Friendship List #2

by Lisa Greenwald

  “I put it back in the kitchen, but under a pile of paper. So, like, I did the right thing, but not necessarily the best thing.” I wait for him to say something, but I think he’s waiting for me to continue. “Anyway, it was where I found it pretty much, so it seems normal, like it just got shoved in a pile. And hopefully my mom won’t notice the crinkles.”

  “That was the right thing to do,” he tells me. “So whatever happens, happens.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, leaning back against my pillows. “I talked to my dad about stuff, and how I was feeling.”

  “And?”

  I untuck my legs. “He listened, basically. He didn’t say much.”

  “Maybe he needed time to think about it,” he offers. “People don’t always know what to say in the moment.”

  “Yeah. I guess. It was kind of disappointing, though.”

  “Changing topic for a sec. Did I ever tell you about the time this kid Wyatt hid in the garbage cans in my garage?”

  I crack up. “Um, no. I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, so it’s this crazy story. He got into a fight with his brother, who’s a twin by the way, and then his mom was telling them they had to separate and then . . .”

  I listen to what he’s saying pretty intently, but more than that I listen to the sound of Golfy’s voice and the way he tells a story. I don’t even know if there’s anything truly special about it, or if it’s just special because it’s him.

  “Golfy, I have to tell you something,” I say, looking over the list and feeling the need to make a quick change, an addition, a double JHH because I’m going to do one list item twice.

  Plus, it’s my birthday—the one magical day of the year when I can do what I want.

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “I like you,” I say. “I mean, like, like. Like a lot of like.”

  He cracks up. “A lot of like. I like that.” He pauses. “And you. I like you, too. Also a lot of like.”

  I put the phone on speaker and rest it on my nightstand, and as he’s talking, I do a quick JHH on my own.

  He probably already knew how I felt about him, but I said it out loud. I said it, anyway.

  Talking to my dad counted as telling a boy how I really feel. But he’s a man, so it was kind of like cheating a little, even though it was important.

  And list or no list—I still wanted Golfy to know how I feel about him.

  After that, Golfy keeps telling me random stuff, like how his BFF from camp, Eli, who’s, like, two inches shorter than he is, is trying to get everyone to call him Miniature Golfy next summer.

  I crack up. “OMG, that’s hilarious. I love it.”

  “So now get everyone else on board, okay? We need this to catch on.”

  “Okay. But why did it take so long for him to think of this? I mean, you’ve had the nickname forever, right?”

  “Yeah.” He laughs again. “No idea.”

  My mom yells from downstairs that it’s time to get ready for dinner.

  “I gotta go, Golfy,” I tell him.

  “See you tomorrow, AT YOUR BAT MITZVAH,” he yells through the phone so loud I have to move it away from my ear a little.

  After he hangs up, I sit there on my bed, staring at the photos on my bulletin board, still cracking up about the Miniature Golfy thing.

  FORTY-FOUR

  IT’S KIND OF FUNNY TO have your birthday the day before your bat mitzvah. My family and I celebrate and stuff—and it’s a bigger celebration than normal since the relatives that live far away are already in Brookside for my bat mitzvah.

  We don’t have a fancy dinner or anything, the way my mom originally wanted, but the people at Antonucci Café, the Italian place close to the beach, let us use their back room for no extra charge.

  So it’s festive and fun, and they even bring out a yellow cake with chocolate frosting and everyone sings me “Happy Birthday.”

  We’re getting ready to go when Bubbie pulls me aside. “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”

  I smile.

  “You don’t know how beautiful you are,” she tells me.

  “Um.” I never know what to say to that.

  “Listen, I have a surprise for you.”

  I expect jewelry or something and I look at her hands for a shiny, nicely wrapped box. But they’re empty.

  “I was going to wait and tell you tomorrow, but it’s going to be too crazy.” She pauses. “Zeyda and I decided . . . you know, we’re getting older, and we miss you and Gemma, and you’re getting older, too, and . . .”

  “What?” I ask, impatient.

  “We’re moving closer to you! We found an apartment ten minutes away and there’s lots of stuff going on in the community and it’s going to be great!”

  “What? This is the best news ever.” I stand up on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around her neck. “This is seriously the best bat mitzvah gift in the world, Bub.”

  She smiles. “I had a feeling you’d be excited about it.”

  After we get back from Antonucci Café, we all change into pajamas and my mom and I sit at the kitchen table and finish the place cards. Originally we were going to have the calligraphy lady do them, and she was going to calligraphy the invitations, too, but that was another bat mitzvah thing left in the dust.

  “I’m not sure we still need these, really, since it’s no longer a sit-down meal, but it’s always helpful to know where you’re supposed to sit, isn’t it?” she asks me, eating her third mini Snickers of the day. We are hitting the Halloween candy pretty hard this year. “We’ll ask the custodians at the temple if they can put them on the right tables before the service ends.”

  “It’s good to have them so nobody feels excluded. I loved how we had assigned lunch tables in elementary school.”

  “Exactly.” My mom finishes writing Eleanor and Steven Feldman on a card and then she looks up and smiles at me.

  Oh God. I don’t even want to imagine all the weird details Eleanor Feldman knows about me.

  “What?” I ask after a few seconds of my mom sitting there and staring at me with that weird mom smile.

  “I’m just so proud of you.” Her voice catches. “The way you handle everything, and look on the bright side, and you’re just so wonderful.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I look down at the stack of place cards and the list of people attending my bat mitzvah. It’s kind of amazing how far people will travel just to be here with us. “And I don’t know if Dad told you this, but I can’t be that way all the time. I can’t always be calm and positive. It doesn’t work or make sense. It’s probably not even healthy!”

  “I know,” she says. “I’m sorry it’s been so hard on you. I’m sorry it took me so long to say sorry. It’s not your job to cheer everyone up or calm anyone down. It was never your job.”

  The phone rings, startling me and taking me out of this emotional moment. “Hello?” my mom answers.

  She always nods while the person on the other end of the line talks. It’s kind of funny since the other person can’t see her.

  Nodding. Nodding. More nodding.

  And then my mom says, “Oh yes, nice to hear from you. I’d lost your note for a while, and then just recently found it under a stack of papers. Things are a little hectic here with my daughter’s bat mitzvah coming up.”

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh,” my mom replies to whatever the person is saying. “How about we wait a little while? This weekend we’re very busy. So I guess next weekend would be okay?”

  She nods again. “Great. Touch base with me the day before.” She smiles. “Oh, I’m glad.”

  When she hangs up the phone and comes back to the table, she turns to me, sighs a deep sigh, and then gets back to the place cards. I wait for a few minutes to see if she’s going to explain what happened on that phone call.

  She doesn’t, though.

  And I obviously know what it’s about. But I still need to ask.

  My heart poun
ds a little bit. Sometimes it’s hard to ask a question if you’re not really sure you even want to know the answer.

  “What was that all about?” I unwrap another mini Snickers.

  “Nothing, really,” my mom says, writing out the place card for Zoe Krieger.

  “Well, it was obviously something,” I press.

  She sighs her deep sigh again. “Some people fell in love with our house, and they want to buy it. But I don’t think it’s for sale.”

  “So how can they buy it if it’s not for sale?”

  “They can’t.” She looks up at me again. “We’ll let them come and look, and maybe make an offer, but I don’t think we’re going anywhere. This is our house. We belong here.”

  I wait for her to say more, but she stays quiet after that, writing all the place cards for the camp friends table.

  I like that I have a camp friends table. That I have a whole group outside of school that I care about, and that cares about me.

  “Are things any better with Dad’s job situation?” I ask her, all hesitant.

  “Not yet. But they will be.” She looks over the list again. “I don’t want to jinx it, but I think good things will come through. I really do.”

  I wonder if it has to do with that dinner at Vintage 25 they went to a few weeks ago. Maybe it was the magical twice-baked potatoes everyone talks about.

  I get what she means about not wanting to jinx things, so I don’t ask anything else. Sometimes you just need to trust the universe that things will work out. It kind of ties into my bat mitzvah speech a little bit, but there are certain times in life where faith is really super important, I think.

  And this is one of those times.

  We continue with the place cards, and I wonder if I should tell her that I stole that letter from the people who want to buy our house. That I crumpled it up and hid it.

  But I don’t think I need to. I put it back where I found it. And maybe it was a good thing that I hid it in the first place. If they had called right away, we might’ve sold the house, assuming that things were only going to get worse.

  My Bubbie always says that everything happens for a reason, and to be honest, I usually roll my eyes when she says it because it just feels like an easy way out.

  But now I’m kind of realizing that she may be onto something.

  It can just take us a long time to figure out what the reason was.

  I don’t have time to think about this anymore, though.

  Speech brainstorms keep coming to me, and I need to quickly add them in.

  There’s something exciting about the down-to-the-wire moment (whatever that means), crunch time and deadlines.

  The feeling of making something perfect just the way you want it to be, right before it’s going to happen.

  I guess I’m not really a plan-ahead type of gal—I think back to my mac and cheese method.

  But I do make things the best they can be, right when it counts.

  FORTY-FIVE

  THE MORNING OF MY BAT mitzvah, I wake up and it feels different than every other Saturday.

  My alarm goes off at six, and my mom is already up. We rush around, eating breakfast (but I can’t eat) and getting ready. When we’re all in our temple clothes, we drive over there and attempt to do some family photos before the service starts.

  Random cousins that I’ve only met once or twice come up to me saying things like “you’re so tall” and “the last time I saw you, you were missing your front teeth!” and “what a beautiful young lady you’ve become.”

  I’m not going to lie—being called a young lady is just as creepy as being called a woman.

  I still want to be a girl. I think that’s okay.

  After a zillion photos taken by my uncle Scott, who is actually a professional photographer and offered to help out for the day, it’s time for everyone to take their seats in the sanctuary.

  My parents, Gemma, and I stand by the door for a few minutes greeting more people, and the longer I stand there, the more my stomach rumbles. Time is moving in slow motion. I need this service to start already. I need to feel like I’ve done okay with all the prayers and the Torah portion and my speech and everything.

  After most of the grown-ups have arrived, the kids finally start coming.

  “You look so amazing,” Marie says, squeezing me into a tight hug. “Did you get your hair done?”

  I shake my head. “My mom curled it with this new curling iron she found online.”

  “It looks profesh,” M.W. adds. “Like, hard-core profesh.”

  I laugh. “Thanks, guys.”

  “Okay, we’re going to sit,” Cami says, and blows me a kiss. “You are very chill today, Ari. Like, you don’t look nervous at all.”

  “Thanks, Cami.”

  Kaylan comes in a second later with her mom and Ryan.

  “OMG, I am so sorry we’re late, Ari,” she says, sort of out of breath. “You look like a model. A bat mitzvah girl model.”

  “Thanks, Kay-Kay.” I reach over to hug her, my heart pounding.

  This is really happening. Like now. Right now. I have to step outside myself for a minute to observe this scene as someone else. I want to be mindful of all that is taking place—breathe it in, pay attention, really notice everything.

  My bat mitzvah. Today. Now. All of it.

  Ryan head-nods in my direction, and Kaylan’s mom kisses me on the cheek and tells me I look beautiful and to break a leg.

  Then the camp girls start coming in, and Alice sprints down the hallway and lifts me up and twirls me around. “Ari, my lovieeeee,” she squeals. “OMG, I missed you beyond!”

  “AlKal, I missed youuuuu beyond,” I reply, as she puts me down.

  Zoe and Hana walk in at the same time, and they pull Alice and me into a group hug, and we all start swaying together and squealing and then it feels like everyone in the sanctuary turns around to stare at us.

  “Guys, okay. Stop.” I try to break free. “You’re crumpling my dress!”

  They finally pull apart but squeal a few more times. It feels like the puzzle version of me is almost complete again.

  “Is Golfy here?” Zoe mouths.

  I shrug. “Haven’t seen him yet.”

  My throat starts to get tight and scratchy, and I get a bubbly, fizzy feeling when I think about seeing Golfy. It’s kind of like the feeling right before you’re about to get a present you’re really hoping for, or the moment when the roller coaster you’re on is about to do the downhill part.

  The best kind of nervous feeling.

  This receiving line is kind of nice because my parents are so busy talking to people that come in that they can’t overhear my conversations with my friends.

  As I’m walking with my parents up the aisle to go sit on the bimah, I feel someone tap me.

  Golfy.

  “So sorry we’re late,” he says. “Traffic. Duh. You look amazing. You’re going to crush this. You’re my new favorite person. Okay, go. Bye.”

  I laugh behind my hands and smile my whole way up to the bimah.

  FORTY-SIX

  WHEN I LOOK OUT INTO the congregation at all my family and friends there in front of me, I swear it feels like my heart swells a little bit. Even the lunch table girls look mildly interested in the service, way more than they did on Rosh Hashanah.

  Rabbi Oliker and Cantor Simon welcome everyone and say “Shabbat Shalom” and they introduce me, saying that I’ll be leading most of the service. And when I’m reciting the prayers in Hebrew and English, my mind isn’t wandering at all. I’m all in. I’m not even thinking about anything else.

  I’m 100 percent mindful, in the moment.

  I read the English parts, and then the congregation reads their parts responsively.

  And I smile when I get to my favorite passage: “Standing on the parted shores, we still believe what we were taught before ever we stood at Sinai’s foot; that wherever we go, it is eternally
Egypt; that there is a better place, a promised land; that the winding way to that promise passes through the wilderness. That there is no way to get from here to there except by joining hands, marching together.”

  I think back to all the metaphorical marching together—as a Camp Silver community that really brought Judaism to life for me, Kaylan telling me that I could lean on the lunch table girls when things were hard, reaching out to my camp friends, too, even though we were far apart. Golfy helping me sort out the drama with that letter.

  And when it’s time for my Torah portion, different family members—my parents, Bubbie and Zeyda, Grandma, my aunts and uncles—come up to chant the Hebrew blessings before each part of the portion. They’re pretty much thanking God for everything, especially for giving Jewish people the Torah.

  When they finish, they all give me a smile and a squeeze. And I think the main amazing thing about this whole experience is that yes—it’s my day. But so many people are part of it, too. It really feels like a community in here.

  Like we are all together—to celebrate happy times and get through hard times—and if we remember that and stay true to that, it will all be okay.

  We are a community here, together, today.

  Again, the only way to get from here to there . . .

  The service goes on, and soon it’s time for my speech. It took me months and months to figure out what I wanted to say. But I finally did.

  “Good morning, everyone. Shabbat Shalom. And thank you so much for coming out to share my bat mitzvah with me.

  “My Torah portion is called Chayei Sarah. That literally means ‘the Life of Sarah.’

  “Big stuff happens in this portion, and there’s a great deal to discuss here—especially about marriage, and family, and legacy. But I don’t have time to get into it all, so you’ll just have to trust me.”

  Everyone laughs. I give myself a metaphorical pat on the back and keep reading.

  “The aspect that interested me most was highlighted in the name of the portion and in the first line—‘the Life of Sarah.’ The portion also tells us that Sarah lived for one hundred and twenty-seven years and then says, ‘Such was the span of Sarah’s life.’

  “At first glance, this seemed kind of redundant to me. But then, after discussing this with Cantor Simon, I realized that it’s meant to be repetitive. And it’s meant to make us think about life.