4:38 PM
LOL no. It’s a lot of things. It’s expensive. It’s in the middle of a, quote, “big dangerous city.” It’s the fact that Wesleyan has an amazing art program, and it’s right here.
4:39 PM
so you have to convince them. WHY NYU?
4:40 PM
Because if I don’t get out of this town now, I don’t think I ever will, tbh.
4:41 PM
It feels so good talking to Nash from my phone, as Kels, like before. At school, the best strategy when it comes to dealing with Nash is total, complete avoidance. I always arrive to our shared classes right before the bell. I claim the lunch seat wedged between Sawyer and Autumn. Any and all school-related talk is strictly about assignments and due dates.
It’s the only way to avoid a repeat of that awkward first day.
Because already I can see that Nash is just as smart and funny and filled with book puns for every situation as he is on my screen. If I get to know him, I know I’ll think he’s even more wonderful, and I’ll wish I were brave enough to tell him the truth and take his reaction, whatever it is. Which I won’t be.
When we have conversations like this one though—where Kels can talk to Nash as if nothing has changed, where Nash confides in Kels—the IRL awkwardness is worth it to risk not losing this.
Enough about that. Are things going
okay at the new school?
4:42 PM
i’m trying to make friends, i swear, mom!
4:43 PM
That’s not what I meant.
4:43 PM
… ok that’s kind of what I meant.
4:43 PM
is there even a point? It’s senior year. i’m at yet ANOTHER new school. maybe it’s better to save the whole IRL friends thing until college
4:45 PM
That sounds lonely.
4:46 PM
who needs real people when i have the internet?
4:47 PM
You mean when you have me
4:45 PM
“What is all of this—?”
My eyes snap up from my phone, meeting Gramps’s voice, and wow, his pained expression wipes the Nash smile right off my face.
Okay, so I kind of made a mess … and am in the process of frosting two dozen cupcakes.
But Gramps is looking at me like—I don’t even know. Like I’ve done something wrong.
I place my phone facedown on the table. “Peak stress baking?”
“Is this—it’s all Miriam’s stuff? How?”
His voice cracks when he says Grams’s name and my eyes instantly start watering. The mixer, the bowls, the pans and spatulas—they were all Grams’s. But she always let me use them, and all of it was just sitting in a box in the garage, clearly labeled KITCHEN STUFF.
“I just needed to bake, Gramps. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t think.”
I swallow my words. I don’t know what to say next. Whatever I do say will be wrong.
“You can’t just start taking things that aren’t yours, Hal. You didn’t even ask. You can’t just bust in here like nothing has changed when everything—”
He pauses. Blinks once. Twice.
“Just clean it up, okay?”
He turns his back to me and walks upstairs without another word.
I lean forward and press my hands against the counter. All the emotion I’ve kept in since we got here bursts out now that Gramps looked at me like I’m the worst granddaughter in the world and just left. Tears stream down my face. I am the worst. The real reason it was all in the garage is so obvious now. Gramps literally stripped the house of everything Grams in a matter of months and I hate it.
My movements through the kitchen turn static. I’ll work on the cover reveal another day. I frost the cupcakes standardly and put the ingredients away. I scrub the bowls until my fingers prune and there are no more signs of sugary batter or memories of Grams. Scrub until I can convince myself that it doesn’t even look like I used them, not really, and I can forget the broken heart plastered on Gramps’s face.
I can’t.
I dry the bowls and pack everything back into KITCHEN STUFF. Tears dry on my cheeks as I lift the box and carry it into the garage, back to its spot on the shelf that I now realize is all Grams’s stuff. Cupcakes gave me tunnel vision—because it only now hits me that everything that was Grams, everything that is Grams, has been reduced to boxes in a garage.
CLOTHES (1/4)
SHOES (1/2)
BOOKS (1/10)
PHOTOS
Someday, we’ll all just be boxes in someone’s garage.
The KITCHEN STUFF box nearly crashes to the floor, my hands shake so violently. I can’t breathe, my chest is in knots, and I’m so hot and I’m gasping for air, gasping for anything to make this stop.
It doesn’t stop.
I am going to die, I think.
I’ll only be three, maybe four, boxes when I die, I think.
“Hal?”
In an instant, Ollie grabs my hand and pulls me away from the boxes, toward the steps of the garage.
“Breathe,” he says.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Listen to Ollie.
Breathe.
Ollie holds my hand tightly and lets me breathe my way through this. And I do get through it. Slowly my muscles relax, my breath steadies, and I’m not going to die—at least not today.
The first time I had a panic attack, Ollie was nine. Our uncle had died suddenly—I didn’t know him well, but the idea that he was just gone? The idea that someday I’d just be gone? It was too much. I cried so hard I couldn’t speak, or breathe. I thought, This is what dying is, isn’t it? It’s not being able to breathe—which only exacerbated the situation.
Ollie found me on my bed, sobbing my brains out and hyperventilating. He didn’t say anything. He just climbed into my bed and held my hand until it passed.
He’s held my hand through every panic attack since.
The tightness in my chest eases and I let go of Ollie’s hand. “Sorry,” I say. “I thought I was—”
I don’t finish my sentence because whatever I thought I was, I clearly wasn’t.
“You good? Maybe you should talk to Gramps about—”
I shake my head. “Gramps hates me.”
Ollie shrugs. “He’s just triggered, you know? He’ll get over it.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I just wanted to bake. He just wants to forget her.”
“Maybe he’s not ready to remember yet. Maybe we’re making it worse. I don’t know. Dude can barely take care of himself—it’s pretty brutal to watch.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Ol.”
Ollie waves me off and nudges my shoulder. “Did you bake double dark chocolate?”
I open my eyes and nod.
“Excuse me while I go eat one. Or five.”
He holds his hand out to me and pulls me up to standing. I swear, he’s even taller than he was just a week ago. He says something that makes me laugh—I can’t remember what though, because when we reenter the kitchen a second later, Gramps is there, eating a red velvet cupcake over the kitchen sink. Scout sits patiently at his feet, waiting for any possible crumbs to fall.
Seriously? Moments ago, Gramps’s grief crushed me into a panic attack and now he’s just—eating my cupcakes? He can’t see Grams’s baking equipment, but the cupcakes they produce are apparently fair game. I can’t.
“What?” Gramps asks, voice flat. “You made my favorite.”
At least that hasn’t changed.
“I made them for Shabbat, Gramps,” I say quietly.
“Oh.” His eyebrows lift with surprise. “Well, I’ll bring them, I guess.”
I make a decision before I can unmake it.
“I’ll bring them myself, I think.”
I don’t know Hebrew and I’ll most definitely fumble through the service, but Gramps asked me to go—and now I’m sure he needs me more than I thought.
“Really?” Gramps is expressionless. “Why?”
“I want to,” I say, and the funny thing is, I mean it.
We’ve only been in Middleton for a week—and we haven’t seen Gramps outside the house, not once. If I can ignore the anxious thoughts that always accompany a new social situation, I can see Gramps interacting with the outside world—beyond this sad house. Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of who my Gramps used to be.
I need that.
“Me too,” Ollie says, and I know he feels the same.
If cupcakes can’t fix us, maybe Shabbat can.
September 6
5:05 PM
i know it’s late but you need to know i have no clue what to wear to shabbat services
AND I BLAME YOU
Mom
Omg your first shabbat??
Dad
Ollie
Gramps gave me a kippah but it keeps
falling off
Mom
Bobby pins!!
come into my room, I have some Ol
Dad
?
fine! gramps is fine! everything is fine!
except I HAVE NO CLOTHES FOR THIS
Mom
Your purple dress. The one with the flowy sleeves? It’s perfect! Wear that.
oh that’s a good idea. thanks!!
Mom
Let us know how it goes!!
Dad
SIX
Temple Beth Shalom is happy. So much happier than I expected.
Every wooden pew is filled with life, with chanting and praying, and I don’t know if I believe in God, but I do believe in this. In people. Together. I believe in the unity of voices and Hebrew, an ancient language I don’t understand, but I swear tonight it makes perfect sense.
Because though Gramps is quiet beside me, he follows along in the prayer book with his index finger, silently mouthing every word. He may not be as loud and boisterous as some of the other members of the congregation, but he knows this service by heart and his shoulders relax with each new prayer. He flips to the next page before Rabbi Goldman announces the page number and utters amen after each recitation.
I spend half of the service watching Gramps love the service.
And another quarter of it trying to ignore Nash and Molly two rows in front of us.
Grams’s necklace twirls between my fingers, calming me. A hamsa with chai engraved in the middle. Chai is Hebrew for life, and a hamsa is the shape of a hand. Usually, the evil eye sits in the middle of a hamsa, but I like Grams’s version better. A hand protecting life. It’s comforting, centering. Right now, it keeps my anxiety at bay.
After the sermon is completed and the final prayers are recited, everyone heads downstairs for the oneg. Gramps says the oneg is kind of like the after-party. There’s challah and pastries and wine and socializing.
I’d really love to skip the socializing part. Ollie and I don’t know how to socialize here, how we’re supposed to be here. Ollie downs the grape juice before the prayer and Gramps gives him major side-eye.
“I know nothing,” Ollie whispers.
“Clearly,” I whisper back.
In all fairness, neither do I. I tug at the hem of my purple dress, wondering why Mom suggested I wear something so short. Okay, it’s not short. It falls just above my kneecaps—but everyone else is in longer skirts. My knees feel so exposed. I completed the look with matching lavender lipstick that I am now itching once again to wipe away.
I didn’t know. Why didn’t Gramps tell me? I have no frame of reference for this kind of thing. Mom’s limited cooking skills feature an exclusively Jewish menu: kugel, cholent, brisket, and lots of challah. We have a plug-in menorah that travels around the country with us. Dad makes us watch the old Ten Commandments film on the first night of Passover. And growing up, Ollie and I had two special days off per year for holidays we didn’t really celebrate. But while Mom practiced her religion through food and traditions, and Dad in movies and menorahs, we never celebrated the rites.
I’ve never been in a Conservative synagogue before now.
Once the food prayers are over—there really is a prayer for everything here—Gramps introduces us to some of his friends. We shake hands and smile at a string of names we’ll never remember. This at least we are good at after years with film crews.
Ollie and I sit with Gramps at one of the many eight-person tables scattered throughout the space. I spot Nash and Molly across the room, sitting at a table with their own cups of grape juice and slices of challah, laughing, so at ease with each other.
My fingers twitch for my phone, for the hundreds of messages that have most likely accumulated in my group chat with Amy, Elle, and Samira. Our chats are always most active once the weekend begins because school is now, in fact, a thing.
Molly makes eye contact with me and smiles. I look away, embarrassed she caught me watching them. When I glance back in the general direction of their table, Nash is gone and Molly is in motion, walking toward Ollie and me.
“Halle!” Molly leans in for a hug like we’ve known each other forever, not just a week. I’m still sitting. Should I stand? I can’t decide, so I wrap one arm awkwardly around her, turning it into a weird sort of half hug. “We’ve been waiting for you to come over and say hi!”
I step out of the awkward hug and blink. Molly and Nash were so deep in their conversation, there didn’t seem to be a moment to interrupt. Also—I don’t believe Molly. There’s no way they were thinking of me before I awkwardly made eye contact.
“Hi, Molly,” Gramps says, fondness in his voice.
“Hey, Professor Levitt,” Molly says. For a second, I expect Molly to hug Gramps—but she just smiles at him. “How are you?”
Gramps nods. “I’m glad you’ve met Halle.”
“Oh yeah! We have a lot of classes together. Didn’t she tell you?”
I did not. In all fairness, though, it’s not like Gramps asked.
“I’m Ollie,” Ollie says with a small wave, pulling focus.
Once again, Ollie is my hero.
“Hey! Nice to finally meet. You have classes with Talia Davidson, right?”
Davidson. Sawyer’s sister?
Ollie nods. “We’re the only sophomores in pre-calc.”
Molly sits in the empty seat next to me. “Right! Mr. Benson is tough, but he grades on a curve. I still have my notes, if you need them.”
Ollie looks surprised. “That’d be great.”
“Of course!”
Gramps coughs. “You kids good here? Don’t want the boys to feel like I’m ditching them for a cooler crowd.”
By the boys, Gramps means a group of men seventy and over, all in patterned button-down shirts, kippahs on top of their gray and/or bald heads, who seem to be saving a space for him in their circle. It’s kind of adorable and exactly why I’m glad I came tonight.
“We’re good,” Molly answers for us.
Gramps excuses himself and Molly turns her attention back to me, tucking a flyaway curl behind her ear. “It’s so cool you’re here. I mean, I assumed you were Jewish because your grandpa is, like, in the brotherhood. But also, you can’t assume anything, right?”
I nod. “Right.”
“You should definitely join USY. I’m on the executive board of the local chapter. We’re doing a beach cleanup in two weeks with a few other Jewish communities across the state—you should totally come!”
Ollie and I look at each other. What’s USY? Other Jewish communities? We’ve never had a Jewish community.
It’s always just been another thing that has sort of isolated me. In Charlotte, I was the only Jewish kid in my entire class. The only one whose mom and dad forced us to skip school on the high holidays. But here, school is closed for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I didn’t even know some schools did that, that some areas are overwhelmingly Jewish and actually care about their Jewish population.
“Maybe,” I say, ripping my challah into smaller pieces.
&
nbsp; “Awesome,” Molly says, like maybe means yes. “I’m trying to get my sister Sarah to come home for it. She’s a sophomore at Boston University. It’s right before the high holidays, so I figured she’d be coming home anyways. But she doesn’t want to celebrate them this year. It’s honestly bizarre.”
Molly takes a sip of grape juice.
“You have an older sister?” I ask.
Molly swallows. “Two. But Rebecca is doing her PhD at Oxford, so, like, that’s obviously not happening. It’ll be the first high holidays without my sisters.”
“It’s our first away from our parents,” I say. “If that makes you feel better.”
Molly smiles at me and tips her cup so it clinks mine. “Solidarity.”
I smile back. I like Molly. It’s easy being around someone who does all the talking.
“Hey.” Nash is suddenly standing above us with a plate of cupcakes. My cupcakes. “I come with cupcakes. Which is pretty nice of me, considering I was totally abandoned.”
The calm I felt moments ago, clinking cups with Molly? It’s gone.
Molly rolls her eyes at the word abandoned and pats the empty seat next to her for Nash to sit.
Is it time to leave yet?
“We were just talking about USY,” Molly says. “Isn’t it so cool that Halle and Ollie are practicing too?”
Ollie shrugs. “Oh. We’re not. Practicing, I mean.”
“You’re here,” Molly says, confused.
“For the first time,” I clarify.
“Sorry.” Molly places her empty cup on the table. “I guess I did assume, after all.”
“We’ve moved a lot,” Ollie says. “Our parents raised us with, like, the culture. But there wasn’t really time to do the synagogue part.”
I kick Ollie’s foot under the table because what if the phrase moved a lot triggers a light bulb in Nash’s brain and everything is ruined.
He just flashes me a what the hell? look.
“Did you like it?” Molly asks, not noticing our exchange.
“Yeah,” I say. “I really did.”
“It’s boring,” Ollie confesses.
“It gets better once you learn the prayers,” Nash says. “I get it, though. My mom raised us—me—very Jewish. But when I’m with my Korean relatives, I’m so lost.”
What I Like About You Page 6
