Intentions (3 page)

I run out of the Wawa (without paying for my stuff—only I won’t realize that until much later) and back to the temple. I head right to “my” bathroom and decide to hide in there until class is over. There is no way I am going into that sanctuary again tonight.

CHAPTER 4

HELL

I’m sure from the outside it looks like I’m just a normal teenage girl sitting on the temple steps waiting for her mother to pick her up. From the inside it feels like I am a teenager in hell.

My own personal, personally designed hell.

According to His Holiness, Jews don’t believe in the kind of hell Christians believe in.

Back when we were sitting
shivah
at Grandma’s, I asked him about it. For seven days after the funeral, we stayed at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, her real house, not the complex where she lives now so she can be on one floor and surrounded by neighbors. Mom, Dad, Mom’s brother, Uncle Joe, and his wife, Aunt Paula, and my cousins and I hung out all day.

Every evening, people came to visit (bringing food, so much food!), and the rabbi led a short service. It was pretty nice, spending that much time with my family, but I was really sad about losing Grandpa. He was my, I don’t know, my anchor—I always felt so loved and
seen
by him.

I clung to the hope that I would see him again one day in heaven, even though I was pretty sure that was a Christian thing,
not a Jewish thing. But I desperately wanted to believe it, so one night I asked the rabbi if Jews believe in heaven.

We were sitting on Grandma’s window seat, watching people get into their cars. The rabbi smiled sadly and said most Jews don’t believe in a heaven where you can see people again. He said that Grandpa would live on in my memories. It wasn’t at all what I wanted to hear, and I started to cry. He said, “It is up to you to keep his memory alive, Rachel. Talk about him with your family, tell stories about him, even write about him.” That didn’t make me feel as good as if he had said, “Sure, you’ll see him again!” But it was something.

Then he said, “This will be a hard time for you. But you will be OK, Rachel. You will.” And I cried again, not because I was
more
upset, but because he understood.

“What about hell?” I’d blurted out.

He said there were different ideas about hell. He told me his two favorites. One is that the afterlife is a place where you listen to Torah all day, and if you are in heaven you love that, and if you are in hell, you hate it. The other is that the afterlife is a huge and delicious meal but people can’t bend their elbows to feed themselves. In heaven they feed each other. In hell everyone stares at the food, starving and salivating.

As I wait for my mother to pick me up now, I know I’m in hell. I can’t hold this secret inside any longer. Two hours and it’s killing me. And probably I am
supposed
to tell someone. Aren’t I? Mom will know what to do. She’s a social worker.

Why is she taking so long to get here? I am mad at her for taking so long. No. I’m mad at her for fighting with my dad so much lately. Really mad.

But in spite of my anger, when I see Mom pull up in the Prius, her brand-new, treasured car, I smile. She worked hard to get that car, saving up her own money so it would be hers, all hers. And she keeps it cleaner than anything else in her life. We’re both slobs.

It hits me smack in my heart: I love my mom. As much as this surprises me, it is exactly what I’m feeling.
I love my mom
.

I sprint to the car, like I’m sure the foster kids do when she goes on home visits, and when I climb in, I reach over and give her a kiss on the cheek. She kisses me back.

“Oh, Rachel, I’m so sorry Daddy and I were fighting at dinner, honey, I’m so sorry! And we were so worried when we realized you weren’t at home. Thank you for texting me.”

She reaches over and gives me a hug. I hold on tight and then I lose it. Completely lose it.

Mom wraps me in her arms and rubs my back. Of course she thinks I’m crying about her and Dad, which I am, maybe a little, but I’m mostly crying about His Creepness.

“Mom, I have to tell you—” Right then there is a knock on the window, and guess who is standing there.

Mom kisses my forehead and rolls down her window.

“Rabbi,” she practically chirps. “How
nice
to
see
you.”

Who the hell knocks on a closed window of a car when a kid is crying in her mother’s arms? I’m beginning to think this guy has boundary issues.

“Is everything OK?” he says in that oh-so-caring tone he has.

Mom looks at me, and I shake my head slightly, meaning don’t say anything to him. She gets it.

“Oh yes, Rabbi, everything is fine now,” she says in her fake polite voice. Usually I hate that voice of hers, but right now I’m deeply grateful for it.

“Rachel was having kind of an off night in class,” the rabbi says, and I want to kill him. Arrogant creep. Phony. Freak. But at least he is generous enough not to point out that I was not there after the break.

I put my head in my hands so I won’t scream and curse or get out of the car and punch him in his stupid holier-than-thou rabbi face.

“My fault,” says my mother, and no more.

“I doubt it,” the rabbi says. “I can’t imagine
you
doing anything wrong, Evie.”

Evie?

No one calls my mother Evie except my father and my grandparents—grandmother.
Her name is Evelyn
.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” my mother says. Is she flirting with him? No. I can’t process this right now.

“Well, take care, ladies. You are two of my favorite girls, you know.”

Fuck you, you flirting bastard.

“Bye, Rabbi,” my mother says, and then sighs.

I make myself stay quiet until I’m sure he’s walked away. Then I pick up my head to tell her.

But when I see her face, I can’t say a word. She’s not looking at me. She’s staring after the rabbi, smiling. A happy, secret—
satisfied?
—smile.

Why the hell is she smiling like that?

CHAPTER 5

DON’T LET THE GODDAMN SUN SHINE

If that was sleep, then Cheez Whiz is cheese.

Dad came into my room early, whistling as he always does, and it made me dive deeper under the covers.

Every morning of my life since I started preschool, my father has come in, opened the curtains, and pulled up the shades. My room faces east, so it is very bright and cheerful when the sun is shining. He sings, “Let the sunshine, let the sunshine in.” From the musical
Hair
. Corny, yes. But it’s a nice way to wake up.

Not today.

Fifteen minutes later, when my alarm goes off, I groan and hit the snooze button. I usually look forward to Thursdays because I have a great schedule (meaning study hall first thing and no math) and Yearbook after school. But today the sun shining so brightly pisses me off. Royally. The happiness of the day is wrong on so many levels.

I finally pull myself out of bed only because my bladder is ready to burst, and although I consider it, wetting the bed does not seem like the best option. As I walk to the bathroom, I get pissed off at the sun even more because it highlights every speck
of dust on every surface of my room. My dresser is covered with dust, my desk is covered with dust, my floor is filthy. We have a cleaning lady who comes every other week, but Mom told her not to come in here unless I’ve straightened up, which I pretty much never do. With all the time I’ve spent in my room lately hiding from my parents’ fights, you’d think I’d have gotten so bored I would have cleaned it. But no.

I pee, throw cold water on my face, put on the same clothes I was wearing yesterday (because who the eff cares), and go downstairs.

Mom has made granola. I smell it as I walk into the kitchen. She does this two or three times a year. Her granola is megagood. It
should
cheer me up. But this morning the smell of it (toasted oats, honey, vanilla, almonds, walnuts, pecans) and the look of it (all golden brown with bright red cranberries, yellow raisins, sour cherries, dried blueberries) cooling on the cookie sheets makes me madder. I do the weighing-of-the-hands thing to myself:

Mom’s homemade granola vs.
the rabbi screwing someone on the
bima
.

And:

Mom’s homemade granola vs.
Mom and the rabbi flirting.

Nope. Mom’s granola is good, but it’s not that good.

I eat some anyway, but I try very hard not to enjoy it.

To make matters weirder, now Dad’s tiptoeing around me, all quiet, which is not like him. He usually chatters away about stuff in the news, what he’s doing that day, the weather. He is
such
a morning person. But now he’s practically silent. Mom must have just told him I bawled in the car last night.

I take a second helping of granola and sit back down. I open up my history book; I didn’t read today’s chapters yet. But the words are a blur, and I’m grateful when Dad says, “Hey, Raebee,” and reaches his hand over to me and pats my shoulder.

“Hey, Dad,” I say.

“Mom said you were upset last night. What about?”

What am I going to say? Dad, I was upset because the rabbi is a cheating liar and was screwing someone in the sanctuary and, oh, by the way, I think Mom is in love with him?

“I’m fine,” I snap.

Dad doesn’t say anything, just gets up and pours some more coffee for himself.

I pretend to read about New Orleans’s Ninth Ward levee problem. I know I would find this interesting if I could actually tell the difference between an
a
and an
o
. But the words make no sense to me at all.

Mom walks in and makes a show of going over to Dad and giving him a big kiss. A big, long, noisy kiss on the lips. Give me a friggin’ break.

I slam my book shut, take my bowl to the sink, run some water in it, and start to walk away.

Mom says, “In the dishwasher, Rachel.”

I put it, and my spoon, into the dishwasher, loudly.

“Wanna ride to school, Jewel?” Dad says.

“No, I want to walk.”

“Do you have
time
?” Mom asks, looking at the clock on the microwave. She knows I don’t.

“I have study hall first period, and they don’t care if you’re late for study hall.” It’s a lie. I will get into trouble if I’m late, even for study hall. But I
have
to walk, have to get out of here, and now. If I walk really fast, I’ll probably make it before the bell. Besides, I’m never late, and if I’m late once, I won’t get in trouble, and well, really, who cares?

I get my bag and leave before they can argue. I hear them calling after me, but I ignore them.

When I walk into school, the halls are eerily quiet. Obviously, the bell has already rung.

My instinct is to run, but if I walk normally, I won’t call attention to myself. So I walk as if it is the most natural thing in the world that I am the only one in the hall. One of the guidance counselors passes me, we nod, I keep walking. Being a good girl all these years just paid off.

When I get to study hall, I am ready to make my excuse (missed bus, no one could drive me), but it’s a sub, and she just looks at me. So I shrug and sit down. Good.

I pull out my history book again and try to concentrate. I read the same words over and over again.

Hurricane Katrina was a disaster for the city of New Orleans. The floodwalls and levees that had been constructed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers failed to protect the city
.
Designs flawed. Human error
.
Nearly 80 percent of the city flooded
.
Flooded. Flooded
.
More than fifteen hundred people died. Some are still missing as of this writing. Missing
as of this writing. Missing. Missing. Human error. Neglect. Abuse of power. Abuse of power. Power. Abuse. Abuse
.

I feel a nudge. The kid next to me is passing a note. My name is on the front.

I open it up. It’s from Jake. We have assigned seats, and he’s on the opposite side of the room.

You OK? Didn’t seem like yourself last night. —J
.

His handwriting is neat, but not too neat. I like that.

I wish I could tell him. Last night, I thought I should tell someone, had to tell, but today I have this strong feeling that if I don’t keep quiet, it will come back to bite me in the ass. As if it’s my fault the rabbi seduced that girl. And my fault that I heard it.

Still, I want to answer Jake’s note. What can I say to him that is not a lie but is not the whole truth either? After a long time thinking, I write,

Parents fighting at home
.

Well, it’s the truth. I add:

Not pretty
.

Then I fold the paper back up, nowhere near as neatly as he had it folded, and send it back to him. From across the room, I watch him read it, frown, shake his head, and write something. He looks at me, our eyes meet, and he smiles. Oh. I feel better.

He starts to hand the note to the kid next to him, but the
substitute teacher clears her throat, grabs it from Jake, and throws it into the garbage can.

Oh man. I want to know what he wrote.

What difference is it to her?

I walk up to the garbage can, and as she stares at me, I take out the note.

No, I don’t. But I sure think about it for the rest of study hall. Instead of reading. I’ll get it on my way out.

When the bell rings, I walk in a beeline right to the garbage can. But when she sees me coming, she stands there, her arms crossed. Oh, come
on
.

I look at her, raise my eyebrows. “Please?” I whisper. But she shakes her head. I look at Jake, but he has chemistry class in the other building and has to run to make it. We wave good-bye. I look at the sub again and say, louder this time, “Please?”

She says, “No.” I glare at her and then walk away, because it’s not that big a deal, really, not worth getting into trouble over.