My Basmati Bat Mitzvah

by Paula J. Freedman

  “You can pick. You can bring over anything you want to watch.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess.”

  “Cool. We’ll call you when we’re back—Jenna and me.”

  We again. Normally I’d be happy to hang out and watch a movie with him, even if it was only Friday. And Jenna’s all right. But after the sleepover at Sheila’s, I was feeling like a third wheel. Again.

  “You know what?” I said. “Forget it. I’m too tired.”

  “Okay,” Ben-o said, sounding doubtful. “Tomorrow, then—regular movie night. Me and you.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and I hung up the phone.

  here’s your binder?” I asked Ben-o as soon as I opened the door on Saturday.

  “I didn’t bring it.” He shrugged. “It’s your turn to pick.”

  “That’s cool, but … maybe you should go get it,” I said. “There’s nothing here we’d both want to watch.”

  “Cool!” he said happily. “I’ll be right back.”

  I went into the kitchen and made two bags of popcorn. When I came out, he was already there, squatting in front of the DVD player.

  His hair was growing back a little. It looked slightly furry, like a teddy bear. I reached out to pet it and he jumped.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “I just wanted to touch it.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  “Whatever,” I said, feeling stung. “I get it. Your girlfriend won’t like it.”

  “Who?”

  “Jenna,” I said, exasperated.

  “C’mon, Tara.”

  “You don’t like Jenna?”

  “Of course I like her. We’re friends.”

  Friends.

  “I mean—forget it.”

  Ben-o turned his back to me and rested his forehead on the wall.

  “I like you,” he mumbled, so quietly I was sure I wasn’t meant to hear it. But I did. I pretended that I didn’t, because—it terrified me. I mean, what if we tried being boyfriend and girlfriend and it didn’t work out? Could we go back to being best friends again, like nothing had happened? I didn’t think so. It was too much to risk. I couldn’t afford to maybe lose another best friend.

  “Do you want to watch the movie now?” I croaked.

  “Okay,” said Ben-o, moving away from the wall. His face had gone completely blank. Whatever he was feeling, he was keeping it to himself now.

  He pressed the play button. I turned off the lights.

  We sat next to each other on the couch, stiff as a couple of mannequins. I wondered if he was going to try to put his arm around me again, but he didn’t. Which was weird. I mean, we both knew what was going on. Right? As soon as the movie was over, he got up to leave.

  “Ben-o …” I faltered. I thought about what Rebecca had said, about me giving him mixed signals. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. But I was confused, too. One minute he was my best friend; the next he wanted something else. And the minute after that, he was all about Jenna Alberts. I really didn’t know what I was supposed to think. And now he was mad at me.

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked.

  Ben-o tilted his head to one side and thought about it. Longer than should have been necessary, I felt.

  “I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I’m a little mad at myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Forget it,” he said. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  I didn’t believe him.

  fter my bat mitzvah lesson on Monday, I waited for Rebecca. It was too cold to wait outside, so I sat in the vestibule with my feet propped up on the radiator. I was doodling in my notebook when Sheila showed up.

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here?” Obviously she no longer had lessons, since her bat mitzvah was long past.

  “Waiting for Rivka,” she said.

  “Rivka?”

  “Rebecca’s Hebrew name.” She giggled. “It’s kind of a private joke between us.”

  First of all—of course I knew Rebecca’s Hebrew name. And Sheila’s, too, because of her bat mitzvah: Shoshana. But something about them having any sort of private joke bugged me, putting me in a dark mood. I tried to smile, but I’m sure it looked more like a sneer. Sheila remained oblivious.

  “Want to join us?” she asked. “We’re going shopping.”

  “Rebecca didn’t mention it,” I said.

  “Well, come anyway. It’ll be fun.”

  I doubted it, especially with those two—Preppy and Purply.

  “Okay, but—can I drop off my stuff at home first?” I had checked out four books from the school library for my Robotics project and they were really heavy.

  So we waited for Rebecca, and they both came home with me to drop off my books. Sheila had never been over before, so she kept touching everything in my room and asking, “What’s this?” and “What’s that?”

  Rebecca rubbed Ganesha’s belly. Sheila stopped short. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “That’s Ganesha,” Rebecca informed her. “He’s a Hindu god. It’s good luck to rub his belly. Try it.”

  “Why do you have it?” Sheila asked, turning to me.

  “My grandfather gave it to me.”

  “But I thought you said your mom is Jewish.”

  “She is,” I said, starting to get mad. “How many times—”

  “I know, I know,” Sheila said quickly. “But … why does she let you have idols?”

  “Idols?”

  “False gods,” Sheila said.

  “I know what it means,” I snapped. After all, it’s right there in the Ten Commandments: You shall have no other God except me. But something in the way she said “false gods” really got under my skin.

  “I never thought of it like that,” Rebecca said, drawing her hand away.

  Neither had I, really. If I’d thought about it at all, it was like kissing a mezuzah, or pouring an extra glass of wine for the prophet Elijah to drink on Passover. A ritual. My Nanaji thing. Not idolatry.

  Not too long ago, I’d vowed not to let being Jewish and having a bat mitzvah in any way diminish Nanaji’s memory. I hadn’t expected it to get complicated.

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” I said. “Let’s go.” I grabbed my coat and stomped out, Rebecca and Sheila trailing behind.

  I was still brooding while Rebecca and Sheila window-shopped on Broadway. I was grumpy and hungry and my feet hurt from walking around in the cold. We passed the store where Sheila had gotten her crystal bracelet, so of course Rebecca wanted to go in and have a look.

  “If I were going to buy one, I’d get this one,” Rebecca said, holding up one with little blue and pink crystals. “It’s a lot like yours, but different. Then we wouldn’t have the exact same one.”

  “We could swap sometimes,” Sheila said.

  “Cool,” said Rebecca.

  “How about this one for you, Tara?” Sheila said, holding up a pretty turquoise one.

  “Not my style,” I said. “Even if I had the money, I’d rather buy a game.”

  “Like Monopoly?”

  “Like Killer Zombie Princess Three.” Actually, I’d buy Res-Q Robots. I said Killer Zombie Princess just to shock Sheila, and it worked, judging from her expression.

  “You’re both idiots,” said Rebecca mildly. She sounded so much like the old Rebecca that I smiled, but Sheila actually looked hurt. Like no one had ever called her an idiot in a friendly way. Which was kind of sad.

  “Anyway,” Rebecca said with a sigh, “I don’t have the money either.”

  “Let me get it for you,” said Sheila.

  “Nah,” said Rebecca. “Maybe for my birthday, which isn’t until forever.”

  A block away from the store, Sheila stopped Rebecca and said, “I have a surprise for you.”

  “What?” Rebecca asked.

  “Shut your eyes and hold out your hand.”

  Rebecca did, and Sheila placed
the blue and pink crystal bracelet in her palm. Rebecca’s eyes flew open. She looked like she might be sick.

  “Sheila! What did you do?”

  “Consider it an early birthday present.”

  “But you didn’t pay for this. You have to take it back.”

  “Too late,” Sheila said. “If we go back now, we risk getting caught.”

  We?

  “I’m taking it back,” Rebecca said, her voice shaking.

  “Rebecca, don’t—”

  “I’ll take it back,” I said, snatching the bracelet from Rebecca.

  “Hold up. We’re coming with you,” Rebecca said, dragging Sheila by the arm.

  I walked ahead of both of them, but when I reached the revolving door, I felt a flicker of panic. I hesitated for just a second before I pushed my way into the store. I was just reaching to put the bracelet back on the jewelry counter when I felt a large hand on my shoulder. The security guard already had Rebecca and Sheila in tow.

  The back office was depressing, with harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights and no windows. The heat was up so high, it felt like there was no air in the room. The security guard—Mr. R. Gregory, according to his badge—reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of forms. He didn’t look at us even once as he began to fill them out.

  “You first, curly,” he said. He took down Sheila’s name, her parents’ names, and her home phone number. He picked up the phone and called.

  You can tell a lot about a person by the way their parents react to a crisis. Mrs. Rosenberg was shouting so loudly that Mr. R. Gregory had to hold the phone away from his ear. He rubbed his eyes as if he had a terrible headache.

  When he called Rebecca’s house next, her dad answered. We couldn’t hear him at all, but that’s because Mr. Goldstein never raised his voice, ever. That can sometimes be scarier. Then it was my turn.

  “Name?”

  “Tara Feinstein.”

  Mr. R. Gregory finally looked up, a skeptical look on his face. “No, really,” he said.

  “Yes, really,” I said.

  He shook his head, but he wrote it down. After I recited my phone number, I clammed up. If there’s one thing I learned from Meena Auntie, it’s keep your trap shut until your lawyer arrives. Or whoever. As he punched in the number, I silently willed Daddy to pick up the phone. Not Mum, not Mum, I prayed. I must be the luckiest person in the world, because miraculously, it wasn’t Mum or Daddy who answered. It was Gran. I almost smiled with relief.

  “Don’t you lay a finger on those children,” I heard her squawk, as loudly as if she were there in the room. “Are you listening to me? I’ll be there just as soon as I can be.”

  It seemed to take forever for the grown-ups to arrive. Sheila stared at the floor, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, looking paler than her usual skim milk. Only Rebecca couldn’t stop talking, from nerves.

  “I’m never getting into law school with a criminal record,” she moaned.

  “You’re a juvenile,” Sheila said. “It doesn’t count.”

  “Hey, Sheila?” I said, breaking my vow of silence. “Shut up.”

  “I’m just pointing out the facts. It’s not like she’s gonna get the electric chair.”

  “She didn’t do anything.”

  “I know,” said Sheila.

  “This is all your fault,” I hissed.

  “I know.”

  “Then shut up.”

  Mrs. Rosenberg was the first to arrive, then Rebecca’s dad, then Gran—along with Vijay, who could hardly contain his joy at my predicament.

  “What are you doing here?” I whispered.

  “Yo, I’m your ride, homie,” he said, dangling the car keys.

  Gran smacked his behind. “I told you not to talk.” At least she didn’t hit him in the head. But then again, he’s not actually her grandson.

  “Mr. Feinstein, I suppose?” Mr. R. Gregory said to Vijay sarcastically.

  “Nah, man, the name’s Mehta,” said Vijay. “Bro—didn’t you used to be at Modell’s?”

  “Didn’t I once arrest you for stealing a soccer ball?”

  “That was me!” Vijay said, excited, as if this were a reunion instead of the worst day of my life. He smiled and extended his hand enthusiastically, but Mr. R. Gregory refused to shake it.

  “Vijay, go wait in the car,” Gran said.

  I’ll say this for Sheila: she copped to it right away. As soon as Vijay left and the rest of the adults settled down, she admitted everything, including how I had been trying to return what she had taken. Sheila may have been a thief, but she wasn’t a liar. And she wasn’t taking the rest of us down with her.

  Mrs. Rosenberg was awful.

  “Stop DOING that!” she snapped, seeing Sheila twisting a strand of hair. Sheila put her hands in her lap and looked down. “What has gotten into you?”

  Sheila shrugged.

  “Are you on drugs, Sheila?” Mrs. Rosenberg asked.

  “No!” Sheila wailed. “God.”

  “We’ve given you everything …”

  “As long as it’s purple,” Sheila whispered, too quietly for her mother to hear.

  “You had only to ask.”

  “That’s the POINT!” Sheila shrieked hysterically. “I don’t want to ASK. And I HATE PURPLE!”

  Mrs. Rosenberg looked stunned. “Sheila—”

  “Take it easy, Phyllis,” Rebecca’s dad said.

  Mr. R. Gregory cleared his throat. “Can we get back on track here?”

  “Yes, please,” said Rebecca’s dad.

  We signed papers saying we’d never enter the store again, at least until we turned eighteen. Like I’d ever go in there again. Ever. We each had to write an apology letter to the store manager. I didn’t know what to write—I’m sorry my best friend’s new best friend stole a dumb bracelet and I tried to return it but I got caught? Then Mr. R. Gregory handed Mrs. Rosenberg a copy of the “incident report” and told her to do a better job keeping an eye on Sheila. Mrs. Rosenberg looked ready to kill him. We were all free to go.

  “What I fail to comprehend,” Mum kept saying, “is why you called your grandmother instead of me.”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “I gave the guard our number. Gran just happened to answer the phone.”

  “You should have called my mobile, Tara, as you know very well. And you—” she said, turning a terrible eye on Gran. “You should know better.”

  Gran actually looked sheepish. “You’re right, Rita. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in.” Mum raised an eyebrow. “But the child was terrified, and I just—instinct took over. I’m sorry.”

  “I was a little terrified,” I admitted this time.

  “Of course you were!” Gran cried. “They had no right to detain you, do you know that? A twelve-year-old without her parents?”

  “Almost thirteen,” I pointed out.

  “I’m not sure that’s true, Ma,” Daddy said.

  “Ask Meena!” Gran snapped. “See what an attorney has to say about it. You ought to sue them for all they’re worth. It’s that Sheila Whatzername. There’s something wrong with that one. All you have to do is look at her.”

  “Gran!”

  “What?”

  “If someone said that about me, it would be racist.”

  “Who’s a racist? I’m a Jew, she’s a Jew. I’m telling you that girl has a screw loose.”

  “Mr. R. Gregory didn’t believe my name was Tara Feinstein,” I told her. “Because I’m brown.”

  “Tara …” Mum said.

  “Brown?” Gran yelled. “Who’s brown? My father was as brown as you.”

  “Really?”

  “A Sephardic!” she said. “Real classy. My mother was the Ashkenaz.”

  “Ma—” Daddy said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He sounded exhausted. Gran is always saying nonsensical things like that, as if you’re supposed to know that Sephardim are a classy brown people.

  “And involving Vijay? I will never hear the end of it from Meena,�
� Mum added.

  “He was certainly in his element,” Gran muttered.

  “I was so worried, Tara,” Mum said, ignoring Gran. “To think that you might have stolen something …”

  “Mum,” I said, “you raised me better than that.”

  “All I’m saying is, you need to think about the company you keep.”

  “No fair!” I said. “You’re the one who’s always telling me what a lovely girl Sheila is, and why can’t I be nicer to her, blah blah blah blah blah.”

  “Perhaps you are a better judge of character than I am after all,” Mum said. I was disconcerted by the compliment, because—really? Sheila did this one dumb-headed thing and I wasn’t supposed to be her friend anymore? That was harsh. Didn’t everyone deserve a second chance?

  Sheila’s parents made her come over and apologize in person. They came to us first. Probably as a practice run for Rebecca’s, I thought.

  “What do you say, Tara?” Daddy said, nudging me.

  “I accept your apology,” I recited, just as I’d promised Daddy I would.

  “Thanks,” Sheila said, looking truly relieved.

  “Well,” Mrs. Rosenberg said, folding her hands primly in her lap. “Now that’s cleared up. Tara, is there something you’d like to say to Sheila in return?”

  “Not really,” I said. I had no idea what she was getting at. Sheila looked like she might die of embarrassment. She shook her head at me furiously, as if to tell me this wasn’t her idea, or her fault.

  “Wouldn’t you like to apologize to Sheila for hitting her?” Mrs. Rosenberg prompted me.

  “Hitting her?” Mum cried. “Tara? What is she talking about?”

  Why was she bringing this up now? That fight was ancient history. Mum didn’t know about it, and I’d been trying to keep it that way. I said the only thing I could think of:

  “She started it.”

  “Mom,” Sheila whined. “You promised …”

  “Did you or did you not hit her?” Mum persisted.

  “She bit me.”

  “After you pushed me,” Sheila said.

  “After you trash-talked my mother!”

  “Girls!”

  Mrs. Rosenberg looked dismayed. “Sheila didn’t tell me that part,” she admitted.

  “Mom, you weren’t supposed to say anything,” Sheila said. “You promised me.”