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“Hello there.” Caterer Man meets us at the door. He shakes my parents’ hands.
“And you must be the bat mitzvah girl?” He looks at me but then hesitates a second and looks at Kaylan.
“I am.” I smile. “This is my BFF.”
“Nice to meet you, BFF.” He shakes her hand.
“Nice to meet you, too. You can also call me Kaylan.”
“Got it. So, please follow me back to my office, and we’ll start discussing the plans for your big day!” He claps. “We are going to make it phenomenal.”
Kaylan and I crack up. There’s just something about the way he says everything that makes it all sound like it’s out of a movie or something.
“Ari. Stop.” My mom shakes her head, all furious. “Now.”
We walk on, following Caterer Man, who never told us his name.
We get to his office, and we all sit down around a round table. There are bottles of Pellegrino for each of us, and a vegetable platter with some fancy-looking dip.
“Ooh.” Kaylan opens the Pellegrino and takes a sip. “Lovely.”
“So.” Catering Man looks down at his notes and then back up at us.
“I’m so sorry, but I don’t know your name,” I say. “Did I miss it?”
“Ari!” my mom says again forcefully.
I don’t get what I did wrong this time. Seriously, what is her deal?
“Oh, no trouble. I’m Ken. Ken Wainscott.”
“Nice to meet you, Ken,” Kaylan and I say at the same time, and then we jinx, and my mom shoots daggers at us from her eyes.
“Mr. Wainscott,” my mom hisses.
“As I was saying,” he continues. “For the cocktail hour, we’re thinking a tuna tartare appetizer. An extensive crudités spread. A sushi station. A noodle bar. A carving station. The caviar as we discussed.” He pauses. “Does that sound about right? Anything we’re missing?”
My parents look at each other, and back at him, and then at me.
“Um, yes,” Kaylan shrieks. “Mini hot dogs. Am I right?” She laughs and then pulls back a little. “I mean, if you all agree, but the thing is, everyone loves mini—”
“You are definitely right,” I chime in. “That’s literally the first thing people look for at a cocktail hour. The first thing.”
“Okay, let’s get back to Mr. Wainscott’s menu, girls,” my mom says, still shooting daggers. “We only have the sitter for Gemma for a short time, and we need to get this done.”
She clenches her teeth in my dad’s direction.
“This isn’t up for debate,” I tell them. “Mini hot dogs are a requirement for me.”
My dad closes his eyes and then opens them again. “Excuse me, I don’t like the way you’re talking, Ari. This party is not something you’re entitled to. You need to be more respectful when speaking with us, and Mr. Wainscott.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wainscott.” I look over at him and fold my hands on the table in front of me. “But wouldn’t you agree that many partygoers enjoy mini hot dogs?”
He does a little head wobble while he considers the question. “I think many do, yes. I wasn’t envisioning it for your event, but we can certainly work it in if they’re a priority for you.”
Kaylan leans forward. “Hot dogs are always a priority for us.” She elbows me. “Right, Ar?”
All of a sudden, I can’t help it. I completely crack up, falling over onto the table and resting my head on my arms.
“Arianna, please,” my mom says. “This is madness. Your behavior is completely unacceptable. This is beyond silly.”
The way she says silly makes me crack up even more.
“We’re in the silly season now,” I loud-whisper to Kaylan.
We both burst out laughing again, and we can’t stop.
“Girls!” my mom yells. “I am furious! Enough!”
We roll our lips together to stop the laughter and look down at the table. I really want to take a piece of cucumber with some of this fancy dip, but I sense this may not be the time.
My mom looks at Mr. Wainscott. “Okay, so what else should we discuss? This process is unraveling at a rapid pace, much to my chagrin. I am so deeply sorry.”
“No trouble,” he says, looking down at his notes. “I think we’re covered on the cocktail hour. We have three options for your main course: salmon, chicken with a sesame demi-glace.”
The way he says that makes Kaylan and me completely lose it again, but he ignores us.
“And a veggie risotto.” He raises his eyebrows, trying to stay calm. “And we’ll have the usual fare for the kids.”
“Usual fare?” Kaylan asks, drumming her fingers on her cheek. “What does the usual fare consist of?”
I kick her under the table. Does she not see how angry my parents are?
“Well, I’m glad you asked.” He sits back in his chair and smiles. “We have chicken nuggets, hamburgers, and a pasta option.”
“Sounds about right.” Kaylan looks at me. “Arianna? You approve?”
I nod. “Yup.”
My parents are going to kill me when I get home. They won’t even need a caterer because I won’t be having a bat mitzvah.
Because I’ll be dead.
I don’t feel totally bad about it, though. It was actually a super-fun time with Kaylan that has tons of private-joke potential.
We really needed a silly experience together after the mega-super-serious intensity of our stay-up-all-night sleepover.
SEVENTEEN
MY PARENTS TAKE KAYLAN HOME and I run into the house with her because I forgot my overnight bag.
“Come home right away,” my mom says as we get out of the car. “Immediately. I don’t care that Kaylan’s going out of town. You are in trouble. This is not hangout time, Arianna.”
I nod. “Okay.”
We run inside and upstairs and I grab my bag. “Well, have so much fun. I can’t wait to hear all the details.”
“I’ll keep you informed.” Kaylan laughs. “And while I’m away, feel free to keep working on your mac and cheese, and your handstand, and pursue your passion, break your bad habit. Ya know. Just because I’m away doesn’t mean you can’t work on the list.”
“Kaylan.” I stare deep into her eyes. “I know. Calm down. I’ll work on it all.”
“Freaking out, Ari.”
“Calming down, Kay.” I smile. “Breaths. Deep breaths. Focus on your breathing.”
“Here’s another copy of the list. In case you lost yours.” Kaylan hands it to me.
“Uh, okay.” I take the list and look it over. “Just have fun. Try to be in the moment. Mindfulness. We learned about it at camp. . . .”
Keep our friendship strong.
Drink enough water (for a glowing complexion).
Make our mark.
Master the art of mac and cheese (from scratch!).
Perfect our handstand.
Help someone else shine.
Stay up long enough to watch the sun set and rise.
Find the perfect man for Kaylan’s mom.
Draw a doodle a day.
Tell a boy how we really feel.
Pursue a passion (first find one).
Break a bad habit.
“Camp, camp, camp.” She rolls her eyes.
“It’s good advice,” I remind her.
“I’ll try.” Kaylan reaches out and gives me a hug. “You can hang with the lunch table girls while I’m away, ya know.”
“I know. Bye, Kay.” I run down the stairs, my overnight bag slung over my shoulder.
“Really hope you’re not in too much trouble!” she yells to me.
“Me too!”
“Oh, and let me know if you hear from Golfy!”
On the walk home, my heart starts to feel a little droopy. Still no text or call from him. And a week without Kaylan, right before school starts—not exactly how I envisioned the end of summer. She’s leaving me right at crunch time.
Maybe I will call the lunch table girls.
“Phone privileges revoked. Arianna, that was completely unacceptable. Come in here now.” I follow her into the den, and she keeps talking. “It was distracting and not nice to the caterer and frankly, you came off as very spoiled. I’m disappointed in you.”
“I’m sorry.” I sit down on the edge of the couch.
“That doesn’t sound convincing,” my dad chimes in from the recliner. “This event is about becoming a woman, and you’re acting like a child. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. We send you to camp and since you’ve been back, you’re like a different person.”
“Well, to be honest, I kind of am a different person,” I admit, as respectfully as possible. “I am so glad you finally noticed.”
My parents make eyes at each other.
“Ohh-kay,” my dad says, and hesitates for a second. “Can you be this different person while also staying respectful to adults?”
“I don’t know what got into me.” I sigh. “Kaylan and I stayed up all night to watch the sun set and then rise, kind of a spiritual thing before my bat mitzvah, and I think the lack of sleep really got to us.”
“I see,” my mom says. “At least there’s an explanation. Now please go look over the honors track packet that arrived when you were away at camp. Make sure you know what is ahead of you. And this would be a perfect time to practice your prayers and your Torah portion.”
“I’ve got this, Mom.” I roll my head back against the couch. “You don’t believe me, but I have everything under control.”
“I wish I could say the same thing for the two of us,” my mom mutters to my dad.
“What?” I ask.
“Never mind, Arianna.” My dad closes his eyes, exasperated. “Go do whatever you’re going to do.”
I traipse up to my room, about to text the camp girls and check in, but within a few seconds I realize my phone is still in my mom’s possession.
Email will have to do.
I turn on my laptop and sign into my email.
I jump when I see it. An email from Golfy!
Arianna Nodberg!
I lost your phone number and they haven’t sent the roster out yet! But then I remembered when you gave me your email and I realized I could email you! I hope you get this. How’s life @ home? What’s new? All is well here. We’re going to Maine for a few days, and we all have to go screen-free the whole time (my mom’s rule). So if I don’t write back, don’t think I’m ignoring you. I’m not!
Peace!
Golfy
I read his email over three times and then decide to write back later. He sent this yesterday and he said he was going away, so I doubt he’d see my reply anyway.
I copy and paste it into an email to the camp girls:
OMG, you guys!!!! Golfy emailed me. Soooooo happy. Things @ home are a little crazy. Kaylan is away this week w/ her dad and bro. My parents are mad @ me because we were rude at a meeting with the caterer for my bat mitzvah. And I can’t totally tell if I’m feeling my home friends or not. I just miss u guys soooo much. Maybe u can all come 4 a sleepover this week??? I just thought of the idea! Wb & lmk what u think. I would rather be texting u guys, but my phone is confiscated at the moment.
XOXOOXOXOXOXOX ILYSM! Ari
I wait a few minutes to see if anyone writes back, but so far, nothing. I don’t even really know all the lunch table girls’ email addresses, so I guess that will have to wait until I get my phone back.
I think the best way to get it back quickly is to basically do the right thing—clean my room, practice my bat mitzvah stuff, maybe set the table later.
There’s no point in begging for it now. If I do the right things, then my parents will see that I’m really sorry, and I’ve done everything I needed to do, and they’ll give it back to me. And then I can ask them if the camp girls can sleep over this week.
Easy-peasy lemon squeezy, as my preschool teacher, Jamie, used to say.
I think I can use this week at home with Kaylan away to really focus on the list, especially pursue my passion and make my mark. I need to figure out what those things are, what I want them to be.
And as I sit here practicing my bat mitzvah prayers and my Torah portion, I think back to all of the people who have come before me and said these exact same prayers, and how we’re all linked to one another. Connected. We’re all part of something.
I start to jot down some ideas for my speech but end up doodling my daily doodle instead.
But I do have a mini epiphany! My Torah portion. The Life of Sarah. I haven’t really spent much time thinking about Sarah beyond this portion. I mean, who was she? I know she was the wife of Abraham and the mother of Isaac and she’s one of the matriarchs of the Jewish people.
Maybe there’s wisdom to be found in her life, stuff I can apply to my struggles.
As I research, I discover that Sarah actually had a ton of struggles. She had to leave home, with Abraham. She wasn’t able to have a child for many, many years. And when she did, her husband almost sacrificed him for God. I mean, that is crazy stuff.
In comparison, my life does seem like a day at the beach. But my main question is, how did Sarah get through it? What was her secret? And how does this apply to me and the bat mitzvah experience?
I don’t have a clue.
I don’t think I know any of those answers yet. I hope I’ll be able to figure them out, but it may take some time. I feel kind of lucky that my bat mitzvah date had such a meaningful, thought-provoking Torah portion.
One of the best things I learned at camp this summer was that it’s okay to not know and it’s okay to ask questions.
EIGHTEEN
I’M THREE DAYS INTO THE week at home without Kaylan and less than a week away from school starting, and I haven’t seen a single friend.
The camp girls and I have been emailing, but it doesn’t seem like a Camp Silver reunion sleepover will happen. Everyone’s busy with little trips and family visits and stuff. I keep thinking about getting the lunch table girls’ email addresses from Kaylan, but then I don’t really feel like it.
“I’m so glad you’ve been home so much,” Gemma says, buttering her bagel at the kitchen table. “It’s been really fun.”
“I know. Want to play Twister again later?” I ask her, pouring myself some orange juice.
“Of course!” She smiles. “And I can’t wait for you to show Kaylan your new and improved handstand. It’s amazing. I’m so glad you finally get that it’s all about your core.”
I crack up. I don’t think most nine-year-olds talk like this. “Thanks, Gem.”
She high-fives me.
I JHHed that one last night after Gemma watched me do three perfect handstands in a row.
And I’m planning on making the mac and cheese for dinner tonight.
“Girls.” My mom walks into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, still in her nightgown. “Dad and I have to talk to you.”
Gemma and I make eyes at each other and wait for her to continue.
A minute later, my dad comes in wearing his plaid pajama pants and his blue terry-cloth bathrobe. We call this his “sick robe” since he only wears it when he’s sick.
Uh-oh. Does he have cancer? Is that what they’ve been hush-talking about?
“What is it?” Gemma asks. “You’re both so weird. Just tell us. Come on!”
“Gem, chill.” I put a hand on her hand. “It’s okay.”
They sit down at the table with us, look at each other, sort of like they’re waiting to see who will talk first. The clock above the sink sounds louder than it usually does. Tick. Tick. Tick. Whose idea was it to make clocks tick and make them tick so loud? No one wants to hear the seconds of their life literally ticking by.
My dad clears his throat, neatening up the napkins in the napkin holder. “Um, this is hard to say, and I don’t want you guys to
worry.” He looks up at the ceiling. “But I lost my job yesterday.”
We stare at him and then glance toward my mom, who’s holding her head in her hands. Ironic that he says we shouldn’t worry when my mom is literally the human embodiment of worry, especially right now.
“So sorry, Dad.” I look down at my bagel. “What happened?”
He hesitates and then says, “Well, they had to downsize. And I was the one hired most recently, and it’s really nobody’s fault. I’ll find something else. I just wanted you guys to know. So you weren’t confused about why I was home all the time all of a sudden.”
We nod, and Gemma takes a bite out of her bagel. I scan my brain for something to say to make this whole situation feel a little bit better.
“Well, we can spend more time together until you find another job!” I smile, hoping to add some positivity to this conversation. “So that’s good, right?”
A corner of my dad’s lips turns up, but it’s not a real smile.
“Does Bubbie know?” I ask.
My parents look at each other, conversing with their eyeballs as they often do. And then my mom says, “Not yet. And please don’t tell her. We don’t want to worry them.”
I nod. When someone tells you not to tell someone something, you almost feel like you’re definitely going to tell them, even though you don’t want to.
“Gem, go have your bagel in the den, okay?” my mom says, all soft and exhausted sounding.
“I thought you don’t want us eating in there,” she replies.
“Just go. Thank you.”
“Why am I always being kicked out?” Gemma’s chair screeches against the floor, and she huffs out of the room. “The injustice!”
It’s always so funny to me that they kick Gemma out of these “adult” conversations, but I get to stay. I mean, I’m only three years older than she is.
My mom sniffles. “Ari, I am so sorry to do this, but I think we’re going to need to make some adjustments to your bat mitzvah.”
“What kind of adjustments?” I force myself not to laugh when the Mr. Wainscott meeting pops into my head.
My parents look at each other again and then down at the table.
“Hello?” I ask, when it feels like three centuries have passed.