Was that mascara? Sheila sniffled and nodded. She went into the girls’ bathroom. Rebecca dragged me toward our classroom, at the far end of the hall.
I grunted, trying to say something, but she shushed me.
“Don’t talk,” she said.
“I—She—”
“Silence,” she said, holding up her hand. “Get all your words back before you start spewing.” Rebecca knows me that well.
When I had stopped harrumphing, Rebecca used her quiet, scary voice on me. “You can’t keep hitting people,” she said. “You’re almost thirteen.”
And I thought to myself, That’s a rule? Teenagers don’t hit? How come I didn’t know that? Seemed like everyone else knew how to act their age, except me and maybe Ryan Berger. This almost-teenage stuff was bewildering.
“Do you really want to be known as that girl?” she asked.
“No, no,” I said, still panting. Whatever “that” meant—it sure didn’t sound good.
I could see that Rabbi Aron was already inside the classroom, writing something on the board. Which was a lucky break—he hadn’t seen us fighting. I mean, I’d never heard of anyone getting expelled from Hebrew school, but I liked Rabbi Aron and I wanted him to like me, and suddenly I felt kind of ashamed—not because of Sheila, but because I had lost control, like a little kid.
A few minutes later, Sheila slipped into a seat in the front row, looking fresh and composed, as if nothing had happened. I don’t know how some girls do that. I mean—once I’m on, I’m on.
With my adrenaline still pumping, I couldn’t concentrate much in class, even though Rabbi Aron is one of my all-time favorite teachers, after Mr. H. Now that I had my words back, I thought of like a hundred different ways I could have replied to Sheila, none of them polite. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said. And even though I knew she was a total ignoramus, it made me wonder: Why was I doing this? No one in my family is particularly religious, except maybe for Gran. She’s active in her synagogue, but whether it’s from feeling or habit, it’s hard to tell. Mum surprised everyone, including Daddy, when she decided to convert to Judaism before their wedding. But even she only admires the religion from a respectful distance. Daddy hasn’t been inside a synagogue since his own bar mitzvah, twelve hundred years ago. Well—except for their wedding, I guess.
Mum’s the one who thought I needed to get in touch with my Jewish self, which is a laugh. Believe me, I am way in touch with my Jewish side, thanks to Gran. I wouldn’t mind getting more in touch with my Indian side, which, if you ask me, is more interesting, and I prefer the cuisine. Mum says I don’t have “sides,” that ethnicity is not the same as religion, and that anyway, you can’t be half-Jewish. Just regular Jewish. And since she is, that’s what I am, too.
So maybe having a bat mitzvah wasn’t my idea originally, and maybe I hadn’t completely made up my own mind about it, but who was that know-it-all Sheila Rosenberg, with her big hair and rubbery lips and runny mascara, to wrinkle her nose at my om necklace and say whether I’m Jewish enough to have one or not? I stared at the back of her smug, composed, curly-haired head and made up my mind: I am having a bat mitzvah, Sheila, I thought at her, and you’re not invited.
I opened my new datebook and flipped to the page in December corresponding to the Saturday before Hanukkah. My bat mitzvah date. I circled it.
I couldn’t wait to tell Mum I was going through with it.
ll the way home, I imagined how pleased Mum was going to be with my decision. I wasn’t going to tell her any of what Sheila had said about me not being Jewish, because I knew it would push her buttons. And if she found out we were fighting—like, physically fighting—that would be a whole new level of trouble. I was just going to deliver the good news.
When I got home, I hurried to her office, stopping only to drop my books on the kitchen table.
“Uh-uh-uh,” Daddy said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Okay,” I said, dropping them on the floor instead.
“Kiss for the chef?” The kitchen smelled delicious, like cumin and cilantro. Daddy was making aloo gobhi—potatoes and cauliflower. My favorite side dish. I gave him a hug. “Tell your mother dinner in ten,” he said. I gave him a thumbs-up.
“Mum?” I called, knocking on her office door.
“It’s open, Tara.”
When I looked in, Mum was typing away in the dark. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, and she had on what Daddy calls her “hot librarian” glasses—squarish horn-rims that on anyone else would look nerdy but on my mother just looked expensive and sophisticated. The sun had set while she was concentrating on her work, and she hadn’t noticed. I flicked on the overhead light. She looked up and smiled.
“Thanks, baby.”
“I’ve come to a decision,” I said solemnly, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to go ahead and have a bat mitzvah.” I gave her my megawatt smile and waited for her praise.
Instead, she just took off her reading glasses and looked at me. “Was that ever a question?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my megawatt smile fading.
“Your father and I booked the hall ages ago.”
My megawatt smile disappeared completely. “You did what?”
“My God, Tara, do you know how hard it is to get a reception hall? We’ve had it booked for two years, ever since you started Hebrew school.”
So much for keeping an open mind. Mum’s face went pale, as if she were suddenly struck by the possibility that I might have refused to go through with it—or might still. She knew if I dug in my heels, there’d be no going back. I felt my jaw tighten and a lump form in my throat. I tried to keep my cool, not lose my words again. Just for one moment, couldn’t I have the illusion of choosing my own destiny? I’d been so excited to tell her my decision, and now the moment was ruined.
For a second I felt like really refusing, just to get back at her for this and maybe gain some control of my life. But making up my mind to have a bat mitzvah had been a big decision, and even though I’d made it in the heat of the moment, it still felt right. Not just a reaction to stupid Sheila Rosenberg. She didn’t deserve that much credit.
“Isn’t this what you wanted, Tara? Like all your friends?”
All my friends? I mean, sure, Rebecca’s Jewish—Goldstein, hello? But Ben-o? Catholic. And that was just my BFFs. My friends were all over the map, ethnically speaking. So who or what was Mum talking about?
“It’s what you’ve wanted,” I told her.
“I want it for you, yes. Not for myself.”
“What if it’s not what I want?” I asked, biting my lip.
“You just said it is,” she said, losing patience. “Besides, it’s important to your grandmother.”
That part was true. Gran never had a bat mitzvah of her own, because in the old days girls weren’t allowed. She never had any daughters, either, only Daddy and Uncle Robert, and Uncle Robert has only boys, too—my cousins Avi and Jonathan. So I’m the only girl.
“Such naches—such joy—I should live to see my only granddaughter become a bas mitzvah,” Gran once told me. Only Gran still says bas, the Yiddish way, when everyone else says bat, the proper Hebrew way, now. Well, Gran and Mum, since Mum learned most of what she knows about Judaism from Gran.
“Ooh, that reminds me,” Mum said, snapping her fingers and reaching for a pen. She jotted down a note on a sticky pad, tore off the page, and stuck it to her computer monitor. “We need to start shopping.”
“What?”
“For dresses.”
“Dresses, as in plural?” I squeaked. I hadn’t worn a dress since I was old enough to start dressing myself when I was like four. Unlike Sheila Rosenberg, who wore purple dresses every day. She was a miniature version of her mother in every way, which is not a great look for a thirteen-year-old.
My mother is extremely fashion conscious. Sometimes I wonder how we ended up together.
“You’ll be going to at least half a dozen bar mit
zvahs,” she pointed out. “You can’t wear jeans and sneakers.”
I groaned. Shopping with Mum is an all-day event. Multiplied by six dresses—the torture was unimaginable. I tried bargaining.
“One dress,” I said. “I’ll change up the accessories.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tara. No one wears the same dress six times. People will notice.”
“Nahee!” I wailed, putting my hands up to my face in mock-horror, like a Bollywood heroine. Being noticed, especially for being different—that was Mum’s fear, not mine. I dropped my hands. “They’ll make fun of me for any dress. It’s so not me.”
“It’s the new you,” Mum said firmly. “We’re going to Macy’s on Saturday—mark your calendar. By next month, we’ll be shopping for your bat mitzvah dress.” She sounded almost blissful about it. I just wanted to scream. I really think she should have been Rebecca’s mother instead of mine. They could go shoe shopping together and drink mocha lattes.
Mum looked at the clock. “Tara, sweetie, I’m sorry, I need to finish this proposal before supper. Can we continue this talk later?”
“Fine.” I sighed, defeated, knowing we probably wouldn’t. Mum is a champion conflict avoider. We heard the sound of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen. “Oh, right,” I said. “Daddy said to tell you dinner’s ready, like, now.”
“Who’s hungry?” Daddy called, as if on cue.
“Me!” I yelled back.
“Tell your father I need ten more minutes—five,” said Mum. “Be good and set the table for him.”
“Like I have a choice?” I asked spitefully, closing the door as I left.
I dragged my feet as I walked back to the kitchen, hoping the table would have magically set itself by the time I got there. No such luck.
“Perfect timing,” Daddy said, handing me three sets of silverware. He stopped when he saw my expression. “Why the long face?”
I shrugged.
“Out with it,” he insisted.
“Nothing … It’s just … I thought having a bat mitzvah or not was supposed to be my decision.”
“It is your decision. You made up your mind a long time ago.”
“I did not! I agreed to go to Hebrew school and see.” My tears welled up and I stamped my foot in frustration. I was not going to cry. I was not.
Daddy scratched his head. “I don’t remember it that way, sweetie.”
Figures, I thought, sulking. Daddy only remembered what he wanted to remember. I grabbed dinner plates out of the dishwasher. “These are clean, right?”
“I’m not sure. Mum is on dish duty this week. Take the ones from the cupboard.”
I stomped over to the pantry and flung the door wide.
“Tara—”
“What?” I spat.
“If you want to discuss this, we can do it civilly, over dinner.”
“Discuss what?” Mum asked, sliding into her seat. Her attention was already elsewhere, which filled me with outrage.
“Mum!” I wailed.
“Oh, Tara, we’re not still talking about this, are we?”
“You said we could continue this discussion.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” she said, snapping open a napkin and spreading it across her lap decisively. “You said you made up your mind to go through with it. Your father and I couldn’t be more pleased. Now please pass the aloo gobhi.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” I muttered.
We ate in cold silence for a few minutes. I could hear all three of us chewing. I saw a sympathetic look pass between Mum and Daddy, but no one spoke.
“You know what’s going to be fun?” Mum said after a while. “Choosing the menu and the decorations and your cake. Wouldn’t you like that?”
I scowled. I knew what she was trying to do—trick me into feeling better just because I got to decide on the food. I wasn’t falling for it. I had wanted to decide whether to have a bat mitzvah, not what to serve once people got there. Nice try, Mum, I thought.
I took another forkful of potatoes and cauliflower right from the serving bowl. Then I thought of something—a test of how much control I really had, and exactly how far Mum would let me go with this. A chance to personalize the event, see if I could maybe make it a little bit Indian. Like me.
“I can have anything I want?” I asked, trying to sound offhand about it.
“Such as?” Mum asked warily.
“Like, Indian food. Maybe not for the main course—but the appetizers. Like, potato samosas and stuff.”
Mum considered, then swallowed. I knew she wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but she tried to smile. She owed me that much. It’s not that she doesn’t like Indian food, of course; she just likes things to be orderly. Separate. “There’s a time and a place for everything”—that’s one of her favorite sayings.
“I don’t see why not,” she said gamely.
“I know they do mini knishes,” Daddy said. “Remember Joanie and Todd’s wedding? If they can do knishes, I’m pretty sure they can do samosas.”
“And bhel puri,” I added. Mum looked like she was going to choke on her cauliflower.
“Anything you want,” said Daddy.
“And golgappas.”
“Within reason,” he said. “I don’t think the caterer can pull off golgappas.” He was probably right about that. At least he was paying attention.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come up with something else, then.”
I was still angry, but I was calmer now. At least there was some discussion. Not about the thing that mattered, but it was a start. A small one, but a start.
All at once I was exhausted—the fight with Sheila earlier had already kind of wiped me out. I ate a last bite of potatoes and pushed back my chair.
“May I be excused? I have homework to finish.” That wasn’t true. It was only the second day of school, so homework was still pretty light. I’d finished mine in study hall. I just wanted to go to bed early, put this day behind me, and wake up to a better one tomorrow. Keep up the fight, just not now.
Later, as I drifted off to sleep, I entertained myself imagining what kind of food Sheila Rosenberg would have at her bat mitzvah, given the choice. All purple things, I’d guess … eggplant, purple potatoes, red cabbage (which everyone knows is really purple), red onions (ditto), plums, grape Jell-O …
That night I dreamed I was drowning in a sea of purple jelly beans.
he next morning, I waited in the lobby for Ben-o to come down for school.
“Want me to buzz him—your boyfriend?” asked Sal.
“No, thank you,” I said curtly. “And he’s not my boyfriend.” I rolled my eyes as Sal snickered. Was everyone in my business now?
Luckily I heard the sound of Ben-o’s door slamming and then his feet shuffling down the stairs. His family lives on the first floor, which for some reason is on the second floor. Ben-o’s dad is the building manager. The last manager didn’t have any kids, or a wife, so their apartment is really small for four people—Ben-o, his mom and dad, and now the baby, Nina. The board had been trying for years to upgrade them to a bigger apartment, like old Mrs. Donovan’s, next door to me. Our rooms would be literally next to each other. When we were like six, we used to fantasize about his family living there and getting our parents to combine our two apartments into one big one. At the time, we couldn’t understand why they were against it. Mrs. D really belonged in an old people’s home by now, but she’ll never move, because her apartment is rent-controlled.
Ben-o skipped the last four steps, sliding down the railing instead. He had his skateboard tucked under his arm.
“I asked you not to do that, young man,” Sal scolded him, even though his eyes were still smiling.
“You asked me not to do it skating,” Ben-o reminded him. “This time I used my butt.”
Sal shook his head. He held the door wide and escorted us through with a flourish. “Mademoiselle, Monsieur, après vous.”
“Merci, Monsieur
Sal!” Ben-o said with an exaggerated bow. I rolled my eyes again. One year of middle school French and he thought he was the king of France.
“De rien,” said Sal. “À tout à l’heure, Mademoiselle Tara.”
“I take Spanish,” I said.
When we got outside, I asked Ben-o, “Why do you have your board today? Don’t tell me you forgot.” Meaning: It was Wednesday. And Wednesday, after school, was Robotics Club.
“I didn’t forget,” Ben-o said, taking off with a running start. After a minute he came back, gliding to a stop next to me. “Listen, do you mind catching up later? I want to try a couple of moves before school.”
Since the weekend, he’d been acting so weird and—unfriendly. Except for giving me the datebook on Monday, which was weird in itself. I felt the way I sometimes feel after a fight with Rebecca. Only that had never happened with Ben-o before. And I had no idea what I had done or when.
“Whatever,” I said.
“Cool,” said Ben-o, missing the sarcasm. “See you in science.”
“See you in science,” I told his backside.
“Show of hands, who’s coming to Robotics Club this afternoon?” Mr. H asked in science class, the period before lunch. Ben-o and I raised our hands, and so did Ryan Berger and Adam Greenspan. What? I tried to catch Ben-o’s eye, but he was busy glowering at Ryan Berger.
It turned out Ryan and Adam each had to pick an academic club to avoid suspension for what had happened on the first day of school, and they both picked Robotics. How was that allowed? It seemed like Ryan was suddenly everywhere I turned.
“I can’t believe it,” I kept saying to Ben-o at lunchtime.
“I can,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“You. Berger. Do the math.”
“Eww!” I said, faking an arm punch. “Gross.”
Rebecca had her nose in her math notebook, looking up once in a while to compare notes with Sheila Rosenberg. She happened to look up when I was fake-punching Ben-o, and she looked ready to spring into action again.
“Take it easy, Rebecca!” I said. “I’m not hitting anyone.”
My Basmati Bat Mitzvah Page 3
