by Natasha Díaz
The entire class bangs on the tables and explodes into a chorus of joyous shouting at the prospect of forgoing the final. The ruckus sends Mr. Bowels running behind his desk.
“I’ve posted a team list by the Laws of Nature poster. Please check it now and reseat yourselves next to your partner,” he squeaks from his crouched position.
A communal groan threatens to overwhelm his tentative control, but Principal Lackey gives Mr. Bowels a “stay strong” look of encouragement.
“Okay, one person per table, go up and report back to your table mate,” Mr. Bowels suggests in an attempt to rally the troops.
“NOW!” Mrs. Lackey’s voice booms.
Heavy feet march toward the list, and Lola joins them, so I hang back to wait for my destiny. A few moments later, my chair is pulled out from behind me, sending me and my belongings clattering to the ground.
“I always sit on the left; it’s my good side,” Abby sneers, shoving past me as she takes my seat.
“Ahem.” Mrs. Lackey stares in our direction with disapproval.
Lola gathers her things and pats my shoulder softly, a show of support, before walking toward the front of the class to join her new partner.
“Mr. Bow-ells!!” Abby raises her arm halfway so her hand hangs limp at the end of it, the way members of the British royal family often greet plebeians.
“Bowls,” he mumbles under his breath as he makes his way through the class. “Yes, Abby, what can I do for you?”
“We don’t have the same free periods. I have equestrian practice, and Nevaeh has…well, I don’t know what she has, but this won’t work. I need a new person.”
My heart bursts out of my chest, overjoyed at the prospect that her unabashed entitlement might serve some good after all. Mr. Bowels looks at Mrs. Lackey for backup, but she raises an eyebrow. This is clearly a test.
“Well, Abby, I understand, but these teams are nonnegotiable. You will have to compromise and find some time after school to work together.”
Abby flicks her wrist, dismissing him. Then she leans toward me with a smile.
“You better not bring any bedbugs to my house, because I’m sure as hell not setting foot in your neighborhood,” she says loud enough for the kids at the tables on either side of us to turn and stare.
Abby raises her chin so her upturned nose faces the ceiling and pulls out her phone to take a selfie. I slide down in my chair until I am completely hidden behind the notebook in front of me.
* * *
—
“How can they put you together? That’s like, a hate crime,” Stevie gripes as we leave the building at the end of the day. “Wait, isn’t that the rabbi lady?”
I look up to see Rabbi Sarah leaning against a black car.
“I’ll call you later,” I say to Stevie.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her after I power walk to the curb.
“Thought I’d pick you up in case you get another attack of the twinkle toes.”
She opens the car door and stretches her arm out, preventing any chance of me running in the opposite direction. Abby Jackson walks by with her minions, so I hop in and slam the door before we become any more of a spectacle. The car makes its way off campus, but rather than heading toward White Plains, we get onto the highway and head straight into the city.
“Isn’t the driver going the wrong way? I’m staying at my dad’s tonight.”
“We’re taking a detour,” Rabbi Sarah explains.
We pull up in front of a short building in the East Village. She jumps out of the car and ushers me into a temple, where she touches her hand to her mouth, kisses it, and then taps a small, thin rectangular object on the right side of the door frame before leading me down some stairs. Chatter and giggles crescendo until we find ourselves in a basement classroom, surrounded by kids ranging in age from about eight to twelve. A young white woman with curly dark brown hair in a floor-length paisley skirt and layered solid-colored-cotton shirts of varying sleeve lengths waves us in.
“Nevaeh, hi! Sarah told me about you, I’m Chaya. Welcome!” She runs over to greet me and then turns to her class. “Sheket, b’vakasha!” she calls out.
“Hey!” all the kids respond as they take their seats with a swift obedience that puts Mr. Bowels’s classroom technique to shame.
Rabbi Sarah senses my hesitation and nudges me forward to join the group. We take seats at a table with a boy who looks a few years younger than Jerry but is dressed like an AARP spokesperson. His thick linen button-down is tucked into dark blue corduroy pants, and his brown shoes look orthopedic. He passes out sheets of paper titled The Hebrew Alphabet.
“I’m Mordechai,” he tells me. “You are most welcome to join us.”
He takes my hand in both of his, clasping it as though he is the leader of this small community, charged with vetting potential new members. The teacher announces that it’s time to split into study groups. The older kids congregate in the far corner of the room, while the younger kids come to our table, filling in the unoccupied spaces between Mordechai and me.
“Aren’t we going over there?” I say, pointing to the kids closer to my age.
Rabbi Sarah shakes her head. “You need some lessons in the basics first.”
Mordechai gets the go-ahead. Letter by letter, we repeat the alphabet back to him, and he stops regularly to correct my pronunciation, much to the chagrin of the other nine-year-olds, who seem bemused by how little I know. The class ends with a resounding rendition of the Hebrew version of the alphabet song and a blessing from Mordechai. He hands me a homemade laminated business card that reads RABBI IN TRAINING with a phone number, an email address where he is available for guidance, and the name of his YouTube channel, to which he claims to have a few hundred followers.
“So, what do you think?” Rabbi Sarah asks once the rest of the kids have been picked up by their parents.
“I think someone needs to watch Mordechai before he starts a cult,” I snap. “And I think you’re out of a job once my dad hears you brought me to day care for the afternoon. There is nothing he hates more than wasting his time and money.”
“I have no doubt he’ll be pissed that you’ve fallen behind, especially since you skipped out on the first lesson,” she says calmly, the way a chess master might lay out an unexpected check.
“It’s your word against mine, and based on your own account, you never showed up,” I shoot back.
She thinks hard, but the folds on her forehead multiply as the realization sets in that she may be caught in a stalemate.
“You got me!” She waves an arm like a white flag and peacefully forfeits. She begins to head up the stairs.
The black car that picked us up is still waiting, and we walk toward it, Rabbi Sarah leading the way.
“Hey, don’t worry. It’s not your fault. I get that you’re just doing your job.” I hold out my hand as a peace offering—the last thing I want to do is taint this victory with negative karma.
“Yeah, although…” The look of defeat on her face melts away to reveal a devilish grin. “I’d hate for this to get circulated around your school. I hear high school kids can be brutal.”
She holds up her phone and pushes play on a video. Mordechai stands at the head of a table and sings, as do I, along with the rest of the kids, who alternately sip apple juice and chant words in singsongy voices:
“” Alef, Bet, Vet.
“” Gimel, Dalet, Hay.
The video ends, and Rabbi Sarah grabs the hand I extended to her minutes ago and shakes it.
“See you next week, Nevaeh.”
Checkmate.
Chapter 14
“Pussycat, is that you?” My father comes out into the hallway to greet me as though we enjoy one another’s company again.
I immediately drop my things and cover my mouth. T
he air in the house is deadly, like a fart in the shower, pungent and hot; it detonates like a bomb of nastiness over all my senses, almost sending me down for the count.
“What is that smell?” I gasp through my fingers.
“Dinner.”
Ashleigh appears in an apron, carrying a bowl of cooked cabbage and broccoli, which she thrusts into my chest. The steam exfoliates my face and coats my nostrils with a vile sulfuric scent.
“It’s a thirty-day regimen to clean your system of toxins. We could all use a cleansing around here, wouldn’t you say?”
She looks me up and down like I’m a stray dog in desperate need of a bath.
“You can set the table.” She nods in the direction of the dining room, as though I don’t know my way around.
Dad and Ashleigh march in just as I place the last fork, each carrying their own steaming bowl of garbage. Ashleigh takes a seat at the head of the table.
“The sharp edge of the knife faces toward the plate and goes on the right side,” she says with a sneer. “Figures your mother didn’t teach you how to set a proper table.”
Ashleigh lifts the knife from the left side, where it rests beside the fork, and slowly moves it to the other side of the plate, twisting it in the air so the sharp edge no longer faces out. I can’t tell why it matters, but my body burns with embarrassment. Suddenly feverish, I shiver when the cold silver in my hand sends a chill up my arm as I pick up the knife before me and move it to the other side of my plate.
It is a feeling I know well, especially when in the presence of white women. I look so much like them, and yet, when it comes down to it, I am never good enough. Not for them.
She’s one of those, she’s one of them.
I know because I’ve hid from them.
Cried from them.
I think I just died inside again.
Fingers licked clean—a wolf that’s snuck the last bite.
Hands wrapped around my neck, tighter and tight.
She’s one of ’em.
Those draped stolen gold
And
Diamonds bought from the severed hand of a seven-year-old.
Them, an apology never uttered of their own accord.
They, defined by the bar set with appropriated trends.
Because when you have pearl teeth and glitter breath
What counts
Is how many worship you in the end.
“Nevaeh?” My dad breaks me from my thoughts, deflecting attention from Ashleigh’s cruelty. “How was your first session with Rabbi Sarah?”
Rather than responding, I put a spoonful of what at some point might have been quinoa into my bowl. After a few bites, I give up—sustenance, I tell myself, is not worth the irreparable assault on my taste buds.
“You know, before Ashleigh started at the law firm, she worked in event planning,” Dad says. “Maybe you could team up to plan the bat mitzvah party.”
I shoot dagger eyes at Ashleigh. Jordan may hate me, but I bet she would be proud of how well I employ her torture techniques if she were here. Ashleigh, it seems, is impervious, because she jumps right in to tell me all about the party she has imagined.
A giant legal binder plops down in front of me and opens to reveal hideous swatches of pastels and shimmery fabrics that I would refuse to consider even if I were willingly participating in this extravaganza.
“I know the best dry bar to straighten your hair so it isn’t all frizzy for the photos,” she declares, and shows me images of celebrity socialites in an array of outfits. The only consistency is that they all look like her and nothing like me.
“I have a real vision for it: think, My Super Sweet Sixteen vibes.” She closes the binder with pride.
“Nevaeh, honey, what do you think?” my father asks, smiling.
“I think it’s super impressive!” I announce, giving him what he clearly wants. “But I’m not sure when Ashleigh could possibly find the time, what with her busy schedule of home-wrecking.” My lips burn as the words come out, but I don’t feel bad. I feel rage.
Ashleigh zeroes in on me but allows a feigned sadness to wash over her as my dad places his hand on her shoulder, comforting her the way he used to comfort me. From where he sits to her left, he can’t see the glimmer of joy in her eyes as he chooses her over me, but I can.
“I am so sorry, Ashleigh,” my father says.
One of his eyes twitches, no doubt because he’s tormented by his lack of control over this whole situation. He sits back down and takes Ashleigh’s outstretched hand in his. “Nevaeh, what has gotten into you?”
I could ask him the same question.
The disappointment seeps out of both of us and fills the space with a funk so foul it overpowers the stench of this lukewarm meal.
Samuel Levitz does not make mistakes. Or so he thinks. That’s how he planned his life. That’s how he chose his wife. That’s how he raised me. Except a few years ago, I found a tape with a commercial on it that surprised me.
The commercial is terrible. In it, my dad walks into the frame and leans against a desk in front of a backdrop of bookshelves. After rattling off statistics regarding his past successes, he looks directly into the camera and assures you, his future client, that there is nothing he won’t do to help you. It’s corny and low-budget. It never aired. Thank goodness.
My dad said that once he saw the final product, he could not in good conscience put something that looked so tawdry on a public forum, even if it was only going to run during weekly local daytime television.
Ashleigh moves behind my father to squeeze his shoulders and release the rising tension caused by his delinquent daughter. He moans in gratitude for the relief and she shoots me a devious glance, reminding me how easily she can wrap him around her tacky French tips.
Nauseated, I get up from the table to go to my room. Behind me, I hear Ashleigh’s whispers poisoning my father and his judgment.
To this day, my dad says that stupid commercial was the only mistake he has ever made.
Maybe it was, the little voice in me says. Until now.
Chapter 15
My phone buzzes on the way to the cafeteria, and the tiny photo of Jesus kissing my face pops up on my screen:
Hey, boo, whatchu doin’ tonight? Free crib in the hood.
Roll through wit Stevie. I wanna c u.
He has begun to text me every so often, just the occasional emoji or gif, but that doesn’t stop my heart from falling down to my knees. I put my phone away and get in line for food; I may be an awkward, antisocial virgin, but even I know to give at least a five-minute lag time before responding.
Today, the menu is pad Thai, vegetable green curry, and a dim sum cart, in addition to the regular sandwich options, salad station, and the obligatory ice cream cooler. (An alumnus recently donated a huge amount of money to renovate the cafeteria, with one stipulation: that there be at least seven ice cream flavors available to students at all times.)
I balance an overloaded plate of noodles and dumplings on my tray against a bowl of raspberry chocolate chip ice cream, along with my phone, which keeps buzzing with more texts from Jesus, as I make my way into the courtyard, where Stevie waits for me by our tree.
“You in White Plains for the weekend with your prepubescent stepmom?” Stevie asks.
“I was supposed to be, but my dad had to switch weekends. Apparently, he came down with the flu.”
My phone buzzes again and Stevie grabs it, annoyed to be competing with a cellular device for my attention.
“Are you serious, B? You couldn’t lead with ‘we got invited to a party’?” He jumps up and screams, drawing eyes from all over the quad. “Is Jordan going to be there?”
I don’t have the heart to tell him that he doesn’t stand a chance. His association with me puts him at the
bottom of the list, even if he weren’t also younger and rich, the last likely being the worse offense in her opinion than the other two combined.
“I was getting to it, jeez. Come on, let’s go. I have a triple of bio.” I fake a projectile vomit at the thought of the next three hours with Abby.
“You think you got problems? I only have two weeks until my preliminary audition tape is due for the Zahira fellowship, and I have a double of social studies. Mr. Miller sat me next to Abraham Moscowitz.”
Abe has been at Pritchard with us since kindergarten. He’s nice but has the absolute worst hygiene of anyone I have ever met. Every crevice around his braces is stuffed with food, and the stink is so palpable you can taste it. In the past I would have pitied anyone forced into a yearlong partnership with Abe, but considering I’m stuck with Abby, I’d trade in a second.
* * *
—
The first team assignment is due next week, and Abby and I have avoided doing any work. Normally, I would just do it myself and let her take half the credit to avoid the torture, but there is no way one of us could complete this assignment alone. A folded piece of paper waits for me in front of my seat.
My house, next Wednesday after school.
Do the reading, because I won’t.
Mr. Bowels, who already seems to suffer from some sort of glandular disorder that leaves him perpetually drenched in sweat, also seems to be fighting allergies, making it impossible for him to finish a sentence without sneezing. Abby raises her hand.
“Mr. Bowels?” She waves her arm with urgency. “I am not feeling well. Like, I need to leave right now.”
“Well, okay, Abby. I hope you feel bett—”
Abby stands abruptly, cutting him off, and turns to me.
“Have to get my house ready for the party I’m throwing tonight,” she whispers. “Too bad you didn’t make the cut.” She grabs a few of my curls in her hand. “And don’t even think about crashing with this nappy hair of yours and ruining it for everyone.”
