It's a Whole Spiel

by It's a Whole Spiel- Love, Latkes

  They climbed up the path and then veered off it, toward a huge boulder that sat at the top of a short incline. It was a tight squeeze through the trees around it. Raysh had to suck in her stomach to fit, and even then she was just barely able to, but it was worth it. On the other side was a deep burbling stream of crystal-clear water the size of a large Jacuzzi. Totally empty.

  “Do you…do you want us to do something?” Orlee asked.

  Raysh didn’t answer. Just looking at the water clammed her up. She was shaking and felt like she might vomit. But she thought again of what the guard had said. Where there was death, they made life. And even though she was in panic mode, she told herself she was ready.

  But she wanted to do it right, and that meant re-creating the original experience as much as possible. “Um, this might sound weird, but can you guys turn around? I want to go in without a bathing suit.”

  “Skinny-dipping! Woooo!” Oren shouted, but he turned his back. Simon did too. Orlee didn’t. “I’m on guard duty,” she said.

  Raysh nodded and unzipped her shorts. She slipped out of her T-shirt, unhooked her bra, took a deep breath, and slid down her underwear.

  It was now or never. In her mind, the water swung between looking dark and quicksand-like to the clearness it actually was. Better to get it over with. “One…two…three!” She jumped.

  The water hit her like a grenade. She prepared to sink and was amazed to find herself floating. She shrieked and moved her arms and legs.

  There was the rustle of cloth, a flash of naked body, and Simon was in the water. More rustling, more nudity, and Orlee was in too.

  “I’m not going in,” Oren said on the shore. “I’d rather not accidentally bump into my sister’s naked body, thanks.”

  Orlee rolled her eyes, treading water. “We were naked roommates for nine months. Get over yourself.” But he just stood on the shore and turned away.

  The three of them treaded water. Orlee and Simon splashed and laughed. At one point, after making sure they were ready and watching, Raysh summoned all her bravery and dove as deep as she could, praying there were no branches on the floor but ready if there were, and pressed her feet to the bottom, which was alternately muddy and stony. She stayed there, trying to keep her mind as blank as possible. Dark thoughts swirled, memories of the muck and rot of the Hackensack River and the awful clamminess of being trapped, feeling the end coming for her, reaching out to touch her like an underwater tree trunk. She concentrated, doing her best to push the thoughts away. It worked. She felt months of heaviness roll off her like sweat. She waited there as long as she could and then breached the surface. “I did it, you guys! I fucking did it!”

  Orlee and Simon cheered. Raysh cheered too, and did a little dance in the water. And she dove again. And then again and again. She stayed there, treading water, grinning, listening to her friends sing and the water splash.

  By the time they climbed out of the spring and back into their clothes (Raysh avoided staring at Simon’s pubes but got a nice look at his skinny butt), Raysh felt different. At peace. Like a war between two ferocious enemies had ended. She walked back to the bus with Orlee, Oren, and Simon. They were shouting and joking, and there was a lightness to the four of them that hadn’t been there earlier.

  “How do you feel?” Orlee asked.

  Raysh thought about it. Her heart was thumping, and her skin felt sparkly, like it was covered in a glaze. She didn’t know how to tell them how it felt to have two different parts of yourself in combat, each pushing and pulling and trying to sabotage the other. How calming it was to attempt the impossible, to rise from below, to zombie yourself back to the living. How going into the water and facing the thing that was out there, after her, waiting for her, took away some of its power. She might be surrounded by desolation, but going after it did something to her, something powerful.

  She smiled at Orlee. “I feel revived.”

  BE BRAVE AND ALL

  BY LAURA SILVERMAN

  “Holy Jews, Batman,” Rachel says.

  I nod. “Seriously.”

  We’re riding the glass elevator down from the twenty-third floor of our hotel, probably the only one brave (or foolish) enough to host a thousand teenagers for the national JZY convention. The lobby is packed. Kids sit on the floor in circles, hang out by the check-in counters, and play Hacky Sack where there definitely isn’t enough room to play Hacky Sack. There are kippahs and curls and chapter T-shirts with sayings like CHALLAH BACK and ONE FISH, TWO FISH, WHITEFISH. Rachel and I are wearing the shirts from our local chapter: ATLANTA JEWS ARE HOTTER.

  My pulse races as the elevator stops at the fifteenth floor and more people pile on. Rachel and I scoot back to make room. But there are strangers’ shoulders and feet and warm breath all up in my personal space. My body tenses, and Rachel reaches out and squeezes my hand. “You good, Naomi?” she asks.

  I squeeze her hand back and shoot her a nervous smile. I don’t do conventions. I don’t do massive crowds and fourteen-hour days packed with scheduled activities like icebreakers and group dinners. Even my local chapter events can be social-interaction overload, so this is next-level out of my comfort zone.

  But Rachel is my best friend, and she begged me to go, and she promised I would have a good time. And to be fair, she has held up her end of the bargain so far. On the ten-hour overnight bus ride from Atlanta to DC, she scored us that row of three seats in the back, so we got to spread out in our own little domain, away from the sounds, and smells, of our fellow passengers.

  Still, it was a long trip, followed by just a quick two-hour nap in our shared hotel room. And now it’s only noon, which means there’s a full day of social interaction between me and introvert heaven (i.e., a closed door and HGTV).

  The elevator stops on the lobby level, and everyone squeezes out one at a time, squishing and pushing to make room between those waiting to go back upstairs. This seriously has to be a fire hazard. Hmm, maybe it is a fire hazard. Maybe I should call the fire department and tell them this is a fire hazard, and we’ll all be sent home early….

  “I wonder where Zeke is,” Rachel says, craning her neck to look around. Shouting voices bounce off the walls, and groups move as herds, blocking every pathway. She slips out her phone and twists her lips. “Ugh. There’s no service in here.”

  Because there are too many people. Because this is a fire hazard.

  Okay, Naomi. Deep breath. Chill out. Be in the moment. Go with the flow—the flow of packed people shuffling forward one centimeter at a time. I lean into Rachel. “We’ll find him eventually. Maybe he’s in our tour group.”

  “Maybe,” Rachel says, doubt in her voice.

  Zeke lives in South Carolina. Rachel met him three regional conventions ago, and she hooked up with him at the two most recent, because JZY is basically a front for Jewish matchmaking wrapped up in “educational social events.”

  Eventually, the crowd breaks up enough for us to move forward. Rachel and I make our way toward the sign for group C, our tour group for the day. I look down at my feet as we walk, mentally trying to move people out of my way, like an introverted Moses trying to part the Red Sea.

  We come to a stop in front of our group. Rachel leans left and right, searching for Zeke. I know what he looks like from his Instagram, which Rachel swears she doesn’t stalk, and his page just happens to be up every time I glance at her phone, so I help her look for him.

  There are so many people here. And they’re alive and loud and taking up space. My pulse races, and I try to calm myself down by thinking of the nice crinkly comforter and Twix bar waiting for me in the hotel room. It helps, a little.

  As I’m scanning the crowd, I notice a guy leaning against the far wall. He’s strumming a ukulele, the strap much too small around his broad chest. His eyes meet mine, and in that long moment, my pulse calms. But then the crowd shifts, and my glimpse
of him is gone.

  “Off we go!” Rachel says, following as our group spills out onto the streets of DC. “Ready for the best weekend ever?”

  I spot him again, the polka-dot strap cutting across his T-shirt. His hair is ruffled in the back, like he just woke up from a nap. I get the urge to smooth it down for him. “Yeah,” I say, smiling. “I think I am.”

  * * *

  ***

  Rachel is eating peanuts, cracking the shells and tossing them into the grass as we walk. It’s bright out but cold, and I’m grateful I packed a warm jacket. The National Mall bustles with tourists and residents alike. Groups like ours walk in matching shirts, families shepherd around their little kids, and men and women stride quickly down the paths, texting and talking on their phones.

  “Maybe Zeke is with him,” Rachel says. “Can you tell?” I pointed out ukulele guy to her, and she noticed he’s wearing a Charleston chapter T-shirt, Zeke’s chapter. But now he’s up at the front of the group, and we’d have to push in front of people to find them, if Zeke is even there. Rachel checks her phone again. “Whatever,” she says. “I’ll find him when we stop. So you’re into ukulele guy?” she asks.

  “ ‘Into’ even feels like too strong of a word. I mean, who brings a ukulele to the National Mall? Is he trying to look cool?”

  “He probably only knows three songs,” she says.

  “Probably,” I say. Then, after a pause: “He’s hot, though.”

  “Super freaking hot,” Rachel agrees.

  We both laugh, and Rachel loops her arm through mine. I feel better now that we’re outside. There’s space to breathe and be. We walk for another ten minutes before our group slows to a stop. There’s some statue up ahead, but it’s hard to see from here. “Gather round!” our guide shouts, clapping her hands together.

  Rachel shifts on her feet, trying to see the front of the group. “Should we go up there now?” she asks. “I don’t know. I mean, should we?” She twists a lock of curly hair around her finger. “What do you think?”

  It’s weird to see her anxious.

  It’s weird to see her acting like me.

  I glance ahead. Everyone is packed in tightly. I’d have to say “excuse me” a hundred times to get to the front of the crowd. “Um, maybe we should wait.”

  “Yeah.” She nods. “Yeah, whatever. C’mon, let’s sit. My feet are done for.”

  I look at her ballet flats. “I told you to wear your sneakers.”

  She rolls her eyes, grinning. “Whatever, Mom.”

  We find a grassy area a bit farther from the group and sit down, leaning against a tree. Now it’s really impossible to hear the guide, and the ground is a bit cold, but it’s kind of nice to depart for a moment and just be alone with Rachel. My body relaxes as I shred a piece of grass.

  “What do you think they’re saying up there?” Rachel asks.

  I shrug.

  “C’mon, Naomi.” She nudges. “Take a guess.”

  I glance up. The guide waves her arms around and marches up and down. And now there’s a second guy with her, and they’re obviously reenacting some sort of scene. I laugh and say, “It’s like Whose Line Is It Anyway? US History Edition.”

  “I do say, Mary Todd,” Rachel says, dropping her voice to a deep octave to mimic Abe Lincoln. “I love the theater. Shall we go see a play?”

  I grin, then clap my hands together and make my voice high-pitched. “Ooh, how delightful, Abe. I’ll get us box seats, only the finest. It’ll be the last, I mean best, night of your life!”

  We both laugh. Rachel winces. “Too soon?”

  I nod, still grinning. “Too soon.”

  * * *

  ***

  After the tour, we have an hour to chill around the Lincoln Memorial before heading back to the hotel. Rachel and I grab a soft pretzel and lemonade to share from a nearby stand, and then we head over to the stairs in front of the memorial, scanning them for the blue Charleston shirts.

  “There,” I say, nodding toward Zeke and his friends.

  Rachel nods. “Right. Cool. So we should go over.” She takes another bite of the pretzel. “Okay, so let’s go.”

  My stomach tightens as we approach the group. I count them quickly. Eleven new people, all engrossed in conversations, all comfortable and laughing with each other. Well, except ukulele guy, who is busy strumming and humming.

  I don’t get it. How do people have these giant groups of close friends? Was there an orientation I missed out on where people were assigned to their packs?

  Rachel is my only ride-or-die friend, not a sit in the cafeteria and complain about homework friend, not an awkward small talk at JZY Shabbat dinner friend, a true I will watch ten hours of Netflix in silence with you but also help you bury a body if you need it friend.

  “Hey, y’all,” Rachel says as we stop before them.

  A couple of people glance up; a few smile and even wave. But Zeke stands. He’s tall and lean, and his T-shirt lifts a bit when he goes to hug Rachel, revealing a sliver of his skin and a line of dark hair.

  It’s a long hug.

  When they finally release, Rachel’s cheeks are flushed. “Flat Latke!” she says.

  “Matzo Bowl!” he responds.

  They both break out into hysterical laughter at their inside joke. Their inside joke I am obviously on the outside of. They high-five, and then their hands stay clasped. I plaster on a nervous smile.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice ukulele guy. He’s looking at me. Grinning at me. He glances at Zeke and Rachel and rolls his eyes.

  I freeze. How do I respond? Do I nod? Also roll my eyes? Do I smile and—

  He turns to the guy next to him, and our moment is lost.

  My Hollywood meet-cute moment is over before it started.

  Did he even roll his eyes, or was it just a twitch?

  “Zeke, this is my best friend, Naomi.”

  “Hey, Naomi!” he says. “I’m a hugger. Can I give you a hug?”

  “Sure.” I nod. He wraps me in his arms. It’s a full hug. A real hug. A hug that makes my body all warm. People talk about kissing like it’s this intimate be-all thing, but I think a real, solid, two-arm, breathe-the-other-person-in hug is supremely underrated.

  “C’mon,” Zeke says, stepping back. “Pop a squat.”

  I snort. “Pop a squat?”

  “Grab a seat, take a chair, lean on a ledge,” Zeke says.

  “Sit our asses down?” Rachel asks.

  He nods. “Exactly.”

  Zeke sits back right in the circle of everyone, and Rachel scoots in next to him. There’s not really enough room for me to also squeeze in on the step, and the girl on my other side is deep in conversation, and I don’t want to ask her to move over, even though there’s probably room, so instead I sit on the stair behind them, a bit to Rachel’s right.

  They immediately launch into conversation, and I try to laugh and nod along, but it’s kind of hard to hear, and they keep talking about things and people from past conventions, and my skin is getting all tight and itchy as I pretend like I’m part of this.

  Rachel, being the best friend that she is, does try to loop me in. “Naomi loves The Good Place.” She looks at me, eyes bright, waiting for me to pick up the gauntlet and run with it. “Don’t you?”

  Zeke looks over at me too. All eyes on Naomi. I clear my throat, then nod. “I do,” I say. “It’s great. You should watch it.”

  “Cool! I will!” Zeke says.

  Go me, social interaction with new person accomplished.

  But then he’s off again on another tangent, and maybe I should’ve talked more about The Good Place, but that might have bored him. My fingers itch for my phone, but I don’t want to be that person who stares at her phone because she can’t make conversation. So instead, I twist my fingers together and glance
down at the Mall.

  It’s warmed up a bit more, and one might even call this bright March afternoon gorgeous. And here I am sitting on the steps of a national monument, something people come from all over the world to see, and I get this kind of stomach-fluttering feeling that even though I’m not having the best time ever, I will remember this moment forever, because I’m never going to be a teenager sitting on the stairs of a national monument again.

  Rachel laughs. No, Rachel giggles. She leans into Zeke, knocking shoulders with him. I want to be happy for her, and I am, I guess, but it kind of feels like she invited me on this trip just to be her third wheel, which is kind of shitty, but I also kind of understand, because what are best friends for if not to be each other’s third wheels when they need some extra support?

  I stand and mumble “Be right back” to Rachel.

  She glances up and squints. Best friend telepathy: You okay?

  I nod: All good.

  Before walking down the stairs, I glance to my right, but ukulele guy is again deep in song, eyes closed. He doesn’t even look pretentious. It seems like he really is enjoying playing.

  As I walk down the stairs, I spot a group of people gathered at the bottom. At first it looks like a group of JZY kids in red T-shirts, but they’re definitely older than us. One guy has thick facial hair, and a woman has a baby tucked on her hip and a toddler tugging at her hand. They’re handing out flyers, and people are actually taking them, which is weird.

  The woman catches my eye and waves me over. She’s petite with bright brown eyes and hair down to her waist. My heart skips a bit. Someone’s waving me over. Me.

  God, I’m not that lonely, am I?

  I walk over, and before I have a chance to worry about what I’m going to say, she shoves her free hand in my direction and says, “Hey! I’m Brit.”

  I shake her hand. “Hi, Brit. I’m Naomi. Um, what’s all this?”

  She shifts her weight to her other leg. “There’s a protest here tomorrow.” She grabs a flyer from someone behind her and passes it to me. “There’s a website with more information, but basically we’re protesting a bill that would allow people easier access to semiautomatic guns.” She rocks her baby a few times and glances down at her toddler. “These ones will be in school before long. I want them practicing the alphabet, not active-shooter drills.”