Much sooner, it turned out. The minute I stepped offstage, Jerry Seinfeld—or rather, Dash—marched over to me and said the words I had been waiting for him to say. Just not in the way I hoped he would say them.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Okay,” I said, and followed him to the boys’ room.
Dash checked under the stall doors to make sure we were alone, then wasted no time getting to the point. “Why are you spreading rumors about my dad?” he demanded.
“I’m not,” I said truthfully.
“Oh yeah?” said Dash. “Well, then why is everyone talking about my dad killing himself? Chris Stern says you started it.”
“I didn’t tell him that,” I reminded him. “You did.”
“What are you talking about?! I didn’t tell him that! I’ve only told one person about my dad and it definitely wasn’t Chris Stern.”
“Yes, you did!” I insisted. “You texted him about it, and I saw it because I had your phone.”
“I did not!” he yelled. He was turning kind of red and indignant, so I really just wanted to get him to calm down so one of the rabbis—or worse, Phyllis—wouldn’t come running in. So I tried to walk him through it slowly.
“Look,” I said, “I know I shouldn’t have kept your phone or read your texts. That wasn’t okay and I wanted to give it back and apologize for a long time. But the thing is, I saw what you told Chris. I saw the whole long conversation on your phone.”
“What,” demanded Dash, “did you see?”
“You told him, and I quote, that you ‘kind of’ hated me,” I said. “And then I wrote back as you—which, yes, I know I shouldn’t have done—and asked him why. And Chris got confused and thought you were talking about what your dad did. That’s how I knew you told him what your dad did.”
“I didn’t tell you or Chris Stern,” insisted Dash.
There was something about his insistence that was starting to unhinge me. “If you don’t believe me,” I said, “look for yourself. It’s right there in your message history. You and CS.”
“CS?” said Dash.
And then I had an awful feeling.
“Yes,” I said. “CS is Chris Stern, right?”
“Wrong,” said Dash. Then he stormed out of the boys’ room.
—
The next Tuesday, everyone at Hebrew school couldn’t stop talking about the cabaret. Our grade was getting tons of props for coming up with such a cool and innovative idea for a community event, and for raising so much money, all of which would go to charity. I would have loved to bask in the glory, except I couldn’t. I had lost enthusiasm for everything I once cared about, especially comedy. And all I could remember about the night was the nauseating sensation of standing onstage watching the Groucho gossip chain and realizing that I had destroyed my last chance of reconnecting with Dash.
The rabbis had sent out an email congratulating all the seventh graders, and also reminding everyone to bring their Groucho glasses back so the synagogue could hang on to them for another comedy cabaret, or some other future event. I was guessing they might be figuring out how to work Groucho into their Purim spiel. So I ended up with the honor of collecting all the leftover Groucho glasses to return to Rabbi Fred for safekeeping.
Wearing a pair of Groucho glasses and taking my time—if I finished early, I’d just end up in Israeli dance or worse—I trudged from classroom to classroom, gathering the rest of the pairs in a plastic storage bin. Several were in sorry shape, with earpieces dangling off, mushed noses, or missing mustaches. They reminded me of how, in the movie Take the Money and Run, Woody Allen keeps getting his glasses taken off and stomped on, again and again and again. I can relate, Woody, I thought. Even though, in my case, I seemed to be the one stepping on my own glasses repeatedly.
When I had visited all the classrooms, I went to deliver the glasses to Rabbi Fred.
“Hiya, Groucho,” he said as I entered his office. “You can put them on the table, thanks.”
I did as he asked, setting them down next to the water feature, which was flowing and flowing, as always.
“ ‘Water is water,’ ” I blurted out.
“Sorry?”
I took off my Groucho glasses and gestured with them to the faucet before adding them to the collection. “ ‘Art is art….Water is water.’ Groucho Marx was actually the one who said that.”
“Really?” said Rabbi Fred.
“Uh-huh, in Animal Crackers,” I told him. “You can look it up.”
“I believe you,” said Rabbi Fred.
“Are you going to add it to the list?” I asked.
“Nope. The list is strictly for what my students think.”
“Oh,” I said, heading for the door. “I guess I’m not your student anymore.”
Rabbi Fred stopped me. “Groucho Marx, may he rest in peace, is not my student,” he said. “But of course you are, Noah. Why would you say that?”
“I dunno. I figured I might get assigned to a different tutor,” I said. “I mean, who knows when my bar mitzvah will be? If I even end up having one. After, you know, everything. Instead of becoming a man, I kind of became an—” I caught myself in time and switched to “jerk.”
“Noah, sit down for a minute. I think I need to clear up a few things.” I sat across from him, and he looked me in the eye. “First, making some poor choices—even a lot of poor choices—does not mean you’re a jerk,” said Rabbi Fred. “Second, I’ll let you in on a little secret. According to Jewish law, you do not need to be called to the Torah and chant and receive blessings to become a bar or bat mitzvah.”
“You don’t?”
Rabbi Fred shook his head.
“Then why are we expected to do those things?”
“I guess God loves a good chocolate fountain as much as the rest of us,” said Rabbi Fred. “I’m kidding!” he quickly added. “There are lots of good reasons we ask our twelve- and thirteen-year-olds to dedicate themselves to their studies and demonstrate a certain level of maturity before we are willing to hold them up and invite our community to celebrate their coming-of-age. But, like I said, there’s truly no magic about standing on the bimah. However, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go spreading this around.”
“You’re thinking we kids will revolt?”
“Actually, it’s the parents I’m more worried about,” said Rabbi Fred. “But here’s the most important thing. The goal of the b’nei mitzvah year is not for you to become a man or a woman.”
“It’s not?”
“Nope. The goal, in fact, is the same as it is every year from the day you were born until you are as old as, well, I am.” He laughed. “Or, dare I say it, even older. You want to know what it is?”
I nodded.
“We want you to become responsible and mature, sure. We’d like you to become a contributing member of our community, absolutely. But our goal, above everything else, is that you become a mensch,” he said.
“My moms say some people are mensches and some aren’t,” I told him. “You are,” I added.
“Thanks,” said Rabbi Fred. “With all due respect to your marvelous and menschy mothers, I have to disagree. Menschiness is something that must be cultivated. It’s like music. Some people are fortunate enough to be born with phenomenal voices. But everyone—okay, almost everyone—has the potential, with some practice, to carry a tune. And everyone has the potential to be menschy.”
That made me feel good. It gave me the confidence that even someone like me might actually get to that menschy place someday. I was grateful to Rabbi Fred for seeing that in me. It made me want to give back something to him, though I really didn’t have anything to give. I was about to leave when that stupid faucet, running and running, caught my eye. And I noticed that sitting on top of the other rocks was the small reddish stone Rabbi Fred had picked up by the creek. It reminded me of a book I had when I was little about a donkey who wishes on a red pebble and turns himself into a big rock. The book scared me, e
ven though it ended happily. I always made my moms skip the page where a wolf climbs on top of the rock and howls because he is cold. The noise I used to imagine him making was definitely a sound of silence.
“Do you want to know what I think?” I suddenly asked Rabbi Fred. “About the water?” For the first time ever, I knew what I thought about his question. And I needed to say it, even though I also knew it wasn’t likely to earn me a Tootsie Pop.
“Very much,” said Rabbi Fred.
“I think it’s a lie.”
Rabbi Fred looked at me with curiosity but not anger. “What’s a lie?” he asked.
“The faucet. Water doesn’t flow forever like that. Sometimes it runs out and that’s it. Like we run out of hot water at my house all the time, especially when my sister takes long showers. And even though I know water’s supposed to be a cycle, sometimes it rains for days, and other times it doesn’t and my moms make me drag the hose out to water the plants. Sometimes gone is gone.”
Rabbi Fred was quiet for a minute.
“I hope you’re not mad that I called it a lie,” I said.
“Not at all,” said Rabbi Fred. “Actually, I thank you, Noah. You have given me something to study.”
It wasn’t until I got home that I realized there had been no Tootsie Pop. I hadn’t made the list. Telling Rabbi Fred what I really thought about the water feature wasn’t the same as making the list.
But in a funny way, it was better.
“I don’t see why I can’t wear my good sweatpants,” I protested. “It’s not like it’s my bar mitzvah.”
“It should have been,” said Karen. Immediately she amended her comment with a “Sorry!”
“Let it go, Kar,” said Jenny. Then she turned to me. “Noah, please do us all a favor and change your pants. We’re late as it is. Besides, we’re all going. So if I have to get dressed up, you do, too.” If anyone hates wearing fancy clothes more than I do, it’s probably Jenny.
“Noa doesn’t care what we wear, really!” I objected, though I said it while stomping up to my room. To change my pants.
I really didn’t want to go to Noa’s bat mitzvah at all, but my moms said I had to. Since losing my bar mitzvah date, I had avoided the bar and bat mitzvahs of my classmates. However, Noa’s mom and stepdad had invited my whole family to the party as well as the service, so it seemed there was no way to get out of it. I considered faking an illness, but since the unveiling, my moms had gotten wise to my ways. No, it was easier to just grin and bear it. Or at least just bear it.
When we got to the temple, I was actually glad my moms and Enid were there. Usually, all of us Hebrew school kids sit together, but since no one wanted to be my friend anymore, I knew better than to try and find a seat in that section. Many of them were wearing their tallises, signifying that they had already had their bar and bat mitzvahs, something I would not be able to do anytime soon. Instead, I sat up front with my family, which was good because it meant I didn’t have to look at my classmates during the service. I did turn around in my seat at one point to look for Dash, and I saw some of Noa’s friends from school arrive, whispering behind their programs and gazing with curiosity at the big wooden ark and the Ner Tamid hanging above it. If I had been ushing, I would have explained how the ark holds the Torah scrolls and that the Ner Tamid is a light that never goes out, not even in a power failure. But I wasn’t asked to ush, so I just sat there silently. I didn’t see Dash, which was sad but also a little bit of a relief.
When things got started, Noa came in and went up on the bimah with the rabbis and Phyllis. Noa was wearing a fancy dress and a rainbow tallit, as I predicted. She looked nervous, which was surprising, considering how well prepared I knew she was.
After Phyllis led songs and the rabbis led prayers and all the preliminary parts of the service were done, Noa got up to do her d’var Torah. That’s the part where you talk about what your Torah portion means and how it relates to contemporary life and beliefs. I had studied this particular parsha enough to have a good idea of what she’d be talking about. Acharei Mot has to do with what happens after the deaths of Aaron’s two sons. God has killed them to punish them for breaking rules about when and how to enter the altar, and God goes on to spell out a whole bunch of rules for a community seeking forgiveness. Rabbi Fred told me and Noa that these rules went on to form the basis for Yom Kippur, which is the High Holiday we spend fasting and atoning for the sins of the previous year. So that’s what I thought Noa was going to talk about. Rules, apologizing, making things right.
Instead, Noa got up and walked to the podium, and this is what she said:
“Hi. Today I will become a bat mitzvah, or daughter of the commandment. I stand before you to take part in this important tradition of our people. I am ready to read from the Torah, I am happy to tell you what it means to me, and I am honored to have this opportunity to take my place in our congregation.
“And, honestly, I am terrified.
“I know that’s a strange thing to say. It’s not because I’m not ready to read the prayers, or chant from the Torah, or do any of the things that are expected of me. Because I am. I’m scared because I feel like my life is going really fast. I’m thirteen years old and it feels like yesterday I was at the playground digging in the sandbox. I’m afraid that if I blink, I’ll find myself sixteen, then twenty-six, then forty-six—which my mom promises is not really old”—she got a laugh for that—“but you know what I mean.
“This has been on my mind a lot lately because my portion is called Acharei Mot, which means ‘after the death.’ As many of you know, I lost my father to cancer when I was just three years old. And I lost my grandpa more recently—last summer, in fact. And then, just a few months ago, a good friend of mine lost his dad, too. This friend of mine and I started texting, and then talking a lot about how hard this is, which has been a comfort to me and hopefully to him, too. Because whenever it’s a big day for me, like a birthday or, well, today, I feel the loss all over again. I don’t think that’s ever going to go away.”
I looked up, confused. I had read all of Dash’s texts. There were none from Noa whatsoever. Lots of unanswered texts from other girls, and guys, and me. Tons of texts from CS and…
Then, all of a sudden, I got it.
CS.
Chris wasn’t CS.
Noa was.
Up on the bimah, Noa continued. “But I realized something recently that has helped me a lot. I went to visit my dad, like I do sometimes. I picked up a rock to put on top of his headstone. And then when I put it there, I looked at the words. My dad’s headstone has his full name, David Avram Cohen. Then it reads BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER, which he was. Underneath, it has the date he was born and the date he died. So his whole life—every hug, every push on the swings, every bedtime story—is represented by that little line connecting the two dates. Just that one little dash.
“Maybe that sounds depressing. But for me, it was just the opposite. It helped me see that life is what you make of it, and whether it is a long life or a short one matters less than how you live during the time you have.
“Another thing that made me realize this was some videos I watched with two of my classmates. Some of you might not know this, but this year our b’nei mitzvah class did a yearlong study of Jewish comedy as our mitzvah project. The culmination was a community event that we called the Kings and Queens of Comedy Cabaret. It was a big success, and our class has decided that all the money we raised will go to the Hope for Henry Foundation, which is a local organization that helps kids with life-threatening illnesses. ‘Live well and laugh hard’ is their motto, which fits perfectly with our theme.
“Anyway, when two of my friends and I were working on the mitzvah project, the first video they showed me was the Three Stooges. And I hated it. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude to anyone who loves the Three Stooges. I just couldn’t understand how it could be funny for people to be hitting each other and pulling each other’s ears and causing each other
pain. But now I feel like I get it. Life is painful, but life is also funny. Sometimes at the same time. That’s how we know we’re alive. By crying, but also by laughing. It feels really good to laugh. My mom says I was too young to remember this, but I swear I can remember the sound of my dad’s laugh.
“Acharei Mot is a Torah portion about the importance of seeking forgiveness, and the specific steps you need to take when you seek forgiveness. I think this is important, because none of us are above reproach. So I want to take this opportunity to say something that might come as a surprise to even my closest friends: I know I’m not perfect. None of us are. And from now on, I want to try to be a better friend, and a better daughter, and a better person. I want to make the most of my life. I want all of us to. Thank you.”
I have never been to a bar or bat mitzvah service where people applauded at the end of the d’var Torah.
Until Noa’s.
She got a freaking standing ovation, right there at temple. I don’t even remember how the actual Torah part went, though I’m guessing she didn’t mess up much, since that’s just how she is. I was completely blown away by that speech she gave.
Afterward, all her friends rushed up to her in the hall and were hugging and kissing and high-fiving her. I hung back, almost afraid to get near her. Finally, I went over as she headed for the stairs to the reception, trailing an entourage of friends and family.
To my surprise, she gave me a big hug. “Hey, thanks so much for coming, Noah,” she said.
“Oh! Sure,” I said, trying to act like I hug girls I’m not related to all the time. “Good job.”
“Thanks!” she said, breaking into a grin. “Whew! I was really nervous.” And then she added, “I’m sorry about everything that happened. I wish you could’ve been up there with me.”
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