A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life (12 page)

FIFTEEN

Before school lets out for winter break two huge things happen: the Atheist Student Alliance gets kicked off campus, and Darius kisses another girl at a party. Obviously, to Cleo, one event is far more important than the other. I’m not sure she even remembers that I’m a member of the ASA, and she certainly doesn’t care if the group can meet on campus or not, especially in light of her current drama. But anyway, both events happen right before school lets out for winter break.

Let us first examine the ejection of the ASA from campus.

The Evil Bitch was true to her word. It turns out she was elected to the school board back in November by a unanimous vote. You kind of have to wonder: A, who are these cowards on the school board? And B, don’t they know an Evil Bitch when they see one? It turns out the answers here are A, rich parents with tons of money and no day jobs, and B, no, they don’t. Anyway, her first action was to make a motion that the Atheist Student Alliance be banned from meeting, organizing, or otherwise conspiring to do the devil’s work within the confines of the Twelve Oaks campus. Like her election, the vote was unanimous.

Heidi broke the news to us at our last Tuesday meeting before vacation and suggested that when we return in January we meet at the Friendly’s on Ridge Road until springtime, when we can meet outside. We all agreed to fork over enough money for a Coke or a milk shake or french fries or something every other Tuesday, buying ourselves the right to take over a few booths in the late afternoon. Heidi said there’s no point in fighting this, that it isn’t worth the time. We will never win.

After my initial fury and a long debate with Mom, I’ve come around to agreeing that not only will we not win this battle, but also that we
shouldn’t
win this battle. The school is actually right. If the school has a policy that no religious groups are allowed to meet on campus, which is a good solid policy, then they shouldn’t grant that privilege to an organization that is devoted to a particular view on religion, such as the ASA. It’s kind of like the town seal. Because the town seal has a cross on it, the symbol of the Christian faith, and no other religious symbol, it appears as if the town is endorsing and promoting Christianity. If Twelve Oaks Academy forbids all religious groups from meeting on campus yet allows a group of student atheists to meet, then it appears as if the school is endorsing and promoting atheism.

I only wish that this decision had come earlier and didn’t arise out of the vengeful actions of the triumphant and all-powerful Evil Bitch. I am no match for her. She defeats me at every turn.

So, about Darius and this other girl. The actual act, the Kiss, happened back in November over Thanksgiving when Cleo was sunning herself by her father’s pool in Scottsdale. Miraculously, it took almost three and a half weeks before Cleo found out. This time lag makes it worse for Cleo because she’s convinced that everyone has known about it for weeks and everyone has been talking about her, pitying her, and laughing at her behind her back.

The other girl’s name is Vanessa. Lucky for her she doesn’t go to Twelve Oaks because, oddly, the brunt of Cleo’s rage is directed at Vanessa, not at Darius. If Cleo were to come face to face with this Vanessa, she might beat the crap out of her. At least this is what she keeps saying. So I told Cleo that I thought she could definitely win in a showdown against Vanessa because all she’d have to do is fire the torpedoes that are camouflaging themselves as her breasts, and I learned that there are times when even a good boob joke doesn’t do the trick. It just annoyed her.

So the Cleo and Darius Saga is perched on the edge of a cliff. She hasn’t decided what to do with him. Darius’s defense is exactly what you might imagine: that he was at a party, he was drunk, he couldn’t think clearly, she came on to him, he could have gone farther but stopped himself. I don’t know why he thought adding that last part about stopping himself would gain him any ground with Cleo, but I guess guys are pretty clueless. Especially Darius. How many times over Thanksgiving weekend did Cleo tell me she missed him? I know she feels like a fool because he obviously wasn’t missing her enough to keep from going to some party and making out with some other girl.

To my shock and surprise, Darius is bending over backward in his effort to smooth things over with Cleo. I even saw him trying to hold her hand between classes. If you’d asked me, I would have guessed that he’d take this opportunity to lose the ball and chain, but instead he seems to be really worried that she’s going to break up with him. Not so worried that he doesn’t walk around school with that cocky look on his face all day, but he cornered me after school when no one was around, and I know this sounds crazy, but it looked like he was going to cry. I could have told this to Cleo. I could have told her that Darius came to me to get my advice about what he should do, saying that he knew I knew her better than anyone and please wasn’t there anything I could do to help him out, but for some reason I chose not to tell Cleo any of this. I didn’t tell her because I think she should break up with him. His kissing Vanessa just fulfilled all of my predictions about what kind of boyfriend Darius would be, and I don’t believe that this other side of Darius is real.

But then Cleo arrives on my doorstep about a week after learning about the Kiss, and she has this huge grin on her face and some flakes in her hair from the light snow that’s been falling all afternoon. She looks as if she could burst into song.

“He told me he loves me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I grab her and drag her inside, and we make ourselves some chocolate milk and take two glasses up to the attic.

“He loves me. He said so. And you won’t believe it, but he actually cried. He said, ‘I love you, Cleo,’ and then he cried.”

“Really,” I say. “Jeez, Cleo. I thought no one cares about love or being in love anymore. I thought love didn’t matter.”

Cleo looks a little hurt. I’m sure this isn’t how she thought I’d react. Here we are sitting on my bed drinking chocolate milk like a picture from the 1950s. Just two high school girls sitting around talking about boys and love. All we’re missing are the poodle skirts and bobby socks. I know I’m supposed to say “Wow, you are so lucky” or “That’s really neat” or something stupid like that, but instead I throw back in her face her callous words about how no one cares about love. I stop and think about how I must sound. I sound like the jealous friend who doesn’t have a boyfriend. I sound like the jealous friend who has never had a boy tell her that he loves her.

“So what did you say?”

“That I love him too. And I do. I think that in the end this was a good thing for us. I think he needed to have this experience, to kiss that little slut at the party, so that he could wake up and realize that he loves me.”

Cleo looks so happy sitting there with her chocolate milk mustache. She looks so happy that I find it hard to maintain my skepticism or even my jealousy. After all, I’m not the one who said love didn’t matter, and I’m happy to learn that the antilove era is over. I just hope that Darius knows how lucky he is.

I decide that to commemorate this day, to remember Cleo and how happy she looks right at this moment, I’m going to make her a T-shirt in brown with white lettering across the front that says
GOT CHOCOLATE MILK
?

We aren’t a skiing family. We don’t go to tropical islands. We most definitely don’t go to Disney World. We hang around the house over winter break, sleeping late, going to the movies, eating too much, and doing a lot of nothing. It isn’t just Jake and me. Mom’s office closes down between Christmas and New Year’s. Dad doesn’t spend any time in his studio working because I guess no one is in the mood for political cartoons when Santa Claus comes to town. Or maybe it’s just that he likes the time at home with Mom. Anyway, Christmas is still a week away, but we’re talking about it over dinner tonight, mostly because Dad is fixated on cooking a goose and he’s trying to rally our support. Leave it to Dad to talk about one meal just as we’re sitting down to another.

Then Mom unfolds her napkin, looks at me, and asks, “Why don’t you invite Rivka to join us?”

“I don’t think she celebrates Christmas, Mom. It might be kind of weird for her.”

“Why wouldn’t she celebrate Christmas?” asks my slowwitted little brother.

“Because she’s Jewish, you idiot.”

“So?”

I look to Mom. “Can you explain this?”

I think Jake senses that he’s about to be talked down to, so he tries to preempt it. “Everyone celebrates Christmas. It’s an American tradition. Like the Fourth of July. I really doubt it would be weird for her. The goose may be a little weird, but Christmas? What’s weird about Christmas?”

“What’s weird about Christmas is that it’s not a Jewish holiday. It’s a Christian holiday. As in
Christ
mas. And Rivka is
Jew
ish.” I say this very slowly.

“Well, if it’s a Christian holiday, then why do
we
celebrate it?”

He’s got me there. I wish he’d wipe that huge, self-satisfied grin from his face.

Dad tries to rescue me. He turns to Jake and says, “Christmas is a holiday with Christian roots, but over time it has evolved into a secular holiday for many people like us. You can celebrate Christmas like we do, with a tree and presents, and stop at that and it never feels like a religious holiday. But I think what Simone is saying is that for someone who comes from a strong religious tradition that is not a Christian one, then Christmas is a holiday that belongs to someone else.”

I nod noncommittally. I’ve always loved Christmas. I love the way the house smells when the tree is up. I love Christmas stockings with all the little things Mom finds to stuff them with. I love the star sweeper at the top of our tree—this ancient stuffed doll of a little boy in green overalls holding a broom trailing a string of tiny silver stars. I even like the stupid Santa hat Dad wears every Christmas morning when he hands out the gifts. Christmas has always been a family holiday, just like Thanksgiving. But now that I think about how the day excludes someone like Rivka, I realize that no matter how many secular symbols you choose to adopt and no matter how many religious symbols you choose to reject, there is no escaping the fact that Christmas is a holiday for Christian people.

Mom leaves the table and returns with a calendar. “Hanukah overlaps with Christmas this year. We could invite Rivka and celebrate both.”

I’m not sure how this idea solves my immediate crisis of faith about the holiday. How can I, an avowed atheist, celebrate a holiday that commemorates the birth of Christ? But at least Mom’s suggestion solves the problem of how to invite Rivka here to be with us, which is something I would like to do.

When I call Rivka to see if she wants to come, she laughs at the way I trip over myself.

“When we celebrate Christmas it’s not like we sit around praising Jesus all night. But we usually have Christmas carols on the stereo even though the words don’t have much meaning to us. And we have a Christmas tree. But we can also celebrate Hanukah and I want you to come and feel comfortable, and I don’t want you to feel left out.”

“Simone, please don’t worry about it. I’d love to come. But tell me, what’s a Christmas tree?”

“What? You don’t know what a Christmas tree is?”

“Of course I do. I’m just messing with you.”

“I’m glad you can take pleasure in how uncomfortable this whole thing makes me.”

“Why would this make you uncomfortable?” she asks me. “You shouldn’t feel apologetic about your family traditions. Why shouldn’t you celebrate Christmas?”

“Because we aren’t real Christians.”

“I don’t think you have to be a practicing Christian to celebrate the holiday, but then again, this isn’t my area of expertise. The only thing I find weird is when Jews celebrate Christmas, and believe me, many of them do. But I have no problem celebrating Christmas with people who aren’t Jewish.”

Then I ask her something that has been on my mind since the night in Wellfleet, something that I started thinking about during Shabbat.

“Aren’t I Jewish?” I ask. “I did some research about Judaism, and I read that anyone born of a Jewish mother is automatically Jewish.”

I can hear Rivka shifting her position. Maybe she’s moving from the dining room table to one of those cozy couches by the fire.

“Technically speaking, yes, I suppose you are. But I knew when I gave you to Elsie and Vince that you wouldn’t be raised as a Jew. Even though this was difficult, especially for my mother, we also knew that they would be wonderful, loving parents, and that was more important than anything else.”

“You didn’t really answer my question.”

“Oh, I think I did. Again, yes, in the strictest of Jewish law, you’re considered a Jew because you were born to a Jewish mother. If you want to move to Israel, you can get automatic citizenship. If Hitler were alive today, he wouldn’t hesitate to send you off to a concentration camp. But I think being Jewish is about more than to whom you are born. I think it’s about the choices you make. I think being Jewish is about your personal relationship to the history, the rituals, the tradition, and the culture of Judaism.”

Okay. I have no relationship to any of these things, so I guess what Rivka is saying is that I’m not really Jewish. Which is fine by me. But we
are
going to celebrate Hanukah in our house this year, and I did just have my first Shabbat, so I don’t know, maybe things are starting to change.

Anyway. About Rivka. About her illness. About how sick she really is and how long she’s going to live.

Rivka has ovarian cancer.

I learned this from Mom. I still haven’t mustered up the courage to talk to Rivka directly about it, and I worry that she takes this to mean that I don’t care about her, but what can I do? I’m a coward. So instead I went to my mom to find out everything I can’t bring myself to ask Rivka.

The technical name for what she has is epithelial ovarian carcinoma. And it isn’t good. She’s had several courses of aggressive treatment, and it’s becoming clear that nothing is working. Even though she seems okay now and even though she looks young and vibrant and beautiful, she is going to die.