How to Ruin My Teenage Life (7 page)

It takes me exactly fifty-six minutes to convince my dad I'm old enough to stay at the condo without parents.

Brighter times are definitely ahead.

9

Kosher question #2: You can't mix milk and meat because
God commanded “You shall not boil a kid (baby lamb)
in its mother's milk” (Exodus 23:19). So why can't I mix
milk with chicken? You can't milk a chicken.

“Why do you keep glancing at the door every two seconds?” Marla asks me the next day at work.

Umm … maybe it's because my dad's date is gonna be here any second, followed by my dad who still doesn't know he's going on a date. He thinks Marla needs to talk to him about my work schedule. I made up some ridiculous story to get him into the café at seven o'clock.

“I'm watching for my dad,” I tell my boss guiltily.

The door to the café opens. It's a woman I've never seen before. Is it Kelly, my dad's date? Or is it someone else? Kelly wrote in her e-mail that she has strawberry blonde hair. This woman kind of has strawberry blonde hair, although it's really frizzy and she needs some expensive hair products to help tame that mane of hers. That picture she posted online was with her hair straight, but maybe she forgot to flatiron it today.

She walks up to the counter and suddenly I'm feeling self-conscious, like I have to impress the woman. “Are you Kelly?” I ask.

The woman shakes her Brillo pad head. “No.”

“Oh, good.”

When she frowns at me, I try and recover quick. “Can I take your order?”

She looks up at our board of specialty coffees, taking her time. I have the urge to give her a snoring sound (I'm good at those) but don't think Marla will appreciate my humor. So I wait with a smile on my face. And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I swear, any more of this waiting and I'm going to frown. My mouth can't take all this fake smiling. I start humming, but I don't even realize it until the woman looks down at me with a stern expression. Seriously, thank goodness this woman isn't my dad's strawberry blonde date.

The door dings. Another customer. “Are you ready?” I ask the woman who can't make up her mind. I could just see her as my stepmom, me waiting for her to pick me up from school, taking forever to pick out groceries, and waiting for her to order a simple spicy tuna roll from Hanabi.

Looking around her, another woman who could pass for strawberry blonde walks up to the counter. I suck in my breath. This woman is really large. And I'm being nice. Maybe the picture she posted was pre-weight gain. My dad is a workout and health nut, and this woman looks like she's snacked on a few too many Kit Kats if you know what I mean. She has a friendly face, though. Hey, maybe Dad can put her on a boot camp diet plan and she'd lose those extra pounds in no time at all.

Ignoring the wishy-washy lady, I ask the overweight one, “Are you Kelly?”

“No. But I'd like a large caramel latte with whipped cream.”

I keep up the Perk Me Up! smile, although I'm tempted to suggest the skim latte instead of the caramel one. While I'm ringing her up, the wishy-washy lady signals to me she's ready. Can't she see I'm ringing up someone else?

Marla is in the office and I don't want her to think I can't take care of the customers. I turn to the wishy-washer. “Did you decide?”

“What's the calorie count of the medium vanilla coffee? Is it the same as the regular?”

Is she kidding me? I look under the counter to see if there's a calorie listing for the drinks, but there isn't. Now I don't know what to do. Should I make the other lady's drink or call Marla to help?

I look at my watch. It's seven on the dot. Kelly will be here any second. My dad will be here any second.

And Miss Wishy-Washy is worried about a calorie count.

I knock on the door to the office and call Marla out to the register. I hurry to make the large caramel latte while Marla takes care of the frizzy-haired, high-maintenance customer. The chime rings on the door and a woman walks into the café who definitely looks like Kelly's PJSN profile pic.

She scans the café, then sits down at a vacant table to wait for my unsuspecting dad.

Sure enough, my dad walks in the door next. My heart is palpitating a hundred beats a second right now. My dad waves to me and walks up to the register. Kelly must recognize him from the picture I posted on his profile. She moves up behind him and is about to tap him on the shoulder.

“I have to tell you something,” I say at the same time Kelly taps him and says, “Ron?”

He turns to her. “Can I help you?”

“Dad, it's important.”

He puts his fingertips together on one hand and moves it up and down, the unique Israeli sign for
wait a second
. The problem is, I can't wait a second. I need to tell him that, even though he's unaware of it, he's on his first PJSN date.

“I'm Kelly. Are you Ron?” Kelly asks.

“Yes.”

“From the Professional Jewish Singles Network?”

Pause.

“Um … could you hold that thought for one second,” my dad says to Kelly. Then he turns to me. “Tell me what this is all about, Amy. Right. Now. I'm assuming Marla doesn't want to talk to me about adjusting your work schedule.”

“
Aba
, you're going to laugh when I tell you this.”

“I doubt it.”

Kelly looks upset and embarrassed. “Am I missing something here?”

Okay, it's time to fess up. I thought it'd be easier than it is. I have the urge to hide in a dark corner. “I set up the date. I'm his daughter,” I tell her.

Getting it, Kelly steps back. “Oh.” She adjusts the Coach bag hanging on her shoulder. “Well, that makes me look stupid.”

“Actually, it makes me look stupid,” I tell her.

“And me,” my dad chimes in. “I'll tell you what, Kelly. Why don't we sit down and have my daughter serve us the most expensive drinks in the place. It'll be her treat.”

Kelly shrugs and nods her head in agreement. “Sounds good to me.”

It doesn't sound good to me at all!

“I'm hungry, actually. How about one of the scones?” my dad asks. I'm adding the bill in my head, knowing I'll have to work at least two more hours in order to pay for the food bill.

“Scones sound wonderful,” Kelly says, smiling. “Don't they have Eli's cheesecake, too? Grab me a slice of that, would you, dear?”

I'm not liking Kelly with the strawberry blonde hair as much as my dad seems to like her. Teaching me a lesson is not how I imagined this date going. My dad sits down with Kelly while I bring them over Double Dutch Coffee Delight drinks. (I add a couple extra shots of espresso as a bonus … I hope they both are up all night and can't sleep.) Those specialty drinks are four dollars and twenty-five cents each, along with the two-dollar-and-fifty-five-cent cheesecake and two-dollar-and-thirty-five-cent scones.

As if my day isn't disastrous enough, when Marla tells me to sweep the floor of the café I find Nathan at his usual spot in the corner. “You got caught in one of your lies, Barbie?” Nathan says. “I have a piece of advice. Next time you set your dad up on a date, you should probably tell him about it beforehand.”

I shoot him a nasty glare. “At least I have parents,” I say, then want to take back my words right after they've left my mouth. Nathan's face goes ashen and he starts packing up his stuff.

Maybe his parents are dead or in the hospital somewhere. I'm a jerk. “I'm sorry,” I quickly say.

As he shoves the last book into his backpack, he looks up at me. “No you're not.” Then he leaves me standing here while he storms out of the café, leaving me to pick up his used cup which is still three-quarters of the way full with tea. Now I'm feeling even worse than before.

I glance over at my dad, who's shaking hands with Kelly. She exits the café, leaving my dad alone at the table until I saunter up to him and say, “So?”

He looks up at me from his chair. “So what?”

“How was the date?”

“Fine.”

Fine
is probably the most non-committal and non-descriptive word in the English language. I hate the word
fine
. It doesn't even mean anything. I try a different approach, one that can't be answered with a “fine.” “Are you gonna see her again?”

“Maybe.”

Great, another non-descriptive word. “Did you get her number?”

My dad stands now, which is not a good thing because he's way taller than me. “Listen to me, Amy, and listen good. Don't set me up on another date without my knowledge or you'll find yourself without a cell phone. Got it?”

“Fine.”

10

Rosh Hashanah: Two nights of huge festive meals.
Hanukkah: Eat foods cooked in oil.
Passover: The Haggadah (Passover prayer book) specifically says, Eat The Festive Meal.
Sukkot: Build a sukkah and invite friends to eat in it.
Yom Kippur: Eat three meals at once
to make up for the day just fasted.
I see a pattern here.
Why are so many Jewish holidays centered around food?

Since my dad went out of town this morning, Jessica invited me over for Shabbat dinner. So after school I go home, walk Mutt, then take a cab to Jessica's. I might also add that Nathan ignored me the entire day. Even when I tried to apologize again, he turned around and blatantly dissed me.

“Come in, Amy,” Jessica's mom says when she opens the door to their six-flat. “Jessica is in her room.”

I climb the familiar whitewashed staircase and catch Jessica sitting at her desk, punching the keyboard of her computer. “You're not checking Mitch's e-mail again, are you?”

Without looking at me she responds, “You bet I am. He has no clue. I check them all and mark them as ‘unread' e-mail.”

“Jess, break up with him if you don't trust him.”

Jess swivels her chair around to face me. “He told me he loved me on New Year's Eve, Amy. I haven't had a guy tell me he loved me since That Guy.”

That Guy
is Michael Greenberg, who Jessica lost her virginity to last year. He blew her off right after their big night together and she's been insecure about guys ever since. She won't even give me, her bestest friend in the entire world, details about what happened with Michael. I can't even say his name without her walking out of the room.

“Did he tell you he loved you in the heat of passion?”

“His hands were under my shirt.”

Okay, so I'm not going to state the obvious. He gave her the ol' “I love you, let's get it on” crap. I look back at her and know she doesn't want to talk about it anymore.

I look inside Jessica's closet to see what new clothes she's gotten that I can borrow. I pick out a vintage gray shirt with pink writing. “Where did you get this?”

“I have no clue. My mom got it for me.”

“It's cool.” As always, I make myself at home. Best friends share clothes, secrets, and beauty tips. I guess we also share guys because I dated Mitch for about a millisecond before he started dating Jessica. Taking my own shirt off, I try on her gray one. It fits, except when I look in her long mirror on the back of her door my nipples stick out because the fabric of the shirt is too thin.

Depressed, I pull the shirt off and study my bra-covered boobs in the mirror.

“What are you doing?” Jess asks.

I hold my arms at my sides and look down at my pink lacy bra. “Do my boobs sag in this bra?” Testing what it would look like if they were perkier, I cup the bottom of my boobs and lift them up.

“Now they're too close to your chin.” Jess lets out a frustrated sigh. “I wish I had your boobs. Guys
love
your boobs.”

“They droop,” I say, my hands letting go of them.

“How can they not, they weigh what … five pounds each?”

I'll have you know I've never weighed my boobs. And I'm sure they don't weigh more than two pounds each. I turn to my best friend. “Jess, you have perfect, perky boobs.”

“Otherwise known as virtually non-existent,” Jess says. “They only look perfect because I bought this Fantasy Bra last week.” She pulls up her shirt to show me a padded pushup bra that's more padded than my mom's down winter coat. “I need this in order to look like I have
something
.”

The door to Jessica's room flies open. It's her twelve-year-old annoying and testosterone-charged brother Ben. His eyes go wide at the sight of us in our bras. I screech and hold my hands out to cover my chest.

“Get out, you little creep!” Jess yells, pulling her shirt back down.

“Are you guys comparing boobies?” Ben says while laughing. “Amy, are those real?”

Jessica and I both grab pillows off her bed and fling them at the door while Ben slams it shut. “By the way, dinner's ready,” he says, still laughing.

When we enter the dining room a few minutes later, Jess flicks her brother hard on the back of the head before sitting down.

“Ow!”

“If you don't knock next time, I'm going to take a picture of you while you're in the shower and e-mail it to your entire school.”

“That's enough,” Mr. Katz says, putting on his
kippah
and motioning for Ben to put his on, too.

In the kitchen, Jess and I help place soup bowls filled with matzoh ball soup on the table.

Mrs. Katz sets up two Shabbat candlesticks with candles in them and takes matches out of a decanter on the credenza. “Amy, would you like to do the honors?”

Me? I usually watch while Jessica or her mom lights the candles and does the Hebrew prayer. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

The entire room is silent as I clear my throat. Striking the match, I light both candles. When they're lit, I cover my eyes with my palms and say, “
Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat
. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has made us holy through His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath light.”

I take my seat at the table, abandoning the candles in the corner, when Mrs. Katz says, “Amy, did you make a wish?”

“A wish?”

“Yes, over the candles. It's our custom to do the prayer, then make a silent wish to God. Or a thank-you to God … whatever your heart feels like saying.”

Standing up and walking back to the bright yellow burning candles, I cover my eyes again and think about what I want to say.

“Ask God for Ben to accidentally have his orthodontist wire his mouth shut,” Jess says.

“Ask for Jess to grow boobs,” Ben's voice chimes in.

Ignoring both of them, I say to God,
Please take care of my Safta in Israel. She has cancer and needs your help. And also, thanks for giving me this family to have dinner with tonight so I'm not alone
.

I look up, expecting everyone to be staring at me and to ask me what I wished for. But they're not; they respect my private Shabbat wish and thanks to God. I love Jessica and her family. Even Ben.

“I saw Amy's boobies upstairs,” Ben says, then wags his eyebrows up and down at me.

Okay, maybe not Ben.

Mrs. Katz slams her hand on the table. “Can I please have a respectful Shabbat?”

“Listen to your mother,” Mr. Katz says. He stands while picking up the silver Shabbat wine cup and pours the red wine until it's almost overflowing. “
Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, boray pri ha-gafen
. Amen.”

After he takes a sip from the cup, he passes it around for everyone else to take a sip. Ben puts on a big show of gulping down the wine, but then he coughs so it splatters across the white tablecloth.

Jess rolls her eyes, takes a sip, and passes the cup to me. I'm not a wine drinker, but this wine is so sweet it's like drinking sugary children's cough syrup.

Ben lifts the embroidered cloth cover off of the challah, the Shabbat bread which is expertly braided at the kosher bakery down the street. “
Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, ha-motze lechem min ha'aretz
,” he says, then makes a big show of singing, “Aaa, aaah, maaaaaaiiiiinnn.”

Jess and I mumble, “Amen.”

Ben tears a chunk of the challah off and tosses everyone a small piece from the chunk. I think he tried tossing it into my cleavage, but I'm not sure. And when it comes to tossing a piece to Jess, he whips it at her. I think the kid needs to go to therapy, or at least be locked up until he turns eighteen.

“How is the conversion class going, Amy?” Mr. Katz asks me as he takes a spoonful of matzoh ball soup.

“Good. Rabbi Glassman is really nice.”

Mrs. Katz puts her hand over her husband's. “He married us, you know. Twenty-two years ago.”

I wonder if Rabbi Glassman will officiate my wedding one day. Even though he's not Orthodox, he won't officiate a marriage between a Jewish person and a non-Jew. He's kind of strict about that, even refused to marry his own sister because she married a Christian guy. I want to marry someone Jewish because I think it will head off lots of arguments. It's important that my kids are Jewish; it's important that my family doesn't eat pork or shellfish … or mix meat and milk products.

“Are you going to the youth group meeting tomorrow?” Mrs. Katz asks.

Jessica nods her head and says, “Are you coming, Amy?”

“I wasn't planning on it.”

“You should go. It's fun.”

After dinner, Jess and I convince her parents to let us go back to my place to crash. We spend the rest of the evening Ben-less, talking about boys and bras and books until we're tired. Then we take out ice cream from the freezer and watch movies on TV until I convince Jessica to call Mitch.

He isn't answering his cell, so she tries his house. Unfortunately, she gets reamed out by Mitch's dad for calling past eleven o'clock. He doesn't even tell her if Mitch is home or not.

What do two parentless teenagers do at eleven at night? I have a brilliant idea. “Let's call my cousin in Israel. It's eight hours ahead there.”

Before Jess can tell me it's a horrible idea, I start dialing the gazillion digits to get access to the Israeli phone system. “Allo?” my Doda Yucky answers.

“Doda Yucky, it's Amy,” I yell into the receiver.

“Ah, Amy'leh.
Mah nishmah
?” The woman thinks I'm fluent in Hebrew, but really my dad told me
mah nishmah
means “how is everything?” It's a staple phrase for Israelis.

“Great. Is Osnat there?”

“She's right here. Give your
aba
my love,
tov
?”

“
Tov
.”

“Amy?” Osnat asks.

“Yeah, it's your American cousin. Remember me?”

“How could I forget. Our sheep still has a Mohawk from when you shaved it.”

Ha, ha. Very funny. Okay, so my sheep-shearing skills are definitely lacking, but I did make a valiant effort. “
Mah nishmah
?” I ask her.

“
Ah, evreet shelach mitzuyan
.”

“Okay, cut the Hebrew. You know I have no clue what you're saying. How's Avi?”

“Looking hot.”

“You've seen him?”

“Yeah. Why, hasn't he called you since his basic training was over?”

No. “I'm sure he was busy.” He wrote that he'd be in basic training for another week. I wonder what he's doing back home. Even more, I wonder why he hasn't called. You know what they say: if they're not into you, they don't call. If they're into you, they'll find the time.

My stomach muscles clench up, but I continue talking to Osnat and then talk to
Safta,
my grandmother, who tells me the doctors think her tumor shrunk since her last set of chemo treatments. She insists she's doing fine, but her voice is weaker than I remember. I promise to call next week and she promises she'll stay healthy and strong until I come to Israel for summer break.

Jess is thumbing through my CD collection, looking more depressed than I am. I come up with an idea. “Try texting Mitch.”

“I tried before. He ignored it.”

I grab her phone and start texting.

Jess sits on the bed next to me. “What are you doing?”

“Getting your boyfriend's attention,” I tell her. Mitch is obsessed with his cell phone. He'll for sure have it with him. If he's ignoring Jess on purpose, I'll kill him.