Intentions
Authors: Deborah Heiligman
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Religious, #Jewish, #Mysteries & Detective Stories
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2012 by Deborah Heiligman
Jacket photograph
iStockphoto.com
copyright © 2012 by JJRD
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Heiligman, Deborah.
Intentions / Deborah Heiligman. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: After fifteen-year-old Rachel overhears her rabbi committing infidelity, she must come to terms with the fact that adults make mistakes, too—and that she is old enough to be held responsible for her own mistakes.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89933-1
[1. Coming of age—Fiction. 2. Responsibility—Fiction. 3. Jews—United States—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.H3673In 2012
[E]—dc23
2011026667
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For the kids in the photo on the wall
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Sanctuary, Now
5. Don’t Let the Goddamn Sun Shine
7. Devil’s Food Cake ’n’ Coffee Man, Man
13. Barefoot and in the Kitchen
15. Action, Action, We Want Action!
31. Everything I Need to Know I Learned In …
The Sanctuary, Now
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Sanctuary, Now
I get out of the car and look at the building.
It’s been more than a decade since I set foot in there—since I was sixteen and left this town.
I’m scared to go in. But here I am, and here I go.
These steps used to seem so steep, but in no time I am at the front of my old temple. The door is as heavy as I remembered. A lion carved in the wood seems to roar at me as I struggle with the weight.
Inside I head straight for the sanctuary, my footsteps echoing.
Just as it was back then, that evening before confirmation class, the sanctuary is dark.
I stand in the shadows for a minute, and then I flick on the lights. This time I want to see it all.
CHAPTER 1
THE SANCTUARY
“I am so out of here!” I yell, letting the door slam behind me. They’re too busy fighting to notice I’m gone, I’m sure. In an hour, when it’s time to drive me to temple, they’ll be looking for me—“Rachel? Rachel?” Yeah, guys, remember me?
God. Could they have been any more awful to each other at dinner? I inhaled my food so fast I didn’t taste a bite. A pasta and peas vacuum cleaner.
I run and run until I pretty much can’t breathe. I’m sure I’m going to puke. What is the opposite of a vacuum cleaner? I slow way down so I don’t become whatever that is. Catch my breath. Yeah, walking might be a better idea.
I am so sick of their stupid fights, I don’t know what to do. Maybe I’ll talk to the rabbi about my parents.
Middle-aged, nerdy, bushy-bearded, potbellied, Jewish Santa Claus–looking Rabbi Cohn. Yup. He’s just that wise, kind, brilliant. If anyone can make me feel better, it’s him. He might be the most perfect human being on the planet.
I walk through the parking lot to the back door, but it’s still locked. It is early—forty-five minutes before class is supposed to
start. So I go around to the front, pull open the heavy wooden door. The lobby is empty, but the lights are on. I hope he’s here early tonight, in the sanctuary like he sometimes is before class, getting the Torah ready for the Saturday service.
But the sanctuary is dark, quiet, empty.
Oh well. It’ll be good to have time to myself. I don’t turn on the light; I want the dark. I run my hand along the top of the back row. The feel of the smooth, polished wood is soothing. I sit down a few seats in from the door and just breathe.
What would it be like if they got divorced? They never used to fight. Alexis always said my parents were the happiest couple in the world. Now they seem absolutely miserable. With no brothers or sisters to stick with me, I can see myself as a little Rachel ball being ping-ponged back and forth between them. Or, worse, maybe, left with just one of them, like Alexis.
Alexis. God. Ever since she came back from her dad’s, a diamond stud in her nose, her black curls that used to be just like mine turned into bleached-blond spikes, smoking cigarettes and weed, bragging about having sex with her twenty-year-old boyfriend, I’ve felt … abandoned. Sometimes she is the same smart, funny, loving-me-better-than-anyone best friend, but then without any warning she’ll get distant and cool. She is definitely in charge of our relationship now. I have no idea what I can talk to her about and what I can’t.
Every time I try to talk to her about my parents, she puts that wall up. I haven’t even tried to ask her about Jake. She’d just make a crack about my being
young
.
Oh God. I need to stop thinking. I need just to BE. In my
peaceful sanctuary. I have so many good memories of this place—and one sad one.
Grandpa’s coffin right in front of the
bima
. I can still see it, in my mind’s eye, though I try not to. God it was an awful day. But the rabbi was perfect. Right before the funeral service, the family met in his office. He pinned ripped black ribbons onto our clothes—the sign that we were in mourning. Spoke about what a great man my grandpa was, how he had lived a happy life with Grandma. And then, as we were walking out of his office, the rabbi said, quietly, just to me, “He was so proud of you, Rachel,” and I burst into tears. It was exactly what I needed to hear.
As I sit here with my head back, staring at the ceiling—or what I can see of it with the lights off—I try to think what the rabbi would say about my parents. I try to channel his wisdom, but instead of channeling anything, I fall asleep.
I wake up because I hear noises. I am not alone.
What am I hearing? Small, soft sounds. Whispers. I slowly open my eyes, wait for them to adjust to the darkness. I sit up and look around. But I don’t see anyone. For some reason I know not to stand up, cough, make myself known.
Then the sounds start getting louder. I can’t quite tell what they are—or I am not ready to admit it. It isn’t exactly people talking, but I can tell there are two people. A low voice, and a higher voice. Groans. Sighs. Moans.
Holy crap. Who is it? Who could it be? Having
sex
in the sanctuary! For God’s sake! It seems like the sounds are coming from the
bima
—the rabbi’s
bima
—where he leads services; where
the birthday kids go up for their blessing every month, the rabbi holding his hands above them, fingers spread to let in God; where I stood in front of the congregation almost three years ago, when I was thirteen, with my mother and grandmother as we passed the Torah from generation to generation.
It is so tacky, so sacrilegious.
I am dying to know who it is.
And then I hear them. Two words. Just two words. And the instant I hear them, those two words change everything I know to be true. Those two words become my personal torture, the hot secret I will carry with me like the burning coal that singed the tongue of toddler Moses.
And then she says them again:
“OH, RABBI.”
CHAPTER 2
REFUGE
Before those two words, I thought that most people were basically good, and I was sure that holy people were, well, holy.
I just had the crap beat out of that stupid idea.
“Oh God,” the woman cries. “Oh, Rabbi.”
I am going to puke.
“Oh God,” he says. “Oh yes.”
Oh God. I really
am
going to puke. I have to get out of here. Without them—who is she?—without them seeing me. Maybe it’s the rabbi’s wife. That’s not so bad, right? It’s disgusting, but also kind of romantic. Making love in the synagogue, it could be a spiritual experience. But then I realize—duh!—Mrs. Cohn definitely would not say “Oh, Rabbi” in the throes of passion.
I don’t know a lot, but I know that.
I slide down farther in my seat and onto the floor. I get on all fours and start to crawl. I am a pacifist and I hate war movies, but all I can think about is those scenes when soldiers crawl on the ground, their faces covered in mud so they can’t be seen. I can’t be seen. How will I get up and open the door?
But then I realize that this is not a problem. They are so busy, so very, VERY busy, doing what they’re doing, they probably wouldn’t hear a nuclear bomb go off. Do nuclear bombs even make noise?
Rachel, get yourself out of here.
I stand up, open the door a crack so I can slip out, then close it slowly and quietly, just in case. I make a mad dash down the hallway, into the bathroom, plop down on the couch in the sitting area for one second, and then race into a stall and heave. I want to stop myself, but I can’t.
I am sweating and shaking.
I almost cry, but if I start, I won’t ever stop. I’ll wash my face. I’ll rinse out my mouth. I’m about to leave the stall when I hear the outer bathroom door open.
I back up and quietly close the stall door. It’s
her
. I know it.
And then it’s impossible not to know it’s
her
, because she’s crying and saying over and over again, “What have I done? What have I done?” I make sure the stall door is locked and climb onto the toilet seat so she won’t see my feet. I surprise myself at my quick thinking. I used to wonder how I’d act in a crisis and now I know: first I throw up, then I climb onto a toilet seat.