal?”
“Deal.” Zach sticks out a weak hand and we shake.
In the kitchen, Mom is making pasta while Dad grates cheese.
Mom says, “Is he coming in yet?”
I sit on a stool at the counter. “Not yet. Here’s the situation. Zach hasn’t eaten in over forty-eight hours. For real.”
Mom puts down her knife. “Oh my god.”
“He’s been drinking water, so I think he’ll be okay, but we need to step up negotiations.”
Mom turns to Dad. “Leave him and he’ll be fine. Isn’t that what you said?”
Dad throws up his hands. “How was I supposed to know he wasn’t eating?”
“Hello?” I wave my hands between them. “I think I have a solution.” I wait until they both turn to me. “Zach says he’ll have a bar mitzvah, but it has to be small and soon.”
Mom frowns. “How small?”
“Seventeen people. He’s agreed to a party, but it has to be here. Also, he says he’ll wear a suit, pose for photos and lead the whole service.”
Dad whistles. “Maybe you should go into labor negotiations.”
“I’d be good.”
“You’d be excellent.”
I can see Mom calculating which seventeen family and friends to invite. She sighs. “Well, I guess that would be fine. It’s the ceremony that’s important. Did he really say seventeen people?”
“I think he might be persuaded to twenty. But it has to be soon.”
“Why’s that?” Dad asks.
“So he can get it over with. I think the anticipation’s killing him.”
Mom flails her arms in the air. “But he hasn’t even started studying. And you need time to plan these things.”
“Not if you only have seventeen people. You’ve had dinner parties bigger than that. And don’t worry about the studying. Zach has already taught himself how to read the Torah.”
“Oh?”
“Yep.”
“Well,” Dad says, “that would be Zach.” He turns to Mom. “Deal?”
She braces her hands on the counter and closes her eyes for a minute. “What about a speech?”
“I wouldn’t push it,” I say.
Mom pauses, then sighs. “Fine. I guess that’ll have to be good enough.”
Dad says, “Let’s feed him and get him back in here then.”
I quickly make Zach a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich, his favourite, and he eats it out in the garage, along with three chocolate-chip cookies and a glass of milk. When he feels a little better, I help him carry his sleeping bag and comics back into the house.
After dinner I log on to Facebook. I’m expecting more Holocaust-related comments, but Mac’s posted a stupid cartoon and Tyler’s written about a hockey game. Chloe’s status says she’s off to a youth-group sleepover this weekend. Brooke and Chantal are talking about a party in Ladner. I scroll all the way down and find Tyler’s I smell a rat comment from yesterday. There are fifty-seven posts now. I crinkle up my toes and look around me. Zach has gone to bed, Dad’s in his office, and Mom’s on the phone in the kitchen, madly rebooking Zach’s bar mitzvah. I skip the posts I read yesterday and look at the new ones. Chloe wrote, Bad idea to start with. Brooke added, Superbad taste. Even Chantal and Kelly weighed in. Serves you right, losers, Kelly said. Chantal wrote, Get a life. A girl named Cass from my English class wrote, It wasn’t a rat, it was someone who decided not to be a bystander. I click Like under Cass’s comment. Then I update my status. I’m thinking about a career in labor relations.
The chat box comes up from Alexis. How was your dad’s talk?
Didn’t go.
U skipped?
Yep.
Wow. Where did u go? Alexis has probably never skipped in her life.
To the beach with Brooke. Then I tell her about Zach’s hunger strike and his bar mitzvah, which is going to be in two weeks. Alexis writes, Glad things worked out ok, and since I can’t think of anything to else to say, I write back, Yep.
I go into the kitchen to get a snack and see how Mom’s doing. She’s sitting at the counter with the phone and her bar mitzvah planning notebook beside her. I can tell from her red eyes that she’s been crying. Also, her hair is scrunched up on one side from resting her head in her hand.
“How goes it?”
Mom sighs. “I cancelled the country club, most of the catering order, the invitations and napkins. I called the rabbi, and luckily no one wanted a date in November. We’re going to have the service in the downstairs chapel, not the main sanctuary.”
I nod my head. “Sounds good.”
Mom continues. “I called Auntie Susan and Uncle Steve and Dan and Cathy, and they’re going to come.”
I nod again.
“I lost the deposit for the country club, but I guess that doesn’t matter.”
“You could have a party for something else there. Maybe your anniversary or Dad’s birthday or something.”
Mom stops tucking papers into her notebook. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” I stop eating my cereal.
Mom squints at me over her reading glasses. “Look, you may not know this, but life can be pretty shitty.” I put down my spoon. Mom almost never swears. She continues, hands braced on the counter. “Most people in the world are poor or sick or live in countries at war. People die all the time. And my job is to try and convince girls not to starve themselves to death. I counsel them and teach them about good nutrition. And some of the time, the girls get better. And other times, the girls kill themselves. Lots of life is like that: miserable.”
I’m not sure where Mom is going with this. I’ve never heard her talk so bitterly. She continues. “And then there are some amazing times in life, like when a baby is born or people get married. Those times should be celebrated, and because we’re Jewish, we also celebrate our children with a bar or bat mitzvah.”
“Because we’re adults now?”
Mom ignores my snarky tone. “You know, I don’t think it’s about becoming an adult. I think it
’s the parents’ way of celebrating the success of childhood. Your kid didn’t die of some horrible disease and learned how to read and write and, if they were lucky, how to ride a bike and swim. By twelve or thirteen, kids need to start being independent. And that’s it; a parent’s most important role is over. If you haven’t done your job up to that point, well, you’ve missed your opportunity. And this—this growing up should be celebrated. All that other crappy stuff about life—the dying and sickness—for one day you get to ignore it and celebrate your child. And that’s why I wanted to have a big bar mitzvah for Zach. To celebrate everything he’s done, because it’s been harder for him than most kids.” Mom’s voice starts to crack. “That’s all I wanted.”
I want to tell her that Zach’s bar mitzvah will still be a celebration, just smaller, but I can see she feels cheated out of her months of planning. All of her excitement and enthusiasm has been squelched to a measly few weeks and seventeen guests in the dinky chapel. “I think the party here will be nice.”
Mom looks up from shuffling her papers. “I’m sure it will be.” She picks up her notebook. “I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.”
I nod and think about everything Mom has said, about making a party for Zach. It’s true Zach needs to be celebrated, just in a special way. I tap my fingers on the counter and think about the lantern planes Zach has been making, about how to make them part of the celebration for Zach, who dreams of flying.
Fourteen
On Saturday, Jesse asks me to go running in Pacific Spirit Park, a forest with trails near the university. As I pull on my running tights, I smile and think, This is so normal—me going for a run with my boyfriend.
Jesse honks in front of the house, and I slide into the front seat of his mom’s van. It’s another gray day, the overcast sky threatening rain. Jesse squeezes my knee when I get in and then focuses on the road. He seems quieter than usual, less excited to see me, and I clench my hands into fists at my sides.
We drive in silence, and I wish I could think of something cheerful to say. Finally, Jesse asks, “So, Zach still on his hunger strike?”
“No, he finished Thursday night.”
“What was that about?”
“Oh, he didn’t want to have a bar mitzvah.”
“So is it cancelled?”
“Nah, just smaller—and sooner.” I start to relax, letting my fists unfurl.
Jesse nods. “I remember your bat mitzvah.”
“You do?”
“Sure. My whole family was invited.”
“What did you think of it all?”
“I remember thinking that your parents must really love you to shower all that attention on you.”
I glance at Jesse, feeling myself redden. “I always felt it was more about showing off. ‘Look what my kid can do.’”
“I didn’t think that. Your parents looked so proud of you. Mine were too busy fighting to even notice me.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, well, unless I got into trouble. Then I got a lot of attention…” He sighs.
I raise my eyebrows.
Jesse says, “It’s nothing. Just bad memories.” But he is still somber.
I’m not sure what to say, so we drive the rest of the way in silence. When we get to the park, we get out of the car and stretch our legs at the edge of the forest. Even with mitts and toques on, we’re chilled in our light jackets, so when Jesse raises his eyebrows to ask if I’m ready, I nod. We start down the dirt path, my legs stiff and reluctant to move. I force myself forward, knowing I’ll loosen up in a few minutes. The ground is hard from the cold but easier on the joints than running on pavement is, like I usually do. We don’t talk; there’s just our breath puffing out warm clouds into the damp November air. The moss hanging from the tree branches makes the forest feel like an underwater cave, like we’re pushing through curtains of seaweed.
The path opens up to a wider gravel road, and the air around us seems to lighten without the gloom of the trees. Jesse and I pick up the pace. My limbs are loose and warm now, and a light sweat breaks out along my back. I start to relax. We pass a few dog walkers and some parents with kids in strollers.
In the end, we run farther than planned because the route Jesse mapped out finishes on the other side of the park. I groan when we realize his mistake.
“What, can’t take it, Yanofsky?” Jesse says, and he sprints down the path.
“Hey, wait up!” I dart through the trees, trying to keep him in view. He slows down so I can catch up. We’re too tired for wind sprints, so we jog for a while and then walk back to the car.
I grab Jesse’s hand and smile at him. “That was a good run.”
Jesse nods. “We’re going to be so fast on the court.”
“Either that or ready for track season.”
“You do track?”
“I didn’t last year, but I might this year. You know”—I think about Chloe and Em’s youth-group schedule—“keep busy.”
Jesse nods. I can tell he’s brooding about something, and I feel my stomach twist. Finally he stops on the trail and turns to me. “You know how I had to go to boarding school because I failed a bunch of classes?”
“Yeah.” I clasp my hands behind my back.
“I wasn’t only in trouble for that. That was just the last thing.”
“Oh.” Jesse seems to be waiting for me to say something else, so I ask, “What else did you do?”
Jesse grins nervously. “I stole some stuff, just stupid things, to see if I could get away with it.”
“What did you steal?”
“Eyedrops from the nurse’s office, a school microscope and Mr. Yip’s cell phone.”
I can’t help smiling. Mr. Yip was the guidance counselor when we were in grade nine. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know. Bored, mostly. Curious, you know, to see what would happen.”
I nod and start walking, but Jesse grabs my hand. “Don’t you want to know why I’m telling you this?” His cheeks are red from the cold air; he’s not smiling.
I flex my legs nervously. “I don’t know. I thought you were just telling me stuff.”
Jesse drops my hand and starts walking away. Then he turns back. “I want to ask you something, and I think I already know the answer. And I don’t want you to be mad, so I thought maybe I should tell you something about me—something kinda crappy.”
I tense my shoulders. “You think you know something crappy about me?”
“I think I do.”
I stay silent for an incredibly long time. The wind rustles the trees and I shiver, my sweat turning cold on my back. Could someone please tell me the right answer? No, this is a lose-lose situation. Confess, and I’m a traitor. Say nothing, and things only get worse. Finally I say, “I burned my hand setting fire to one of my father’s books.”
Jesse’s face softens. “That’s so not what I thought you were going to say. You burned a book?”
I nod.
“Wow, why did you do that?”
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t like what was inside it. Holocaust crap. And I thought if I burned the book, maybe I’d stop thinking about it.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
Jesse digs his running shoe into the gravel. “Lauren, that isn’t what I was going to ask you.”
I’m so nervous, I can’t say a word. I squeeze my hands so tightly that I accidentally crack one of my knuckles.
Jesse takes a deep breath. “You turned in the armband, didn’t you?”
I freeze, looking up at him.
“Look, I don’t know if it was you, and maybe it’s a shitty thing to ask, but I can’t think of anyone else who would have done it.”
I look up at the towering trees, tilting my head back until I feel dizzy. If I was a stronger person, I’d say, Yeah, I did and look back at him defiantly. But I’m not like that, and tears well in my eyes. I’m standing on the path, crying into my mittens, and I’m sure Jesse is thin
king, Jeez, can’t we even talk about this? Or, Why do girls always start to cry?
I gulp, trying to swallow back my tears, searching for the right words. Eventually Jesse says, “C’mon. I’m starting to freeze.”
We jog back to the road, my face still wet from crying, and get in the car without stretching our legs. I feel my muscles bunch and tighten as I sit shivering.
Jesse turns the car on, but I put my hand over his. “Wait.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he mumbles.
“Yes, I do.”
Jesse turns off the motor, and I sigh and wipe my cheeks with my mittens. “When I was twelve,” I start quietly, “my dad took me to this Holocaust memorial with my grandmother.” I tell him about Grandma Rose crying on the stone, about how obsessed I became, how I read everything about the Holocaust, how anxious it made me. I leave out the part about the panic attacks. Jesse faces forward, listening but not looking at me. Outside, rain starts to fall. “I didn’t know what to say about the game, that first time in the park. I didn’t think you were really being Nazis, but it was still too much. And yeah, you apologized, but it seemed so halfhearted. That’s why I told Brooke I wasn’t interested in you. How could I be with a guy who thought pretending to be a Nazi wasn’t a big deal?”
“Is that why Brooke was coming on to me? She thought you didn’t like me anymore?”
“Well, yeah. But then we went for that run down at the beach before the party. I was so confused when you left the party with Brooke.”
“And that’s when you decided to turn in the armband?”
I nod. “I felt so…disposable.”
“Disposable?”
“Like so many girls were in love with you, you could kiss me and then hook up with someone else and not care.”
Jesse presses his lips together. “Had you ever seen me do that?”
“No.”
“But you thought I was like that anyway?” His lip curls up.
I pull my knees up to my chin and drop my head down. “I guess so.”
Jesse sighs, then slouches in his seat. “Is that it?”
“Yes, that’s it.” I hesitate. “Are we done talking about this?”
“Yep, we’re done.” There’s a grimness around Jesse’s mouth, and I’m not sure how to read it. Does it mean we’re done talking about this, or that we’re done for good?
Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust Page 15