She turned back to the blackboard and began writing words like "inclusion" and "respectful listening," her charm bracelet rattling with each letter. I sneaked a look sideways and saw that my mother was writing "inclusion" in a notebook that said Joy's Bat Mitzvah on the cover.
"When planning the service, and the party, everyone needs to make sure that his or her voice is being heard," said Deirdre.
I gave my mother a significant look that she ignored.
"The beauty of the modern-day ceremony is that there's a role for everyone," Deirdre said cheerfully. "Aliyahs, participating in the candle-lighting, dressing and undressing the Torah..."
While my mother took notes, Bruce stared straight ahead at Deirdre. I let my gaze wander around the sanctuary, with its high-backed wooden pews and the words KNOW BEFORE WHOM YOU STAND written in Hebrew above the ark. Amber Gross waved at me. Had I known her parents were divorced? I wasn't sure. I kept scanning the aisles. Boy I didn't know, boy I didn't know, girl I didn't know...and Duncan Brodkey, sitting at the end of an aisle with a woman in red pants and silver hoop earrings. She was probably his mother. I felt my face heat up as I turned away. Maybe he'd gone looking for my mother's book the same way I had. I squirmed in my seat, wishing Bruce hadn't come, because what if Duncan looked at him and saw "Drew"?
"One of the places I've found that can cause the most contention at the party is the candle-lighting ceremony," said Deirdre Weiss. "Frequently, the custodial parents feel that their relatives should have more opportunities to light candles than the noncustodial parent, which gets tricky."
My mother's shoulders stiffened. Bruce blinked four times fast. Deirdre kept scribbling more words on the board: "party" versus "service." "Parity" versus "equity." "Tikkun olam" versus "shalom ha' beit": healing the world versus peace in the house. "Now I'd like to do an exercise," she said, passing around pencils and blank pieces of paper. "I'd like everyone here to write down the words that come to mind when picturing an ideal bar or bat mitzvah."
I stared at my blank page, thinking. Everybody happy, I wrote. Then Broadway theme. And CD favors with music from Grease. I looked at my mother's paper and saw that she'd written Judaism and tradition and God. Bruce's page had no words. It did have a drawing of a man in a spacesuit firing a gun at a bunch of one-eyed aliens. Splats of blood flew out of the aliens' heads to puddle on the ground underneath them.
I looked up to see my mother staring at Bruce's paper. Bruce looked at her, shrugged, and picked up his pen. The next alien he drew looked a little like my mother. I snorted. Bruce grinned at me. My mother drew herself up straight and pulled her tote bag tight against her chest.
"Now let's compare!" Deirdre sang out. "I think you'll all be pleasantly surprised to find out how much you have in common!"
Bruce ducked his head and folded his page in half. Too late.
"Oh, come on," said my mother. "Who wouldn't want a Doctor Who alien invader bloodbath bat mitzvah?"
Bruce blinked, blinked, blinked. "I'm sure whatever Joy wants will be fine," he said.
"I want Grease," I said quickly.
"You're not getting Grease," said my mother.
"What's wrong with Grease?" asked Bruce.
"She thinks it promotes teenage delinquency and smoking," I said without looking at Bruce, because at that particular moment I was finding it hard not to picture him naked, rolling around on top of my mother in the backseat of his parents' car.
Bruce smirked. "When did you turn into the church lady?" he asked my mother.
My mother's face turned pink, but she ignored him, taking a deep breath. "If you want a theme, I understand. I'm a fan of narrative, too."
I rolled my eyes. Whatever.
"You could have Hairspray," she said. "What about Hairspray?"
I pressed my lips together. Sure, it was a huge leap for her to even suggest that I could have any theme at all, but of course she'd want the theme to be the musical where the fat girl gets the hot guy. Like that ever happens in real life.
"Or Wicked. We loved Wicked, remember?"
I rolled my eyes again. Obviously, she'd loved Wicked. In that one, it's the girl with green skin who gets the guy. If someone were to ever write a musical in which the fat green girl gets the guy, my mother would probably die of happiness on the spot.
"Questions!" called Deirdre.
A woman with short pink nails raised her hand. "My ex-husband is remarried to a woman who isn't Jewish, and they aren't raising their children as Jewish, but they're still Zoe's half sister and half brother. What role should they have in the service?"
Deirdre talked about a blessing for children. My mom leaned forward, hanging on every word. Bruce drew more bullets spraying from the spaceman's gun. I scanned the room again. Amber was fidgeting in her seat, crossing and recrossing her legs, perfect as always in her boots and V-neck and jeans, not too dark and not too light, not too loose and not too tight.
A small, dark-haired man in the front row caught Deirdre's eye. "I don't know if you can help me with this," he began.
Deirdre smiled widely. "Try me," she said. "I've heard it all."
The small man snatched at his yarmulke before it slid off his bald spot and onto the floor. "Well, my oldest son is nineteen. He's undergoing gender reassignment surgery. You know, a sex change?"
Deirdre's smile wobbled. I guessed that maybe this was something she hadn't heard before.
"He's been taking the hormones and had the laser treatments, but he hasn't had the, um..." He raised two fingers in a snipping gesture. Bruce winced and crossed his legs. "He dresses as a woman. He considers himself female now. He--well, she--she'll have an aliyah at my daughter's bat mitzvah, but she wants to be called by her new name. Naomi bat Peninah." He fumbled with his yarmulke again. "Naomi, daughter of Peninah. And our rabbi won't do it because technically he's still a he."
Deirdre's bracelet jangled as she raked one hand through her hair. "Well," she said. "Have you considered a role where your, um, child's name wouldn't come into question? Maybe dressing the Torah?"
Right, I thought. Because she'll be so good with clothes now.
"But even though that gets us out of using the Hebrew name, what's the rabbi supposed to say? That Maddy's sibling will come to help dress the Torah? He won't say 'sister.'"
"Maybe if the rabbi won't say it, your daughter can."
The small man thought this over. "Maybe," he agreed.
Deirdre sighed in satisfaction, or possibly relief. "Other questions?"
My mother raised her hand. I cringed and inched away from her. "I understand what you've said about inclusion and respect," my mom began. "But in cases where you can't agree, who gets to make the decision?"
"Are we talking about a disagreement between parents? Or between a parent and a child?"
"All of the above," said my mom. I groaned softly. "Theoretically," she added.
"Well," said Deirdre, "I think it's important that each member of the family gives his or her input, but ultimately it's best to hammer out some kind of compromise where everyone feels respected."
My mom raised her hand into the air again. "But what if you can't?" she asked.
Deirdre's smile faltered.
My mom went on. "What if, for example, the parents want a simple, meaningful, religious celebration that addresses the Jewish values that you talked about, and the child wants dancers in Spandex to do some routine to the remix of 'Promiscuous Girl'?"
Bruce looked at me. "'Promiscuous Girl'?" he asked.
"I don't know what she's talking about," I muttered. "I don't want oldies."
"Did you hire the dancers yet?" another mother asked my mom. "When's your date?"
"October," she said.
"If you want dancers, you better hurry," said the other mom, leaning forward with a hot pink day planner clutched in her hand.
"We don't want dancers!" my mother said. "She wants dancers." She pointed at me. I slumped in my seat, wishing I could disappear.
"
Oh," said the other mother, leaning back in her own seat. "That's good, because you can't get dancers now anyhow. They're all completely booked. Believe me, I've tried. I know."
"Have you looked in New York?" asked another mother. "North Jersey? You may have to import, but they're available."
Deirdre Weiss clapped her hands. "Compromise!" she said. Her bright smile was back, but it looked a little shaky. "Have you given any thought to a separate party for the kids? You could have age-appropriate activities there, music and dancers and what have you..."
"I just don't think that kind of party is consonant with what a bat mitzvah means," my mom said.
"We're doing a separate kids' party," said somebody's dad. "Service in the morning, luncheon for the grown-ups, party for the kids at a nightclub Saturday night."
"Forget it," said the first woman who'd spoken. "Every decent place is booked."
"And the indecent places," said another mom. "Did you hear about the bar mitzvah boy who had his party at Delilah's Den?"
"That has to be an urban legend," said my mother. "No responsible parent would throw a party at a strip club."
"No, it actually happened," said the other mom. "My acupuncturist used to date the disc jockey. I've seen pictures."
Bruce bent his head over his folded sheet of paper. He wasn't making any noise, but I could see his shoulders shaking.
A minute later, two rows' worth of mothers, plus the sex-change dad, were having a noisy conversation about kosher caterers, and about some lady from Malvern who'd booked the Four Seasons two years ago for a June wedding, even though she didn't have a fiance or an engagement ring, or even a boyfriend, and now was refusing to give up the date. "Dog in the manger, that's what I call it," one of the mothers said. "Hope springs eternal, I guess," said someone else.
Deirdre Weiss was clapping her hands. "Parents!" she said. "Children!" Her charm bracelet jangled. Everyone ignored her. "EVERYONE!" she yelped. "Let's...let's take a little break, all right? Fifteen minutes? And then we'll reconvene, maybe parents only?"
I slid off my seat and hurried out of the sanctuary with my hands in my pockets and my head down. Tamsin waved at me from the doorway of the library. "Hey, what's Bruce doing here?" she asked. I was just about to answer when Amber Gross grabbed my hand.
"Let's ditch," she said.
"Huh?"
"Come on," she said, and tugged me toward the door. I looked over my shoulder. Tamsin was still standing there with her lips pressed together. Sorry, I mouthed. Tamsin narrowed her eyes, spun on her heel, and stomped toward the library. Amber yanked me through the synagogue's front doors. Sasha Swerdlow was sitting on a bench by the front of the white marble building with her legs crossed, jiggling her feet. "Are you ready?" she asked, bouncing up.
"Lock and load," Amber said.
"We can leave?" I stammered.
"Who's going to stop us?" Amber said. She raised her hand and instantly a cab screeched to a stop at the curb in front of us, which I guess is what happens when you're Amber Gross.
"Where are we going?" I asked as the three of us piled into the squishy backseat.
"Surprise!" said Amber. I watched through the scratched windshield as we sped up Spruce Street, dodging potholes and buses and bikes, past Pennsylvania Hospital, then across Thirteenth Street, the restaurants with their tables set out on the sidewalks, the boutiques that sold fancy dog beds and dresses and baby clothes.
The cab stopped at Eighteenth and Walnut. Amber peeled a ten-dollar bill out of her brown-and-gold leather wallet, and I followed her out of the cab and into the Kiehl's store on the corner.
"What are we--" I started.
"Just come on!" Sasha hissed.
Amber grabbed my arm and pulled me along. "Hey, who's the hottie?" she said, giggling, and I felt slightly sick, with scenes from my mom's book dancing in my head, as I said, "That's my dad. My real one."
The shop was small and crowded, with high glass windows on one side and shelves and shelves of tubes and jars and bottles on the other. There were three women with glossy hair and white coats and name tags. One was behind the cash register, one was talking to an old lady in a fur coat. Amber walked confidently over to the third lady. "Hello," she said. "I'm looking for something for my dry, itchy scalp?"
Sasha, over by the lip gloss, grinned. Even though I had my hearing aids in, I was positive I'd heard wrong. Amber Gross had a dry, itchy scalp? While Amber talked to the saleslady, I looked up and saw Sasha picking up a bottle of sunscreen from the counter and slipping it in her pocket. She caught my eye, winked at me, and made a big show of putting some of the sample lip gloss on the back of her hand. Her lips formed the words try it as she walked by. And I knew she wasn't talking about the lip gloss.
I moved down the counter slowly, my heart hammering, picking up containers of sunscreen and Silk Groom, then putting them back down. There was a detangling conditioner that I bet would work for my hair, and a cuticle cream in a black-and-white tube. I looked at the door to make sure there weren't any sensors, then checked to make sure the salesladies weren't watching. Two of the white-coated salesladies were having an earnest conversation with Amber, one of them lifting a lock of Amber's hair between her fingers. "The flat iron's, like, killing me!" Amber said, and the salesladies smiled. Sasha was still browsing. No, I told myself, watching her hand dip into her pocket again, Sasha is still stealing. She turned and raised her eyebrows, looking at me as if to say Get on with it. I grabbed an amber-colored glass pot of something and dropped it in my coat pocket, where it sat like a grenade. I haven't done anything wrong, I told myself. Not yet. Until I walked out the door, I could still say that I'd meant to pay for it, that I'd just put it in my pocket to keep my hands free.
The clerk was piling samples into a brown paper bag for Amber: makeup remover and concealer and hand cream. Probably they'd never suspect that Amber was the kind of girl who would steal anything. A pretty girl like her, with the shiny hair and the sparkly braces and the just-right clothes, didn't look the part.
"You guys are the greatest!" Amber told the salesladies. I managed a weak smile and promised myself that as soon as I got back to temple, I'd give the cream to Tamsin and tell her that I was sorry for ditching her. Then Sasha grabbed one of my arms and Amber grabbed the other and the three of us tumbled out of the store and onto the sidewalk, with the bell on the shop door tinkling behind us.
"What'd you get?" Sasha asked. Her lips were shiny with gloss.
I pulled the glass jar out of my pocket and showed it to both of them. "Anti-aging cream?" said Sasha. Her forehead puckered.
I could have told her, You'll need it if you keep scrunching your face up like that. Instead I just said, "It's never too early to start a good anti-aging regimen," which was something I'd heard Aunt Elle say more than once.
"Huh," said Sasha. She unscrewed the lid, dipped her finger into the pot, and smoothed some lotion on her cheeks.
Amber pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and flicked it open to look at the time. "C'mon, if we hurry, we can hit Anthropologie."
"You guys go ahead," I mumbled. "My mom will freak out if I'm late."
The two of them looked at me curiously. Then they headed across the street, arms linked, laughing, with their coats unzipped and hoods bouncing on their backs, boots clicking on the pavement, two girls out walking on a spring day, two pretty not-quite-teenagers who would, of course, pay for everything they took. I stood there for a minute, my cheeks burning in spite of the chilly wind. What was the penalty for a thief? How many goats or oxen would I have had to sacrifice if I'd lived back then?
I turned the little jar of cream over in my hand. Then I pushed it deep into my pocket and hailed a cab on Walnut Street and rode back to the synagogue, where my mother would be waiting, the way she always was.
NINE
I walked home from synagogue flushed and furious and trying hard to hide it from Joy, who sauntered alongside me like she didn't have a care in the world. Bruce Guberman!
In our synagogue! In the sanctuary! By my daughter's invitation!
My voice was level as I asked Joy what Bruce was doing there. Hers was just as reasonable as she hurried down the sidewalk and explained that it was an event for blended families, and Bruce was part of hers.
"Why didn't you tell me you'd invited him?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I just figured you knew he'd be there, because he's part of my family." Her logic was unassailable. I couldn't argue. Instead, I seethed, and fretted, and, as we turned onto Third Street, mentally reviewed the contents of my kitchen for possible succor. There was a quart of mint chocolate cookie ice cream that I'd stashed in the back of the freezer for an occasion just such as this. I'd take out the ice cream, let it soften, set the table, have a glass of wine...
I'd just set my purse down on the half-moon table by our front door when Peter came over and kissed me hello. "Get out your checkbook," he murmured into my ear. I pulled off my coat and sniffed the air. I could smell pot roast in the Crock-Pot where I'd left it, its rich scent of garlic and onions mixing with the distinctive tang of Fracas perfume and liquor.
"Cannie!" My little sister was wearing her red leather cowboy boots, glossy hair piled on top of her head, and leather pants cut low enough to display a few inches of supple midriff and jutting hip bone. There was a wineglass in her hand. From her flushed cheeks and glazed eyes, I guessed it wasn't her first beverage of the evening.
"Aunt Elle!" said my daughter.
"Joy!" Elle cooed, and smacked Joy's cheek, sloshing wine on the floor. Her Louis Vuitton weekend bag was by the door, along with her purse. She'd already plugged in her cell-phone charger and set her phone, blinking, next to the blue-and-white pottery bowl where I kept my keys, bus tokens, and spare change. I hugged my sister hello, mentally forgoing the drink I'd been planning on and doubling the portion of ice cream.
Cannie Shapiro 02 Certain Girls Page 8
