It's a Whole Spiel

by It's a Whole Spiel- Love, Latkes

  “I wasn’t making fun,” she says quietly.

  I flinch. Swallow. “Oh. I’m sorry. I mean. I was trying to joke.”

  “Oh,” she says, her voice small.

  We stand there awkwardly for a while, desperately looking around for someone else our age that we can pull in or one of us can go talk to, but it looks like we’re the only two teenagers right now in the synagogue. It’s weird to come here only once or twice a week now, after coming three or four times a week when I was younger and studying for my bar mitzvah and confirmation. Sometimes this space feels like mine, like it’s talking just to me, and sometimes this space feels totally different, like it belongs to all these people, and I’m just standing on the periphery. It’s like the coffee shop that I’ve gone to for years, and then finding out Sam knows it exists. And it’s not mine anymore. It’s hers, too, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  “You know when you think a place is yours, but it turns out it’s not?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

  Sam turns to me, frowning. “Yes…”

  I don’t have a follow-up, but her frown is disconcerting, so I have to turn away. I end up looking at some of the old people with such intensity that they give me tentative smiles and murmur, “Shabbat Shalom.”

  “It’s you,” Sam says.

  That makes me turn. “What?”

  She’s staring at me, wide-eyed…like she’s afraid, or shocked, or horrified. Something big. Something inside me quivers. She takes a step away from me, and then a step toward me, and a step back again, like she can’t decide what to do.

  There’s a wrinkle on her forehead as she stares, her head tilted to the side. And her mouth quivers, like she’s about to smile, but she doesn’t. “It’s you. You’re Mab. That’s why Grounds for Change feels like something out of one of your fics. And the shower gel. You are Mab.”

  And that knot inside of me detonates. If I’m Mab—if I’m Mab, then she’s Yael.

  She’s Yael. I don’t think my heart’s breaking, but something is breaking—nothing is mine anymore, because she’s everywhere. The first flash of anger surprises me, and then it sinks like a stone in my chest. I press a hand to my sternum, trying to breathe.

  We stare at each other, and the rest of the synagogue melts away.

  Her mouth opens—Yael’s, Sam’s—and she starts to say something, but I say hoarsely, “Please.”

  She closes her mouth, looking stricken. I need to say something, but I’m scrambling for words, and none are coming. Words are my superpower, and I can’t find a single one. I only have “please.” And that seems like such a small word right now. Such a powerless word right now.

  Then my mom’s hand lands on my elbow. “Hey. Gabe. Come on. Time to get seats.”

  And I want to scream that I can’t take a seat because Sam is Yael and I am Mab and—this isn’t real. This doesn’t happen to real people. But Mom and Davey’s momentum carries me away from Sam, and I leave her there, standing in the atrium of the sanctuary, swaying slightly, like the leaf at the end of a branch.

  Endnotes: If you ask me what the rabbi’s sermon was, I couldn’t tell you. If I stood up and sat down and said the prayers and did anything, it was sheer muscle memory.

  CHAPTER 5: WHAT HAPPENED LAST YEAR

  Author’s Note: n/a

  It’s a short story, really. For once.

  At someone’s little brother’s bar mitzvah, some other older teens, Sam, and I were all having this fantastic time. Running around like goofs, like we were still little kids. There’s something about b’nai mitzvahs that brings it out, I guess. Playing games, dancing like clowns, flopping into chairs breathless and sweaty and laughing. We took videos on our phones and put them on social media and tagged people who weren’t there, which was both hilarious at the time and terrible in hindsight.

  Then Seth, a kid from our confirmation class last year, decided to start a livestream of the party. We all got up and started dancing for the livestream, not that anyone was watching, but it was a trip. It was this rush of adrenaline. Someone could be watching.

  But Sam tripped on the edge of the dance floor, where the DJ had taped down a ton of wires. It was dark, and the lights were going, and I probably would have tripped too. It’s just that I wasn’t wearing a dress at the time. So Sam tripped and fell, and when she did, she flashed the camera. She landed kind of awkwardly on her shoulder and splayed there for a second before sitting up. This girl Amber helped her sit up, and Sam looked at me, tears on her face. I think that it was more from the shock of falling or the pain of landing on her shoulder than flashing the camera. I’m not even sure she knew what had happened just then.

  But I didn’t know what to do. I just stared back at her for a second. Seth was screeching and laughing along with a few of the other guys, because they’d caught Sam’s fall and the flashing on the livestream. That no one was watching—but someone could be watching.

  And—God. I hope this is the worst thing I ever do in my entire life, because it is the worst thing I have ever done to date.

  I started laughing too.

  In hindsight, they were laughing, and I was laughing because I didn’t want to be the guy who wasn’t laughing. But the second I chose to laugh—and it was a choice—my friendship with Sam was over.

  Our parents saw the whole thing, and Dad took Seth’s phone, ended the livestream, deleted the archive of it. I hadn’t even known he was that tech savvy. But I just remember Mom helping Sam off the floor and taking her to the bathroom to wash off her face and her scraped palm. And then I remember feeling heartsick and violently ill as Mom sat with Sam, alone on the stairs, until her parents came to pick her up.

  She hadn’t said goodbye to me.

  But I hadn’t said I’m sorry, or goodbye, or please forgive me to her.

  I hadn’t said anything about that time since then.

  I don’t even know how Sam felt about it, because I’ve never asked her. One whole year. One ruined friendship later. One humiliation. One cowardly act.

  This isn’t an apology. I intend to do that in person, on Sunday, or Wednesday, or whenever I see her next. I owe her that much. But here’s this:

  When we were six years old, someone pushed you out of a tree at the playground, and you broke your arm. And I held your other hand while one of the big kids went to get your mom, who took you to the hospital. I wrote my name on your bright green cast, and it took up the whole length of your arm, because my handwriting was too big in first grade and your arm was so small. But you didn’t mind. And when we were ten years old, our families went to Disney World together, and you cried when the Beast tried to dance with you, but you weren’t afraid of the Tower of Terror, and I knew it was because you didn’t like dancing, but you were never afraid of heights. (That’s how you’d gotten into that tree in the first place.) And when we got separated from our parents, I was the one who cried, and you were the one who knew what to do, because you weren’t afraid of being lost. I don’t remember my childhood without you. I told you we’d be best friends forever, and you made me promise.

  I broke that promise.

  Did you ever think we’d find each other again? I didn’t. The girl I met on this website is the same girl who wasn’t afraid to climb the trees with the big kids on the playground, and who hated to dance but wasn’t afraid of falling. You make every space your own. You always did.

  I’m sorry for any breach of confidence I made in writing this, but I wanted you to know. I’m sorry. I wish I could have been better to you and for you.

  Endnotes: I think this is probably the end, folks. I’m going to keep comments disabled. Thank you. I’m stepping away for now out of respect for this space and who it belongs to. You can still find me over on tumblr and twitter. The usual names.

  CHAPTER 6: EPILOGUE

>   Author’s Note: Been a hot minute, hasn’t it? Okay, three weeks. I was told that you’d all appreciate an update. So here it is.

  She doesn’t come to Shabbat the following week. Or the week after that. But then the third week, she’s at Shabbat services. She’s wearing a new black dress, and her hair’s done up, and she looks like she’s going to a funeral. For our online friendship, I guess.

  My parents don’t know what happened, just that I’ve been moody as heck, but Mom doesn’t say anything when I branch off from them to where Sam’s standing by the windows that overlook the Holocaust Memorial Garden.

  “Hey,” I say quietly.

  I can see her swallow hard, and she wrings her hands in front of her. “Hi.”

  I take a deep breath. I’ve had a speech prepared for weeks now in my head, but what comes out isn’t a long explanation. She already has that. I’m sure she’s read what I posted three weeks ago. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

  She bites her lower lip. “For what, exactly?”

  I glance sideways at her, trying to read her expression. “There’s a lot. I know. I mean, I’m sorry for what happened last year. I shouldn’t have laughed.” And then I add, “And I’m sorry that it took me a whole year to say it.”

  She nods a little bit, tears in her eyes. She’s not looking at me, and I really want to hug her, but I’m not stupid. She doesn’t want a hug from me right now. “Okay.”

  I want more. I want something more. I want I hate you and I don’t forgive you or Thank you or I’m sorry too or I accept your apology or something. I don’t know what to do with “okay.” But I told myself, coached myself, made myself promise to an invisible Sam in my room that if she didn’t say anything or she slapped me or she walked away, or whatever she said or did, I’d take it.

  “Can I ask you something?” I didn’t plan this part.

  Her look’s a little sharp. “What?”

  “You use ‘they’/‘them’ on Milk & Honey,” I say, keeping my voice down. The question’s implicit.

  She lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. I’m okay with ‘she’/‘her’ in real life.” Then she pauses and adds, “Thank you.”

  I nod a little and say quietly, “You’re still Cap to me.”

  I shove my hands into my pockets and walk back toward the sanctuary doors. I’m sweating and shaking, but it’s over. I did it. And now both of us can stop walking on eggshells around each other and pretending that what happened didn’t happen.

  I take a seat next to my family, and Mom gives me a curious look. I shake my head. It’s too complicated to explain to other people. Davey gives me a sympathetic smile, and I elbow them back, smiling.

  Then someone sits down on my other side. I twist, and freeze. Sam’s staring straight ahead, her cheeks flushed, tonight’s program gripped tightly in her sweating palms.

  I don’t know what to say. Then Sam says, “Did you see what we’re singing tonight?”

  I turn over my own program. “Matisyahu?” I’d forgotten we’d gone to a Matisyahu concert when we were kids. I laugh a little bit, slouching in my seat. “I don’t know this one.”

  “It’s catchy,” says Sam, relaxing too. “It’ll be stuck in your head. I bet you write a fic based on it by the end of the weekend.”

  I don’t ask her if she forgives me, because maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she never will. And that’s okay.

  “Okay,” I whisper as the rabbi walks onto the bimah. “But can you imagine Logan at a Matisyahu concert?”

  “Yes,” Sam whispers back. “Think bigger.”

  “Iceman,” I suggest.

  Her eyebrows go up. She knows I’m at the mercy of the Iceman stans again. “Interesting. Make it an accident, though.”

  “Done,” I say.

  “A five plus one,” she whispers as the rabbi greets the congregation.

  “I hate writing those,” I mutter.

  “I love them. And you owe me.” She gives me a sidelong glance.

  I do owe her.

  “I would say you’re the worst,” I tell her, “but I’m pretty sure I have that superlative on lockdown.”

  A smile twitches in the corner of her mouth. “For at least another decade.”

  The banter between us hurts my heart a bit. We could have had this the whole time. Not just online but in person. We could have been Yael and Mab for the last year instead of the last five minutes. Or maybe that’s not the point. Maybe we could have been us again, Gabe and Sam, for the last year instead of the last five minutes. I can feel shrapnel from whatever exploded in my chest weeks ago flicking against my nerve endings.

  “At least,” I agree.

  And this time she really does smile.

  Endnotes: And that’s why you’ll see a 5+1 fic from me later this weekend. And I’ve been given strict instructions. It’s five concerts Iceman hates and one Iceman loves. I secretly love writing it, but don’t tell Yael. Shhhhh.

  HE WHO REVIVES THE DEAD

  BY ELIE LICHTSCHEIN

  For the third time in the two and a half hours since the plane departed, Raysh decided to go to the bathroom. It wasn’t easy. As soon as the seat belt sign went off, the woman in front of her had leaned her chair back as far as it would go, and the enormous-bellied man with the gray beard and black hat in the aisle seat was snoring, which meant she had to wake him up, which was tricky, since she’d read enough about Hasidim to know that he’d flip out if she touched him.

  “Excuse me,” she said, tapping the armrest, leaving a few inches of space between her and his beefy arm. “I have to use the bathroom.”

  The man opened his eyes and spoke to her for the first time. “Again?” His accent was thick, Israeli. “What’s your secret? They have special coffee back there? Bring me a cup when you come back. I’ve been clogged since Shabbos.”

  Raysh didn’t actually have to use the bathroom. But as she walked to the back of the plane, passing seats filled with dozens of kids her age, none of whom she knew but all of whom carried the same energy of the first semester of college, she felt the clamminess she’d felt every day, at least a dozen times, since she was pulled out of the river.

  She shut the accordion door and turned to face herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked small, but that was mostly compared to the bags under them. Sleep didn’t come easy these days, and when it did, it was full of dreams of rushing, pushing water, a swampy subsurface smell she associated with rot, and the particular wet darkness that had compressed her body. That was the worst part. It was enormous, the weight of the feeling that something dark, huge, and impossible to understand was out there, waiting for her.

  “You’re not dead,” she whispered to her reflection. “One foot in front of the other. You’re not dead.” It seemed to work. She lifted up the toilet seat, stopping only when she felt her chest heave. There was a tiny pool of clear water at the bottom, but to her it was as deep, muddy, and suctiony as the bottom of the Hackensack River. She kept her eyes on the water as her hand found the flusher. She plunged it down, and, as the water was sucked away, her eyes spilled over. She lowered the seat cover and sat down hard, sobbing.

  Three minutes later, red-eyed but dry-cheeked, she emerged from the bathroom. She made her way back to her seat, planning on popping a few Tylenol PMs and letting the diphenhydramine carry her away, but the aisles were crowded with life.

  A group of fratty-looking guys in muscle shirts reading ALEF BETA KAPPA blocked her path, talking loudly and punching each other in the biceps. “Excuse me,” Raysh said. “I need to get through.” They ignored her. She tapped the closest one on the back. He turned, looked her up and down, and turned back to his buddies. Raysh felt something inside her sink.

  “You have to go full-on Israeli at them,” a voice said beside her. She turned. A dark-skinned guy was grinning at her. He had a gap betwe
en his front teeth and a cartoonish Theodor Herzl as Abraham Lincoln on his T-shirt. “Let me show you.” He got up from his seat and turned to the group. He took a deep breath, but Raysh wasn’t ready for the volume that blasted from his mouth. “YALLA, CHEVREH! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Move it or we’ll remove it! Yalla! Yalla! Yalla!” The fratty guys glanced over, annoyed, but communicated via nods and slunk off.

  “I’m like Moshe,” the guy said. “Only I’m parting a sea of douchebags.”

  “Impressive,” Raysh said. “Thanks. You on Birthright too?”

  “As a madrikh. Counselor,” he added at Raysh’s look of noncomprehension. “I’m studying at Ferkauf. PhD. But I’m from Netanya originally, and being a madrikh gets me a free flight home.” He stuck out a hand. “They call me Yaron.” His hand was tan and knotted and reminded Raysh of the jagged tree limb that had grazed her face under the water; she wore the scar, a long pink crescent, on the bottom of her jaw. For a moment, she felt clammy, but she swallowed and pushed the feeling aside.

  “Raysh,” she said, and took his hand.

  “I’m a nondenominational-identifying-per-se but pan-sympathizing, Israel-loving Jew. I don’t have a kippah on my head, but I’ve got little baby tikvah in my arms and the sandalim of the old yishuv on my feet.” He lifted a foot, and Raysh saw his tan sandals. Each one had little Stars of David sewn into the crisscrossing straps.

  “Nice speech,” she said.

  He grinned. “Life is easier when you come prepared.”

  She nodded and made her way down the aisle, stepping into the vacant row behind hers so she could climb into her seat without waking the big-bellied Hasid. She reached into her bag and took out two Tylenol PMs. Thirty minutes later, she was passed out against the window, her breath fogging it up. She didn’t wake until the wheels touched down.