Thirteen

by Lauren Myracle

  When Becca finished the reading, she gave a short speech about it. “My section is from Genesis,” she said. “It’s the story of Sarah, wife of Abraham, who was told by an angel that she would give birth to a baby boy when she was ninety years old.”

  “I know that story!” I whispered.

  “Duh,” Cinnamon said. “The Torah’s pretty much the same as the Old Testament, remember?”

  “Oh,” I said. I hadn’t remembered.

  Becca talked about promises and new beginnings and cute little babies, and Dinah patted my leg to mean, You! You’re going to have a baby!

  Well, not me, but Mom, which was close enough. I did love that this was what Becca’s reading was about, though. Becca’s relative had explained to us that the readings were assigned based on the Hebrew calendar, and that the rule in Hebrew School was “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.” A kid’s assigned section might be full of action, like Noah’s Ark, or it might be archaic Hebrew law, like what to do if your oxen has “relations” with someone else’s oxen. Ooo, I pitied the kid who had to make a speech about that.

  But babies and miracles and the promise of new life? It was lovely. It made me feel special. It’s possible Mom wouldn’t appreciate being compared to ninety-year-old Sarah, but face it: Mom was old! And she was pregnant. And I was going to have a new baby brother or sister.

  (But hopefully—secretly!—a sister? Please please please? I wanted to be a big sister to a new little girl-person, just like Sandra was a big sister to me. Only I’d be nicer. And if we had a third girl, Ty could retain his status as “only boy.” But if we had a boy…well, obviously I’d deal.)

  Becca finished her speech, and the president of the temple gave her a pair of candlesticks and her very own Torah. And then the ceremony was over. I sighed in satisfaction. My only regret was that Lars hadn’t gotten to experience it, because I was sure he’d have appreciated it. But he’d opted out, along with Bryce. They weren’t paying their dues—though they fully planned to participate in the evening festivities.

  I felt a pang, there in the synagogue, as everyone stood up and burst into animated chatter. A voice whispered in my head, Are you sure he would have appreciated it? Are you sure he’s the person you think he is, and that you’re not just making that up in your head?

  I pushed those thoughts away. Yes, Lars disappointed me sometimes. So? The key word was “sometimes,” like that day on the quad with Nose-Ring Girl, when he made me look stupid so she would laugh. Or when he paid more attention to Bryce than to me. Or how he seemed to think kissing would make everything better, no matter the problem.

  Faith, I told myself. Hope. The promise of new life.

  In conclusion?

  Get over it.

  The party. Ah, the party. There was a DJ, and there was a chocolate fountain, and there were stacks of presents and a birdcage full of envelopes, all for Becca.

  “Why a birdcage?” Dinah asked, and yet another friendly relative explained that the envelopes most likely held cash or checks, and that keeping track of all that money was a bit much to expect a thirteen-year-old to do. Hence the birdcage.

  Becca herself was paraded out on a litter supported by four poles, each of which rested on the shoulders of a Chippendale look-alike costumed in full Egyptian regalia. Becca was decked out in a full-length ivory evening gown, which had nothing to do with Egypt as far as I could tell. Then again, a bat mitzvah had nothing to do with Egypt, either.

  “It is like My Super Sweet Sixteen!” Dinah squealed. “Omigod!”

  “‘Omigod’ is right,” Cinnamon muttered. “She so stole the whole Egyptian theme idea. Has she no shame?” But her eyes were bright as she took it all in.

  Becca gave a queenly wave and descended from her hand-carried throne. “Thank you all for being here!” she said into a mic at the front of the rented-out ballroom. “Um…there’s a video booth in the back”—she pointed—“and over there, there’s a slot machine and a tattoo station—”

  “Temporary!” Becca’s mother called out. Her hair was poofy, and sparkly earrings caught the light like miniature disco balls. “Temporary tattoos, don’t worry!”

  Everyone laughed—well, at least the grown-ups—and Becca rolled her eyes.

  “And if you want to get henna-ed, you can do that, too,” she said. The mic screeched. She blinked. “So, um…have fun!”

  The DJ swooped down to take the mic as everyone clapped. “Let’s start things off with a game of Coke and Pepsi, what do you say? Everyone find a partner!”

  “Coke and Pepsi?” Dinah said. “What’s that?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. I’d never been to a party remotely like this. I felt like I was in Hollywood.

  “Partners, partners!” the DJ called. His suit was electric blue, and his hair was as poofy as Mrs. Rubenstein’s. I revised my “Hollywood” thought, deciding that the party was more like being in…gosh, I didn’t know. Vegas?

  Cinnamon grabbed my arm. “There they are!” she cried, dragging me across the room. She’d spotted Bryce and Lars by the door, both in suits that were mercifully not electric blue. So handsome!

  “What about me?” Dinah wailed. “Who’s going to be my partner?”

  “Find someone!” Cinnamon called over her shoulder.

  Lars greeted me with a squeeze. “This is nutso,” he whispered in my ear.

  I grinned. “I know, don’t you love it?”

  Bryce gave Cinnamon a full-on, lip-locked, tongue-action kiss, and I had to physically tug her away from him.

  “God, you guys,” I said. There were grandparents here!

  “Now line up,” the DJ commanded, his voice booming over the sound system. “‘Cokes’ on the right; ‘Pepsis’ on the left. Don’t keep me waiting, kids!”

  In the middle of the ballroom, two long lines formed. The girls all went to one side—the Coke side—and the boys to the other.

  “Guess we’re Pepsis,” Bryce said, somehow managing to make it sound dirty.

  We joined our respective lines, standing opposite of each other. Cinnamon blew kisses at Bryce.

  “Is everyone ready?” the DJ asked.

  “No!” Bryce yelled.

  A bunch of kids laughed.

  “I said, is everyone ready?” the DJ asked again.

  “No!” dozens of kids yelled.

  “All right, then!” the DJ said. “Coke!”

  All of a sudden, a mass exodus took place. The girls dashed to the other side in a flurry of giggles and squeals, and one girl slipped and fell. She was sock-footed, I noticed. Where were her shoes?

  “Run!” Cinnamon said. So I did. We ran to our long-lost Pepsi partners, who pulled us into the fold with high fives and “yeah!”s. Bryce pinched Cinnamon’s butt, and she giggled and swatted him.

  “Girl in pink, you’re out!” the DJ said to the sock-footed girl, who was the last to reach the Pepsi side. “Find your partner and clear the floor!”

  “Aw, man!” complained a guy in a brown suit. He and the girl in pink joined the sidelines of aunts, uncles, and grandparents, who clapped politely.

  Then the rest of us girls, the un-loser girls, trooped back to our other side and reformed our line. This time, the DJ called, “Pepsi!” Lars easily outpaced the other guys, and we stayed safe. So did Bryce and Cinnamon. I searched for Dinah and found her midway down the line with a gangly guy from Louise’s Hebrew School.

  “Good job!” I called, since they, too, remained in the game. Dinah waved, looking embarrassed but pleased.

  The game continued, with the DJ mixing things up and belting out “Sprite,” “Mountain Dew,” and, in a surprise twist, even “San Pellegrino.” The Jewish kids seemed to know exactly what to do, but I had to watch and figure it out. “San Pellegrino,” for example, meant we weren’t supposed to do anything, and the kids who dashed out on autopilot got a “Bzzzzz” and a thumb-jerk from the DJ. That one worked to my advantage, but “Orange Crush” meant the girls were supposed to skip to
the other side, and I ended up being the last to arrive.

  “Sorry,” I said to Lars as we took the walk of shame to the patter of light applause. I was sweaty and hot.

  “No worries,” Lars said. He put his hand on my head and ruffled me up, so that I had to duck out of his grasp. “Got to work on those skipping skills, though.”

  Cinnamon and Bryce went out on a no-warning “Coke” call that caught almost everyone by surprise. Dinah and her mystery boy held on for two more rounds, then went out on “Mountain Dew.” They were supposed to switch places, but Mystery Boy just wasn’t quick enough. On the side, he and Dinah shook hands and parted. Dinah trotted over and joined me and Lars.

  Soon there were only two couples remaining: two girls and two boys. One of the girls was Malena of the Boobs, whom the guys on the sidelines were having quite a fine time watching. (Cinnamon had to swat Bryce again for making a rude remark.)

  The other girl, astonishingly, was Shannon. Shannon, who took ninth grade math, and who obviously was included on Louise’s guest list, even though she was a social outcast. She looked painfully out of place in this glitzy ballroom, wearing a burgundy shirtdress and wool socks. Yes, wool socks. I checked out the ever-growing pile of shoes over by one of the tables, and sure enough, there among the heels and loafers was a single pair of beat-up leather hiking boots.

  “Yessir, this is high drama!” the DJ cried. “Only two couples left. Who will take the prize?”

  Malena looked bored, but she had to care a little, or she wouldn’t have made it this far in the game. Her partner, Chip, was a guy in our grade I felt intimidated by. He was a jock, and he wasn’t very nice. At least, not to me. Shannon’s partner was another guy from Becca’s Hebrew school. He was short and had dark hair. His cheeks were ruddy.

  “Your guy was cuter,” I said, leaning in toward Dinah.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “All righty then. Are we ready?” the DJ inquired.

  “No!” yelled the crowd, led by Bryce.

  “Root-beer Float!” the DJ cried.

  Shannon’s partner sprinted across the room, and Chip, after a moment’s hesitation, followed suit. Once there, Shannon hopped with grim determination onto her partner’s back, piggyback style.

  “Get on! Get on!” Chip said to Malena.

  “In my dress?” Malena said. “I don’t think so!”

  Shannon and her partner were already halfway back to the other side.

  “Just do it!” Chip said.

  “No way!”

  “We have our winners!” the DJ crowed. “Come on up, kids, and claim your prize!”

  Shannon never cracked a smile: not when her partner played to the crowd by bowing and saying “Thank you, thank you,” not when the DJ raised her hand in triumph, not when she received her oversized inflatable saxophone.

  “How did she know what ‘Root-beer Float’ was?” Dinah asked. Most of the other kids, including Cinnamon and the guys, had already dispersed. “Is she Jewish?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But she must be, huh?”

  “Or else she’s been to lots of bat mitzvahs.”

  I watched as Shannon walked away from the stage and offered her saxophone to a little girl with pigtails. The girl beamed. Shannon stayed dour. I thought about Becca and how weird it was that she’d invited this huge crowd to her party, many of whom were practically strangers. I thought how weird it was that you could go to school with someone for days and weeks and months and still not ever know them.

  By all accounts Becca’s party was a grand success. Yes, Bryce made fun of it, and yes, he said, “Let’s not and say we did” when the DJ called all the kids forward for a rousing game of “Huggy Bear.”

  “But I want to play ‘Huggy Bear’!” Cinnamon whined. She didn’t even know what ‘Huggy Bear’ was. How could she? But that was how she and Bryce operated. They were a bickering sort of couple, constantly needling each other. And then they’d go off and fool around, which in fact they did in the coat closet of the hotel ballroom. The coat closet! I was so shocked, I didn’t know how to respond.

  It made me appreciate Lars, despite the fact that he also refused to play “Huggy Bear.” He said, “Let’s make a video instead. Let’s do the flying carpet one.” We took our places on the floor in front of the monitor, and the grown-up in charge called out directions like, “Lean to the left! Now to the right! Hold on tight, you’re going through a wind tunnel!” We ended up with an awesome souvenir DVD of the two of us swooping through the night sky on a magic carpet, thanks to the miracle of digital photography. I knew I would keep it forever.

  Dinah showed off her dance moves with her Hip-Hop Club buddy, Vanita, and Lars was like, “Wow, she’s good.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said proudly.

  We ate popcorn, popped right in front of us in an old-fashioned kettle corn tub.

  We cruised the dessert table and stuffed ourselves with chocolate mousse and gummy bears and sundaes from the sundae bar.

  Lars played the slot machine.

  I got a henna tattoo, along with Louise, who’d been acting all night like she was much better friends with Becca than she was.

  And at the end of the night, I told Becca I had a really, really good time, and Lars nodded and said, “Yeah. Thanks.”

  See? I told myself. He’s a good guy.

  I knew people would be talking about Becca’s party for days, possibly for the rest of time. But I missed Monday’s post-op, because on Monday, Mom had her ultrasound appointment. Sandra and I hadn’t gotten to go the time she was pregnant with Ty, so this time we were like, “You better let us.” Of course Ty wanted to come, too, and even Dad took the morning off from work.

  As the five of us filed into a cramped office in the Women’s Clinic, I drummed my fingers against my jeans. My stomach was jumping. Why was my stomach jumping?

  Mom climbed onto a padded table, lay back, and held Dad’s hand as the ultrasound technician squirted clear ooze onto her belly.

  “How are you doing, Ellen?” Dad asked. “You doing all right?”

  “Aside from the fact that my bladder’s about to burst?” Mom said.

  “Mo-o-m,” I said. I was aware of how much water she’d been told to drink prior to the exam, and yes, I sympathized. Still, she so didn’t need to say “bladder” in front of God and the whole world.

  “This won’t take long, and then you can go to the bathroom,” the ultrasound technician said.

  Ty giggled. Sandra flicked his head with her finger.

  The ultrasound technician placed a wand type of thing on Mom’s belly. On a TV screen, a black and white image appeared, but not of anything I could recognize. There were sounds, too. Waw-waw-waw-waw-waw, that’s what it sounded like.

  “That’s the baby’s heartbeat you’re hearing,” the ultrasound technician said.

  “So cool,” Sandra said.

  The technician moved the wand. In a reverent voice, though surely she’d done this thousands of times before, she said, “And there’s the baby.”

  I gazed at the screen. At first I couldn’t make out what I was seeing—and then I could. There was the baby’s head, and the baby’s curled-up body. Little fingers, clear as day. Little toes. A baby, a tiny living creature, just as amazing as Sarah’s miracle baby, prophesied by the angel. A baby who one day would cry and laugh and smile and frown. Who would kiss and be kissed. Who would have happy days and sad says, but hopefully more that were happy.

  Something huge swelled within me and made tears rush to my eyes. Sandra got teary, too. And of course Dad, because he was the biggest softie of us all. He squeezed Mom’s hand in a series of pulses—I could see his muscles flexing—until Mom said, “Sweetie, you’re cutting off my circulation.”

  “Sorry, sorry!” he said.

  “Is it a boy?” Ty asked.

  The technician looked at Mom. “Do we want to know?”

  Mom nodded. Her eyes were shiny, too.

  “Well, let’s
see,” the technician said. She moved the wand. She peered at the screen.

  “Is it?” Ty said.

  I held my breath. I would be fine with it either way, I decided. I really would.

  “It’s a girl,” the technician announced. “You’re going to have a baby sister.”

  “Aw, man,” Ty said, his tone the same as if Mom had announced we were having Brussels sprouts for dinner.

  “A girl,” Dad said. He smiled at Mom.

  “How lovely,” Mom said, blinking. She let go of Dad’s hand and pulled Ty toward her. “And you, my darlingest darling, will make a wonderful big brother.”

  He submitted to the hug, then pulled away and pointed at the screen. “Look! She’s waving!”

  Sandra snorted. “She’s a fetus. She’s not waving.”

  But on the screen, the baby’s hand was indeed moving. Five teensy-tiny fingers, undulating like seaweed.

  “I think she is,” I said. I looped my arm around Ty, and he bonged against me like a pinball. “Anyway, who says fetuses can’t wave?”

  “Hi, baby,” Ty said, waving back at the computer image. “Sandra, say ‘hi’ to the baby!”

  Sandra groaned. “Hi to the baby,” she said.

  “Your turn,” Ty said to me.

  “Hi, baby,” I said happily. I looked from the computer to Mom’s rounded belly. “Hey there, little sis.”

  December

  THUS BEGAN THE NAME GAME. Now that we knew we were having a little girl, the question became, “What will we call her?”

  Dad was his maddening, aren’t-I-a-riot self, suggesting impossible names like “Lucretia,” “Fifi,” or “Mr. Tooth Decay.”

  “Da-a-ad,” Ty groaned. “She’s a girl.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Tooth Decay,” Dad suggested.

  “She’s not married,” I pointed out. Although a girl in my class had just gotten a new sister from Ecuador, and on the baby’s passport, it said the baby was married. Stacy said it was just one more thing her parents had to undo in terms of paperwork, but we all thought it was funny. A four-month-old, already married.