S.T. paused to think and looked down one side of the block and then the other, as though somehow that would signal the correct direction. “Okay, I’m pretty sure there was a three in the address.”
“You forgot it?”
“It’s not my fault. That was more of a zip code than an address, I mean, right?”
“Sigh,” Kayla said. She actually said the word out loud, having trouble with the line between sarcasm and sincerity. “If only you could ask him on Facebook.”*14
“I know of an oneg happening close by,” Sruly said. As was apparently his MO, he’d sneaked up behind them. “Might be the one your guy was talking about.”
“He’s not my guy,” S.T. said low, the blush creeping up her cheeks much louder.
“Is eavesdropping a hobby for you or…?” Kayla snapped.
“I was just trying to help,” Sruly said. He was already bounding down the porch steps. “But if you don’t want any—”
“Wait,” S.T. said. “Where is this party?”
“Come on, I’ll walk you.”
* * *
***
“You know, we don’t need an escort,” Kayla said as the three of them walked. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“It’s Brooklyn and dark out,” Sruly said. “You could get mugged.”
“Don’t talk ill of Brooklyn like that,” Kayla said.
“Yeah,” S.T. said. “And it’s not like they’d have anything to rob.*15 Plus, what would you do if we did get robbed? Fight off our assailant?”
Sruly shrugged. “Yeah.”
S.T. and Kayla both snorted. They’d heard boys talk about the fights that broke out in yeshiva alleyways, but neither of them had ever seen any frum boys fight, didn’t even know of any that would.*16
“Well, we don’t need a man to save us,” S.T. said. “Because…feminism.”
“Okay,” Sruly said. He stopped walking, and the girls nearly bumped into him. “We’re here.” They stood in front of a building on Ocean Avenue, one of the taller ones. “Apartment Eight-B. Have fun.”
“Wait, where are you going?” Kayla said.
“Chavrusa’s waiting for me at shul. It was nice meeting you. Kind of.”
Sruly walked off, and Kayla and S.T. were left standing in front of the building.
* * *
***
The girls were on the sixth floor of the stairwell, and although they were only two floors away now, it might as well have been thirty. “Who makes a party”—Kayla paused for breath—“on the eighth floor?” Another breath. “On Shabbos?”*17
“Monsters,” S.T. wheezed.
“The worst kinds of humans,” Kayla agreed.
The two wordlessly decided to stop and take a break, but once their breath was caught, they kept climbing the stairs. “That was weird with Sruly, right?” Kayla asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Avoiding a party to go study? I didn’t take him as the studying type.”
Neither did S.T. Nothing about his casual Shabbos clothes,*18 messy hair,*19 or confidence in talking to girls struck her as attributes of a learned mensch. And yet.
“Aside from the fact that he butts into other people’s business and that he’s clearly a stalker, he wasn’t technically not cute.”
S.T. knew better than to try to untangle the compliment buried under Kayla’s insults and double negatives, so she wasn’t even going to try. “You like him?”
“No way. Boys are garbage.*20 But at least he doesn’t go around wearing a basketball yarmulke.”*21
“Will you get over the yarmulke already?” S.T. said, finally landing on the eighth floor. The door to 8B was left slightly open. S.T. lifted her knuckles to knock, but Kayla got to it first, swinging it wide open. It was definitely a party, all right. Too many people, too many loud voices. “But also keep your eye out for that yarmulke,” S.T. said.
* * *
***
In lieu of music,*22 sounds of chatter filled the tight apartment space. Laughter and schmoozing and political arguments, which were enough to repel the girls whenever they caught whiffs of those. But there was something in the air. Something that made this unlike any party the girls had been to before. It became instantly clear just what kind of party this was.
“Kayla, is this what I think it is?”
Kayla nodded, recognizing the signs all around her. There was the age of the partygoers (college and above) and the manner by which people were approaching one another (shy, flirty). The aggressive conversation starters and bold style choices. The crumbly snack foods and overflowing wineglasses. Kayla had an older sister who spent plenty of nights meticulously applying her makeup for parties like this, all while whining about how much she hated going to them. “This is a singles party.”*23
S.T. and Kayla didn’t need to consult each other before turning for the nearest exit, but a girl stepped up to them, drink in hand and eyebrow cocked. “You guys look really young.”
“We’re not,” Kayla said, and apropos of nothing added, “We’ve been friends for twenty-seven years.”
S.T. elbowed Kayla in the side. “No we haven’t. She’s kidding.” But the girl who asked the question seemed to already regret it and walked away. “Twenty-seven years?” S.T. hissed. “People are going to think we’re ancient.”
“So?”
“I don’t want people thinking I’m old at a singles party. And when did you get that drink?”
Kayla stared down at her cup, then back at S.T. for a prolonged moment. “Before.”
“What?” S.T. said. She was really good at the whisper-hiss. “You can’t drink.”
“But there is so much booze here,” Kayla marveled. “And you said we were going to have an adventure tonight.” Somehow, while saying all of this, Kayla had managed to walk over to the drinks table and refill her cup. She took another sip. “You’ve got Basketball Yarmulke—let me have my fun.”
“Okay, we’re going,” S.T. said. She took her friend’s hand. “Moe clearly isn’t here.”
“But wait. Over there. A sports yarmulke!”
S.T. followed Kayla’s gaze, and there, indeed, was a yarmulke designed like a ball. Only not a basketball this time. White with red stitching. A baseball.
“I know who that is,” S.T. said.
S.T. didn’t need Kayla to find her courage this time. There was a new determination in her. The situation was a little bit more desperate, and if she was ever going to find Moe, she was going to have to make some moves. She marched right up to Baseball Yarmulke and interrupted his conversation with his friends. “You’re Moe’s brother.”
He looked at her and Kayla a little strangely. “Yeah?” he said slowly.
“We’re looking for him.”
“She’s looking for him,” Kayla corrected, though nobody heard her, as her mouth was obscured by her cup.
“He’s probably at Aaron Dwelig’s house,” Moe’s brother said. “He goes there every Friday night.”
“We need the address,” S.T. said.
One of the guys listening laughed and made a comment about Moe having more game than his older brother, and Kayla did not have enough drinks in her to put up with sports analogies.
“Uh,” Moe’s brother said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to—”
“Don’t try to tell us what we can and can’t do,” Kayla said. For the second time that night, she’d surprised herself by being combative with a guy who was clearly on her side of things. But, feminism. So. “We’re capable of making our own choices.”
“Fine,” he said. “It’s 3497 number Two-A East Eighteenth.”
* * *
***
Outside, S.T. was still repeating the address to herself, increasingly wondering if she got the numbers in the correct order. She
wished she could reach for a pen. Though what Kayla said made her stop muttering altogether.
“I don’t want to go.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like ten blocks away. And the kumzits is actually five blocks away.” She hiccupped. “It’s faaar.”
“You really want to go to the kumzits?” S.T. took a step closer to her friend, the urgency with which she moved matching her tone. “It’s going to be a bunch of girls we already see in school. Sitting on the floor. Singing.”
“Well, maybe I want to do that,” Kayla said. “You know, I was excited about this Shabbaton. I thought it’d be like a fun sleepover where our parents wouldn’t be around to bug us, but all you want to do is go chase some boy all night.”
This gave S.T. pause. She knew Kayla was right. All they’d talked about tonight was Moe, and all they’d done was try to find him. A boy who wore a basketball yarmulke. And it was all S.T.’s fault. “Okay. Let’s go to the kumzits.”
“Really?” Kayla said.
“Yeah. I already forgot the address, anyway.”
Kayla let out a tiny, excited squeal.
* * *
***
The kumzits was held at the home of S.T. and Kayla’s earth science teacher, Mrs. Bingheimer. It was kind of embarrassing going to a teacher’s house on a Friday night. Made even more embarrassing by the fact that when she saw S.T. and Kayla at the door, she quipped, “Girls! Come, sits.”*24 Based on the decor in the living room, it seemed that when Mrs. Bingheimer wasn’t busy grading tests, she was majorly obsessing over cats.
Cat photos in frames, cats embroidered on couch cushions, even a few actual cats meandering between girls’ feet, some settling comfortably on laps. An evening of cats and singing. S.T. sat and began planning her escape, though a quick glance at the cat clock on the wall told her they’d only been there three minutes.
Kayla plopped down next to S.T. like a life raft. She’d been in the dining room and kitchen, helping herself to a selection of snacks Mrs. Bingheimer had laid out for the evening. In one hand, Kayla clutched a handful of Viennese crunch and ladyfingers. In the other, a cup. You only had to be standing an inch away from Kayla to know immediately what was in the cup.
“Where the hell did you find booze?” S.T. whispered. “Again.”
“It is literally all over the house,” Kayla said. “In the back of her spice cabinet. And Mrs. Bingheimer told us to make ourselves at home.”
“Is this what you do at home?”
“You know it’s strictly Manischewitz at my house. But if I can handle that, I think I can handle this.”
“I can’t believe you’re drinking in a teacher’s house. You’re a lush.”
“And I think you’re very luxurious too, thank you.”
“Girls,” Mrs. Bingheimer said. She spoke over the harmonizing vocal stylings of the rest of the girls in the class, directly at S.T. and Kayla. “Less talking, more singing, please.”
And so Kayla sang. She sang loudly. Good singers sing with their diaphragm. Bad ones with their head. Kayla sang with the contents of her cup, the booze making her words and musical notes swirl together until she was standing in the center of the room, her voice loud enough to drown out everyone else’s. In time, all the girls stopped singing, leaving only Kayla to perform, which meant there was no melody in the room at all, just loud, shrieking words that may have been Hebrew or a language none of them knew.
“Kayla!” Mrs. Bingheimer said. “You’re disrupting the kumzits.”
Kayla stopped, genuinely confused. “I am?”
“If you can’t participate n—”
“Hey!” S.T. said. She came to stand beside Kayla. “Kayla wanted to come here so bad tonight. She wanted a spiritual experience. She wanted inclusivity. And she wanted to sing. If you’re just going to kick her out, then we don’t want to be here anyway.”
“I wasn’t going to kick her out,” Mrs. Bingheimer said. “I was going to suggest she wait until she knows the song before she joins in. I don’t think anyone here is familiar with what she’s singing.”*25
“Oh,” S.T. said. The word started off indignant but ended up sounding defeated. Now the whole room was staring at her and Kayla. It was time to get out of there. “Yeah, we’re still gonna go.”
* * *
***
“I’m sorry,” Kayla said. She and S.T. walked with their arms linked. “I ruined everything.”
“I didn’t even want to go to the kumzits, remember?”
“Yeah, but I made you stop looking for Moo.”
“Moe.”
“Whatever.”
S.T. let it go. At least Kayla wasn’t calling him Basketball Yarmulke anymore. “No, you were right. This Shabbaton was supposed to be about us, and I made it all about a boy. And anyway, even if I did want to go find Moe, we can’t. I forgot the address again.”
“I didn’t.”
S.T. stopped walking, and since she and Kayla were attached, Kayla stopped short too. “Photographic memory for useless information,” she explained. “All these other parties were a bust. We might as well stop by Moe’s.”
This time S.T. was the one to let out a tiny, excited squeal.
* * *
***
When Aaron Dwelig opened the door to his house, it was as though he had never seen girls before in his life. Kayla and S.T. were only midway through with the explanation for their presence there, but Aaron cut them off, inviting them in and immediately ushering them through the house. It was quiet, with the lights all on but nobody there.
“So where’s this party?” S.T. asked.
Aaron stopped at a door beside the kitchen and opened it. “In the basement,” he said.
“This isn’t sketchy at all,” Kayla muttered so only S.T. would hear, though she was pretty sure Aaron was listening to every word. “We should get out of here. We should go now.”
S.T. poked Kayla discreetly in the side, which was when she noticed the bottle in Kayla’s hand. “Where the hell did you get that?”
“It was right there in the fridge,” Kayla said.
S.T. rolled her eyes and turned to Aaron. “Lead the way.”
The finished basement was a teenage boy’s dream, or at least a place a teenage boy would come to hibernate without the meddling interference of parents or cleaning ladies or Febreze.
“Please, let’s go,” Kayla whispered.
The place indeed had a faint whiff of canned boy mixed with feet. Flickering lamplight illuminated the wall decor, which was little more than haphazardly hung street signs. YIELD, STOP, and DO NOT ENTER. Kayla took these signs literally. “Now. We should go now.”
There were way too many couches lining the walls, all with sports-themed wool blankets strewn over them that you couldn’t pay any girl to touch. Blue-and-orange Nerf bullets littered the floor like the world’s most juvenile war had just broken out. In the distance, a toilet flushed, and then a boy walked out of the bathroom, holding his abdomen. “Well, I just lost about two pounds,” he announced proudly.
“Immediately. We need to get the hell out of here.” Kayla wasn’t even whispering anymore.
In the center of the room were five guys, all sitting around a table, cards in hand. “Hey!” Moe said when he saw S.T. “You made it.”
S.T. lit up. “Hi.”
“Are you guys playing poker?” Kayla asked.
“No, Magic: The Gathering.”
“What?” S.T. and Kayla said.
“Magic: The Gathering,” Moe repeated.
“Sorry, I don’t think I heard you right,” S.T. said.
“Yeah, it sounded like you said you were playing Magic: The Gathering,” Kayla said.
“We are,” Moe said.*26
An extraordinary silence fell over the room.*27 The boys, their
cards frozen in their hands, watched the girls carefully. S.T. and Kayla exchanged loaded glances in which so much was said and so much was decided. It was the kind of glance that only girls who had been friends for a mythical twenty-seven years could have.
“We need to go,” S.T. said.
* * *
***
“I am so sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Kayla said.
They were outside again, holding each other close like they’d just escaped hell.*28 Running, stumbling as far from 23982397276456323 #2A East Eighteenth Street as they could get.
They got as far as the mailbox on the corner, because Kayla bumped into it.*29 “S.T.?” she said. “I think I’m drunk.”
“No kidding.” S.T. wasn’t going to be able to guide her back to the Wexlers’ all by herself. She looked around, and that was when her eyes fell on the shul across the street.
* * *
***
Sruly carried Kayla.*30
“Thank you for doing this,” S.T. said. “But this doesn’t change anything. We didn’t need an escort or a man to protect us or anything like that. I would carry Kayla myself, but she’s…like…way heavier drunk.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Sruly said, though the mirthful twinkle in his eye made that questionable.
“I am not drunk,” Kayla said.
“You’re slurring your words,” Sruly said.
Kayla laughed. “I’m slurry, Surly Sruly?” The fact that she was able to keep all that straight proved that she was at least sobering up. She swung between the two extremes. Right now her pendulum seemed to swing toward “out of it.” She may have even been dozing off.
“She got this drunk at the oneg?” Sruly asked.
“And a few other places,” S.T. said. “We ended up at the right party after all. But they were playing Magic: The Gathering.”
Sruly visibly shuddered. “I tried to warn you.”
“Don’t worry—we left immediately. How did you know it wouldn’t be our scene?”
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