The Truth About My Bat Mitzvah (6 page)

Plenty to Worry About

I decided to try on my Jewish star necklace again. And this time, I would wear it to school and see how it fit me.

So to speak.

Nobody would even have to see it. Not yet.

I wore it under an old long-sleeved shirt I had, one with a high collar. I thought maybe I would bring up the subject of a bat mitzvah this afternoon. Then, when I was ready, I could pull down my collar and show my mother I had been wearing my necklace, that I was sincere.

“Caroline, are you going to wear that to school?” my mother was asking me. Thursday was her day off. She was in her bathrobe. Her hair was tumbled all around her head. She had a cup of coffee in her hand.

Sammy had taken his breakfast into the den to watch ESPN and my dad had wandered by and gotten stuck there watching highlights of a baseball game I knew for certain they had watched just last night.

My mother and I were alone in the kitchen. Had she seen my necklace with her X-ray vision? Did she know?

I looked down at myself as best I could. “Wear what?”

“That shirt,” she said.

I was so relieved, I got confused. If she hadn't seen my necklace, why was she concerned about my shirt? Of all the things my mother did to annoy me, she never hassled me about my clothes.

“What's wrong with this shirt?” I asked.

She lowered her voice. “I just thought you might want to wear an undershirt or even one of those bras I bought you, Caroline. That shirt is a little clingy.”

Oh, God. That's what she was talking about?

My skin, my face, flushed with a sudden heat of embarrassment as if just that moment I became aware of myself. I materialized in solid form, whereas a minute ago I was invisible. A minute ago I was just a kid. And for no reason at all, tears sprang into my eyes.

“Oh, sweetie. I'm sorry,” my mother said. “Here, come on. Let's go into your room. I can drive you to school a little late. Come on.”

After Sam and my dad left, I let my mom show me what she was talking about, even though I already knew. I had seen it in other girls, little lumps of flesh that practically screamed nakedness. My mother took out the two little bras she had bought me and put in my drawer about a month ago. One was tan, one was white.

I was just about to take off my shirt with my mom in my room when I remembered I was wearing my Jewish star.

“No, Mom. Don't look. Don't! Turn around,” I shouted. I
had my arms crossed, my hands holding either side of my shirt—the shirt that, now that I knew it was practically see-through, I would never wear again as long as I lived.

She laughed. “Okay. Okay.” She turned her back to me and made my bed as I got undressed. “But, sweetie, we've all got them.”

But we don't all have
this, I thought.

We don't all have a religious symbol hanging around our neck. For a second I caught a glimpse of myself in my mirror, my bony collarbone, my bare shoulders, and the glint of gold resting just at my neck. What would Mom think? Would it make her happy or sad? Would she think I was trying to be someone I wasn't? Would she roll her eyes at me like I was just a child? Like I was hypocritical? Two-faced? Just plain silly?

I didn't feel like finding out. Not now.

I quickly undid the clasp and slipped the necklace back into the top drawer of my dresser. I pulled the elastic bra, the tan-colored one, down over my head, slipped my arms in, and adjusted it over my chest.

“Okay, now you can look,” I said, turning around.

“You're a woman now,” my mother said. “Just imagine that.”

“I can't,” I answered. “I'm not ready.”

“Nobody feels
really
ready. Ever. If you waited until you felt totally ready for something, you'd probably be waiting forever. You'd never try anything new.”

I wanted to tell her my idea. Right now. It was perfect.

“How do you think I got through medical school?” She laughed.

Mom, I want to be Jewish too. Like you. I want to know funny little Yiddish words. Like Nana and Poppy. I want to know what you do on Yom Kippur. Like Rachel.

I need a bat mitzvah.

But my mother was already standing up. “Oh, by the way,” she said. “Poppy is coming up here with Aunt Gert. They want to visit before Gert leaves for the winter in Florida.”

“When?”

“This weekend. Why?”

“But this weekend is that sleepover. At Lauren's!”

“Who?”

“Lauren Chase, Mom. Saturday. Mom, I told you. You said I could go.”

“Not to worry.” My mother kissed the top of my head. “Sunday. They're coming Sunday.”

My I-think-I-maybe-want-a-bat-mitzvah speech and the necklace would have to wait for another day. Suddenly, I was reminded of more important things to worry about.

What I Need

Rachel's invitation came in the mail that very Saturday. I had known that she and her mother made them by hand, but when I opened it, I couldn't even tell. Except that it was so special. It was gold paper. No, I couldn't say gold, exactly, more like copper, with a border of purple along one side. In the center, also bordered in purple, was a white paper announcement:

At the very top, on the copper paper, were three perfectly placed lavender-colored gems and more Hebrew letters, with the translation:

Make for me a holy place so that I may dwell among you.

There was a phone number and even an e-mail address just for RSVPs. [email protected].

I held the invitation in my hand, turning it over and feeling the weight of it. It had been addressed to my whole family, Sammy too, because, as Rachel had told me, we were family friends. Not just friend-friends. I ran my finger over the three little stones glued to the top of the page. They held fast.

I thought about all the people who were getting this invitation today. Rachel had invited her entire family, cousins and relatives she didn't even know but who wanted to come and share this event with her. People were going to make plane reservations now and book hotel rooms.

 

“You ready to go?”

I nearly dropped the invitation on the kitchen floor.

“Dad?” I turned around.

“To your party, Car. Isn't it time? Don't we have to pick Rachel up?”

I had that kind of look, like I was doing something wrong. I dropped Rachel's invitation on the counter, like I had just broken something or I was sneaking extra cookies, even though, of course, I wasn't. But when my dad looked at me, I could tell he thought the same thing.

“I'll be ready in a minute, Dad. Don't forget Sammy's sleeping bag for Rachel,” I called out behind me. I was already halfway up the stairs.

I threw my clothes into an overnight bag. Pajamas, two pairs, depending on what the other girls wore. Clothes for tomorrow: clean jeans, a shirt, another sweater, new socks, two pairs of underpants, and my one extra bra. You never know.

I threw in my toothbrush, hairbrush, and my iPod in case I couldn't sleep, which happens to me sometimes. And then just before I headed out the door I opened my grandmother's bottle of perfume. I put my nose right up to the top.

If there were a genie in that bottle, she would have appeared right before my eyes. And she would have looked just like my nana. Actually, it wasn't like I could
see
her, but suddenly I could feel her. I wanted to know what she would tell me if she were here.

I knew what I would ask.

“Don't come up,” I shouted down to my dad as I passed the landing of the stairs on my way to my parents' bedroom. “I'll be right there.”

I went into my parents' bathroom.

There, I thought so.

My mother had cotton balls in her medicine cabinet.

I turned the tiny bottle upside down against the cotton very quickly, up and down. I didn't want to waste it. This was all I had. I could see a tiny spot of golden soaking into the fluffy cotton. I carefully put the top on and the bottle back in my room, and then right before I flew down the stairs and out to the car, I tucked the cotton ball under the elastic of my bra. The tan one.

If she could hear me, I knew what I would say.

Maybe I could have a bat mitzvah, Nana.

And then I'd be Jewish too.

You Don't Look Jewish

Lauren's house was massive. My dad didn't seem to notice, but if he had, he wouldn't have cared. My mother and father are not impressed with things like that. He dropped off Rachel and me and all our stuff at the front door. He introduced himself to Mrs. Chase—“Pick-up time is noon tomorrow”—and then he was off.

We walked inside, into a cavernous hall, and I missed him already.

 

I used to get homesick at sleepovers all the time, even at Rachel's, long past the age it was more acceptable. So even in fifth grade my dad would sometimes have to come and pick me up in the middle of the night. I remember once, I had fallen asleep waiting for him to show up, after I broke down crying and wanting to go home. I heard him come into the dark house. My friend—whoever it was, I don't remember—was already fast asleep. I heard the mom talking to my dad, laughing softly, telling him not to worry. No problem, she was saying. And I
pretended to stay asleep. I kept my eyes shut as he carried me out to the warm car and slipped me into the backseat.

I felt so safe and comfortable listening to the vibrations of the car and my dad's soft humming as we rode toward home. Later I would act as if I had been disappointed in myself for being such a baby, but secretly I loved it. I loved knowing I could go home anytime I wanted.

All I had to do was call and it would be there waiting for me.

 

And wouldn't you know it, we were the first girls to get to Lauren's.

“I hope you remembered, no gifts,” Lauren sang to us as she led us up the stairs.

“Right,” Rachel said. She was right behind Lauren, pulling herself up along the white banister.

“Maybe I should leave a trail of bread crumbs in case we have to find our way out,” I said. I was the last in line.

“What?” Lauren asked.

“It was a joke,” I said out loud. “Forget it. It was silly. Your house is so big.” Rachel and I were dragging our sleeping bags and overnight stuff. About an hour later we made it into Lauren's bedroom.

“Wow,” I said. Rachel just nodded.

First of all, it was big, really big. So big there were two sections to it. A sleep/play side and more of a work/study side, as best I could tell. Lauren's computer and everything that went along with that—speakers and wires, printer, and DVD player—sat on a lacquered desk module-type thing, with shelves and drawers and a leather chair on wheels pushed underneath. The floor was carpeted but there were also rugs on top of it, one that
matched her bedspread (pink) and another that matched the color of her computer desk (red).

“Y'all can spread your beds here,” Lauren instructed us. “Mother will get some air mattresses later.”

“Then when everyone else gets here”—Lauren was talking really fast—“we are going to bake cookies, do each other's hair and nails. And before the movie and popcorn we can steam our faces and use the all-natural clay and seaweed facial Mother bought for us. Oh, someone's here!”

When the doorbell rang downstairs, Lauren bounded out, leaving Rachel and me standing in the center of the room, still holding our bags.

“Why are we here?” I asked Rachel.

She shook her head slowly.

“Do you know who else is coming?'

She shook her head again. She couldn't speak. In a funny way, even though Rachel was more sure of herself than I was, she was more afraid of things. Right now she looked like she was in shock—medical shock, like I should lay her down, cover her with a blanket, and rub her extremities to improve circulation.

“It will be fun, Rach.”

 

But it wasn't.

It was horrible.

Only it wasn't because of the manicures or the facials. Or the movie or hair-braiding session that lasted two hours. It wasn't even because Rachel and I were apparently the only ones who thought Lauren had been sincere in telling people not to bring gifts.

Mandy Richards bought Lauren the latest Harry Potter book.

Jamie Lewine gave her a pair of chandelier earrings.

Stephanie Curtis's gift was personalized stationery and a matching pen.

Zoe Kupper was thoughtful enough to give Lauren a packet of movie passes to the local theater.

“You
didn't
think she was serious,” Mandy whispered to me while Lauren was trying on her new earrings. “Nobody means it when they say that. Don't you know that?”

Even that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part happened after the lights went out, when we were all spread out on our air mattresses (there were enough for all six of us), with Lauren sitting up on her bed with a flashlight, which she had just turned off. My cell phone said it was just after one o'clock in the morning.

I was really tired. My eyelids burned. My legs ached. I wanted to fall asleep so it would be morning. Because if it were morning, my dad would be here soon. Or Rachel's mom. Or Rachel's dad. I forgot who was picking up us at noon, only ten hours and fifty-two minutes from now.

Whoopee.

It was completely dark in the room. Lauren was still doing most of the talking. In fact, I could probably fall asleep if she
weren't
talking. Or if I wasn't so worried about somebody stepping on me. Or drawing on my face with a marker while I was sleeping. It seemed like that kind of crowd to me.

Up until then, actually, it hadn't been so bad. Rachel and I had fun painting our nails and taking sticky film pictures of ourselves in green face masks. Lauren's mother was pretty nice. She brought us food and kept telling us to make ourselves at home. Lauren had an older sister, but we never saw her.

I turned over, trying to get comfortable. I wasn't worried
anymore about being homesick. I was too tired.

“Oh, by the way, Rachel?” Lauren's voice was faceless in the dark, but it was definitely hers. “Rachel?”

“I'm awake,” Rachel responded, but I think she had already fallen asleep, if only just a second ago. She was right next to me, her head on her pillow. Her eyes were closed. “What?”

“I got your invitation today,” Lauren said.

“Oh.”

I knew that no one else at this party had been invited to Rachel's bat mitzvah. It would be rude to talk about it here. So either Lauren was really thoughtless or really nasty. I wasn't sure. Her Virginia accent made it hard to tell.

“It was really pretty.”

“Thanks,” Rachel said, making her voice as small as she could.

“It's my first bat mitzvah invitation,” Lauren told us all.

Clearly Rachel didn't want to talk about it here, and it could have been all over right then.

“But I didn't know you were
Jewish
,” Lauren went on. “Well, you know, Miller isn't a Jewish name or anything.”

Rachel didn't respond.

I knew Rachel better than anyone in that room, and I knew in one more second, if Lauren didn't shut up, Rachel was going to start crying.

“So
what
?” I answered, in a voice a little louder and a little stronger than Rachel's had been, the way you would distract a predator away from its victim. And encourage it to attack you instead.

Lauren turned right toward me. “I just didn't know it, that's all,” she said. “Rachel doesn't even look Jewish.”