I try to get back to my piece but the words aren’t flowing anymore. I have the hamster addicted to the Cartoon Network and that’s pretty much it.
I’m too worried about Ari being called out of class to think about anything else.
4
ARI
I’M SHAKY AS WE LEAVE the classroom, like I could fall over and I need someone to help me stand up straight. My skin feels clammy—like I’m burning hot and freezing cold at the same time.
“What’s going on?” I stammer as we walk down the hall.
“Your mother is picking you up early. I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about,” Ms. O’Leary tells me, staring straight ahead. This woman needs a lesson or two on speaking to people, maybe teenagers especially. She’s like seventy years old and it seems like she may have only had three or four conversations with humans in her entire life.
“How come? My mom never picks me up early.”
“She didn’t say.”
We walk quietly to the main office after that and all I can hear is the click-clack of her itty-bitty heels against the floor. I find myself wishing that the hallways were at their usual noise level right now; the quietness only makes me more nervous.
Finally, we get to the main office and I find my mom sitting in one of the brown armchairs, holding her head.
And then the world seems to crack into a thousand pieces.
“Mom? What’s going on?” It feels impossible to get the words out.
“Ari, hi, we gotta go. Come out to the car. Hurry,” she says, grabbing my backpack from me before I have the chance to tell her that we should probably stop at my locker for some things.
As we’re about to get to the main doors of the school, I ask again, “What’s going on? Also, I need my coat.”
“Right. Go get it.”
“Mom!” I yell. The hallway monitor turns around, about to tell me to quiet down, but then she sees that I’m with my mom and stays quiet. “You have to tell me what’s happening. This is insane!”
“Ari, it’s Bubbie. She fell. She might’ve had a stroke. We’re not sure. We want to get to the hospital right away. I knew you’d want to see her.”
“Wait. What?” I ask. “See her because, like, she may not be around that much longer? Or see her because she’s upset? Or see her because—”
“I don’t know,” my mom says, worn-out sounding. “Please just get your coat. We can talk more in the car.”
After that, everything slows down. The three seconds it would normally take to walk from where I’m standing to my locker feels like it takes a decade. The drive to the hospital that would normally take ten minutes seems to take three hundred years.
Even though my mom said we’d talk in the car, we don’t talk at all. I thought I had questions to ask her, but it turns out my mind is blank. I know I don’t know anything that’s going on, and yet I can’t even think of what to ask.
I hear my phone buzzing in the bottom of my backpack and I dig through my binders and books to try and find it.
Kaylan: What’s going on? Are u ok?
At this moment, even replying to a text seems like a major effort. I don’t want to write very much. And I don’t want to write anything that will keep Kaylan asking questions. Because the thing is, I don’t know the answers.
I ignore her text for now and I know that will frustrate her. But it is what it is.
We pull into the hospital parking lot. “You’re not picking Gemma up?”
“No, not right now,” my mom says. “Dad is already here. Gemma can go to Extended Day at school. We need to see what shape Bubbie is in before we bring Gemma over.”
Sometimes I wish I was the younger sibling—shielded and protected from everything. Gemma’s the one who people look out for. They debate if she’s old enough to know things, what she can handle. But being the oldest, it’s like, well, of course Ari can handle it. I’m like a miniature grown-up. And I don’t know if I want to be that. No one asked me if I wanted to. It shouldn’t be automatic that the older kid has to shoulder all the heavy stuff and the younger kid just gets to skateboard through life, covered head to toe in helmets and knee pads and elbow pads.
The older kid is practically mountain climbing without a harness.
Birth order is pretty unfair when you think about it.
“This hospital doesn’t have the terrible hospital vibe as much as others,” I tell Mom as we walk down the hallway. “Like the time Zeyda got that knee infection. That hospital was over-the-top hospitalness.”
Mom laughs for a second. “I guess.”
“Do you know what I mean?” I ask her, like this is the most important conversation in the world. “This one’s small and so it feels a little more homey and it doesn’t have that disgusting tuna-salad-in-a-hospital-cafeteria smell.”
“I didn’t realize you’ve thought this much about hospitals.” My mom squeezes my hand tight and then lets it go.
“I didn’t realize I had either.”
When we walk into Bubbie’s hospital room, she’s lying there in the bed and my dad and a few nurses and doctors are standing around her. She has a clear oxygen cord thing in her nose. We all need oxygen and I guess some people need help getting a little more, but when you see the things in someone’s nose, it’s just so scary. It’s like even though you don’t know all the details, you know that something is very, very wrong.
“Hi, dolls,” Bubbie says softly. She introduces my mom and me to the nurses and doctors in the room and we all exchange hellos.
Well, if she’s introducing us, she can’t be that sick, I tell myself.
She’s totally with it and knows what’s going on.
She’s fine.
This isn’t bad at all.
My parents step out of the room with the nurses and doctors, probably to get some more information. I hear Zeyda’s voice and crane my neck; he’s by the nurse’s station. I sit down on the edge of the salmon-colored fake-leather chair next to Bubbie’s bed.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, scrunching up my face as if my whole body is preparing for bad news. I reach over to hold her hand, careful not to disturb the thin tube used for the IV.
“Not great,” she says. “Very tired.”
She closes her eyes, not saying anything. I can’t stand the silence. It’s so un-Bubbie-like.
“I told you to let someone else help you unpack!” I fake yell, laughing a little.
She half smiles with her eyes still closed.
We spend another hour there, and my parents and Zeyda chat with everyone and try to get all of the information, and I pretend to watch whatever’s on TV. Some rerun of one of those daytime talk shows. I let Bubbie sleep but every so often I look over to make sure she’s breathing.
“Please don’t let her die,” I say in my head over and over again. I think back to my bat mitzvah and all the debates we had about God’s existence. I’m not even sure how or why I debated it. I’m clearly praying to God right now, even if it is only in my head. Maybe it’s more than that; maybe I’m saying it because I know that God will hear me.
5
KAYLAN
“SO WHAT’S GOING ON?” I ask Ari over the phone later that night.
“Ugh, I don’t know,” she answers. “She’s in the hospital. They think she had a mild stroke so she’ll need all kinds of therapy and there may be other stuff going on, too. I don’t know. It’s all like confusing medical talk.”
My stomach sinks. “I can’t even believe this. They just moved here. Maybe the move was too much for them.”
“I know.” She pauses. “But listen, I think this is happening right now for a reason. I just realized this a few minutes ago.”
“Why?” I ask her, intrigued.
Ari sighs. “The list. Our new list. The whole organic part of it, more stuff just keeps coming to me, and I know we have the unicycle and the start a movement . . .”
“Yeah?” I know a lot is going on inside her head right now, so it’s
okay that it’s taking some time to get it all out.
“And so two more list items came to me totally, one hundred percent organically,” she says. “One is, spend more time with Bubbie and Zeyda. I mean, because they live so close now and also because time is precious. We never know about the future.”
Goose bumps prickle all over my arms when she says that. I lean back on my bed. “That’s very true.”
Ari goes on, “Also, figure out how we feel about God. I know I’ve had my doubts and so have you and my bat mitzvah sort of made things a little clearer but also more confusing, and I kind of miss my meetings with the cantor where I can talk all of this out.” She pauses.
“Yeah?” I ask. “Go on.”
“So, now that this crisis has fallen in my lap, and I’ve already prayed to God ten times since I got to the hospital . . .” Her voice trails off again and it’s hard to tell if she’s crying or just thinking. “I think now we need to finally figure out once and for all how we feel about the subject.”
“About God? Figure out how we feel about God?” I ask, confused and a little overwhelmed.
“Yeah, I mean. Discuss it and stuff,” she replies.
I hesitate to answer because it feels like a lot to take in at once, but I really think Ari is onto something. “I’m in.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “I know I’m sort of like throwing these list items at you, but they just came to me and I feel like they’re super important.”
“I’m sure,” I reply. “We had so much fun at Bubbie and Zeyda’s the other day. I want more of that!”
Ari cracks up and then she’s quiet before responding. “Well, yeah, we will def have more of it. I mean, the doctors haven’t said anything really, but I think Bubbie’s going to bounce back. She’s totally going to bounce back.”
I perk up a little. “Okay, well, that’s good.”
“How was the rest of school?” she asks.
I hesitate. “Um, fine? I can’t even remember now. Is that weird?”
Ari laughs. “Not really. Have you told your parents about the comedy thing yet?”
“No. I’m too nervous to do it, but also too nervous to keep it hanging over my head.”
“I know that feeling.” She sighs.
“Yeah.” I pause. “I gotta go start homework. Keep me updated on Bubs. Oh, and when we were packing up at the end of the day, we talked about maybe all sleeping at Cami’s this weekend.” I pause again. “You in?”
“I don’t know.” She hesitates. “Maybe. Let’s see what’s going on with Bub and all that.”
I think she may be using the Bubbie thing as an excuse, but I let it go. “K. Love you.”
We hang up and I wonder if Ari’s ever going to be totally honest with me about how she feels about the lunch table girls. It’s like she’s only half into them. Like they’re fine and she’ll deal with them but it’s never her first-choice thing to do. She was so upset when she wasn’t included last summer for the ice cream date and for Lizzie’s bat mitzvah and now she’s included all the time but she doesn’t really want to join.
I guess it’s not a big deal. But we do spend a lot of time in school and we have many, many years of school ahead of us so she should probably try and lean in, as they say.
I wonder if it’s possible for Ari and me to stay strong-as-ever BFFs if I’m closer with the school friends than she is. It’d be sort of like we’re twins but have a different group of friends. And we’re super, super close when we’re together but we get that we can be okay apart, too.
I go down to the basement to see if my red cardigan is dry from the laundry yesterday, and I realize how drab it is down here. There’s so much more we can do with the space. I think back to last year’s list and our doodle-a-day, wondering if my mom would let Ari and me doodle on the walls, when an even better idea comes to mind, completely out of the blue.
Organic, as Ari says!
I run up the stairs to tell my mom about my brilliant idea. When inspiration strikes, you need to grab on to it!
But when I get to the kitchen, she’s at the table filling out a stack of forms. It seems a good one-third of her life is spent filling out forms and I’m not even sure what they’re for. Sure, we have the usual school stuff, but it’s January. What forms are required at this time?
“What’s for dinner?” I ask, my enthusiasm fizzling.
“I think rotisserie chicken if I have a moment to run out and get it,” she says, not looking up from the pile of paper. “This stuff is endless.”
“What is it?” I ask, peering over her shoulder.
“Insurance stuff, a permission slip for Ryan’s eighth-grade overnight. I don’t even know. I make a pile as things come in and then I go through it when I have time. And it seems I never actually have time.” She sighs and finally looks up. “Anyway, how are you?”
“Good,” I say, realizing this isn’t the time to ask her for something. “I love you, Mom.”
She smiles and leans over to kiss me on the forehead. “I love you, too. You’re welcome to keep me company while I work on this and get started on your homework.”
I agree to her plan, and run upstairs to grab my folders. I’m gathering all my stuff when my phone buzzes.
It’s Cami.
“Hey, girl.” She pauses and crunches some snack that sounds super loud through the phone. “Why did Ari leave school early? You never told me.”
“Oh, um, her bubbie’s in the hospital,” I tell her, walking down the stairs.
She gasps. “The one who just moved here? OMG.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so terrible. Is she gonna be okay? What’s going on?”
I try to start my vocab crossword puzzle as she talks.
She groans. “Hello? Where are you? Are you there?”
I close the folder and walk into the den. Clearly I can’t do homework and talk to Cami at the same time. “Yeah. Sorry. Um, I think she’s gonna be okay, yeah. I’m not sure. I don’t have all the details. Cam, I gotta finish this homework, okay? Can I call you back?”
“Sure,” she answers, reluctant sounding. I wonder why she’s not trying to finish her homework, too, or maybe she did already. “Oh, wait! I called for another reason. . . .”
I roll my eyes at the phone. “What?” I try to sound interested.
“How would you like to go on vacation with my family? Feb break. This super-fab resort in Turks and Caicos . . . all expenses paid! Say yes! Say yes!”
“What?” I yelp. “Are you serious?”
I peer into the kitchen to see if my mom is paying attention. Luckily or unluckily, she’s still busy with the paperwork and doesn’t seem to notice anything else.
That’s when it hits me: another thing for the list. Get good at the act of persuasion, especially when it comes to my mom . . . since there seems to be something new to convince her on every day.
“Yes! Totally serious! Please come. We’ll have the best best best best best time.”
“Um, I need to ask my mom, Cam,” I whisper. “So, um, can I let you know?”
“Sure,” she answers. “I am praying you can come. My mom’s going to call your mom, B.T. Dubs. So don’t ask her yet until my mom calls, okay?”
“I can’t even believe this!” I whisper.
“I know. I can’t either!” Cami sings. “Oh, one more thing. Can I just say something?” Cami speaks in a quieter tone all of a sudden. “Do you think that’s why Ari’s been kind of distant lately? Like her bubbie was sick and she didn’t want to tell anyone. ’Cuz, like, she has been distant, right?”
My skin prickles and it feels like I’m suddenly alone in a boat in the middle of an ocean. Uncharted territory. I’ve never talked about Ari behind her back to our other friends. It’s just not something we do.
It’s Ari and Kaylan.
Kaylan and Ari.
Original BFFs and everyone else is just fluff—ruffles on the side of a perfect cotton sweater.
“Um, well, the
thing is.” I stop myself. Once I start going in this direction, I’m not sure I’ll ever go back to the before.
Cami says, “All I’m saying is that she’s seemed a little off since her bat mitzvah. I don’t know the reason, but it’s like she doesn’t want to hang with us so much. I mean, you’re different and she still wants to hang with you. But, like, she doesn’t really care about the rest of us.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.” I pause. “I gotta go finish homework, Cam, for real. Thanks so much for the vacay invite. Talk later, k?”
“K,” she replies. “Love ya.”
I type out a quick text to Ari.
Me: new list item—work on the art of persuasion . . . especially with my mom.
Ari: ooooh. I like. B/c of comedy stuff?
Me: Yeah, and other stuff, too
Ari: What other stuff?
Me: IDK. Just saying.
I sit there for a few minutes wondering if I should tell Ari about the trip right away. But I don’t even know if my mom will say yes, so how can I tell Ari before I know for sure? Maybe I should tell her about my idea for the basement and how that ties into the art of persuasion.
A knot forms in my stomach and I feel nauseated and hungry all at once, replaying the Cami conversation in my head.
Has Ari been distant? I guess, sort of. Not with me. Only a little with the others, I guess.
And if I go on this trip, will that make her even more distant?
6
ARI
EVERY DAY THAT BUBBIE’S IN the hospital feels like ten years. So when it’s three days later and she’s still there and we don’t have any more answers than when she first got in, I feel myself starting to go a little crazy. Why does every doctor take forever to get back to us? Why does it seem like they’re never really working?
“Ari, obsessing and worrying isn’t going to help her get better quicker,” Dad tells me as he passes the platter of chicken cutlets.
“Do you even realize that for most of my life I wasn’t a worrier at all?” I ask, forceful sounding. “I mean, I was the chill one. People would call me Chill Girl Ari.”
13 and Counting Page 3
