Intentions (4 page)

But as I walk out the door, I say “bitch” quietly, under my breath.

Immediately, I feel scared. What if she heard me? But she didn’t. And besides, she can’t do anything to me. She doesn’t even know my name.

Next period, I am called down to the office.

Vice Principal: “Rachel, Miss Ellison says you called her a bad name.”

Apparently our regular study hall teacher has our names on a seating chart. Either that or the sub is psychic.

Me (innocently): “Who is Miss Ellison?”

V.P. (eyebrows raised): “The substitute teacher you had in first-period study hall.”

Me: “Oh.”

V.P.: “Well?”

Me: “Why would I call her a bad name?”

Deny it without lying. How
do
I know how to do this stuff?

V.P.: “Rachel, you have never been in my office for discipline before, and I find it hard to believe you would say something like that, but she was upset and called me. So either you did or you didn’t call her a bit—”

Oh, he almost said it! I frown.

V.P.: “Rachel?”

Me (sweetly): “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

I frown again, looking hurt. I am almost not lying.

V.P.: “OK, just—if you have her again, you might want to, uh, stay clear of her.”

He believes me. Wow.

Me: “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

I almost curtsy as I leave his office. Phew.

Well. For a few minutes I didn’t think about my parents or the effing rabbi! Well, at least being in school is distracting.

But when I walk back into the main office, who is sitting there but Adam. He nods at me, without a smile. The usual impish sparkle is nowhere to be seen.

“Why are you here?” I ask him.

“I skipped French,” he says quietly. “Got caught smoking in the bathroom.” He looks—can it be?—scared.

“They called your parents?”

He nods.

“They coming in?”

He nods, then shakes his head. “Not him. Only my mom. My father—too busy, you know.”

I shake my head. Right. That lying, cheating shit of a rabbi is his father. His
daddy
. For the first time ever I feel sorry for Adam.

“Why are
you
here?” he asks me.

I nod my head at the V.P., who has come out of his office and is standing behind him. Then I shake my head.

“Adam,” says the V.P.

Adam stands up. “What did you
do
?” he whispers into my ear, his arm lightly around me for just a second.

“Nothing, really,” I say, pulling away. He has given me the chills again.

I run down the hall and upstairs so I’m not horribly late for history class, even though I’m armed with a note from the V.P.

McKelvy tells me to hurry up and sit down. He is giving a pop quiz on last night’s reading about Katrina.

I am so screwed.

CHAPTER 6

NOT LIKE A VIRGIN

I managed to answer ten questions on that quiz. There were twenty. It is the first time I have flunked anything.

When McKelvy passes the quizzes back today, confirming my fear with a big red F, I plead with him to let me make it up. He says he’ll think about it. That he’s a good guy, but if he makes an exception for me, yadda, yadda, yadda. Yeah, I get it.

I manage to make it through the rest of the day without walking into any walls, tripping down steps, or getting into any more trouble. I consider this a major victory. I get out early on Fridays, at one-twenty, so when I get home, no one is there except for Panda, who stretches and meows when she sees me. I grab her and retreat to my room.

I lie on my bed admiring Panda’s markings as she sits on my stomach: she is so black where she is black and so white where she is white. She purrs, I chill, but my mind starts bouncing. I can’t stay still anymore. I get up, holding Panda in my arms, and put her down gently on the bed. I start to pick clothes off the bed and the floor and put them away, neatly. Then I start in on the trash.

This is serious. Panda runs out.

By the time Mom and Dad get home at five o’clock, I have taken bags and bags of garbage out of my room: paper bags filled with old school papers for recycling; garbage bags of actual garbage—candy wrappers, orange peels, pieces of unidentifiable food (from the last time Alexis slept over? before the summer? that’s beyond disgusting); old toys and piles of clothes and books, posters, pictures to give away.

I’ve put everything except the garbage down in the family room, which is where we always put stuff to donate, and I am dusting and vacuuming and Windexing like crazy while they are making dinner. Every once in a while, one of them peeks into my room.

Finally, Dad walks in, hands me a glass of water, and says, “Who are you and what have you done with my Rachel?” but then he walks back out quickly, as if to say, “I don’t want to know.”

By the time he comes back from picking up Grandma and the three of them come to tell me dinner is ready (I’m sure Grandma made the strenuous trip up the stairs only because she couldn’t believe I had really cleaned), no one can recognize my room. Not even me. Mom and Dad are truly scared. I can see it in their eyes.

Mom says, “Shower?” and I smell my pits. She’s right. I take a quick one, throw on a pair of pants I found that I had forgotten about and a T-shirt I’ve never worn, and go downstairs.

The dining room table is our usual Shabbat table: the white tablecloth and the good china, the silver candlesticks, the challah on the special plate given to Mom and Dad for their wedding.
I find it reassuring. Mom, Grandma, and I say the blessing over the candles, Dad says
kiddush
and
ha-motzi
, and then, as we are eating our first delicious pieces of challah pulled from the loaf, I tell them I’m not going with them to temple.

They stare at me. I quickly demolish most of the challah, scooping out the soft inside, my favorite part. They don’t ask why or ask me what prompted the room cleaning or ask me how school was this week (their usual Friday night conversation).

“What?” Mom says finally. This is a bigger deal than usual. I don’t go every Friday night, more like once every month or two. But tonight is a special service honoring their friends the Silversteins, who’ve contributed a lot of time and money to the temple. The Oneg Shabbat, the party after services, is being given by a close friend of Grandma’s, Mrs. Philips, who is a fantastic baker.

I don’t actually want to miss the Oneg, not that part. Mrs. Philips makes the best devil’s food cake in the universe. Rich, dark chocolate. Sinful vanilla buttercream frosting between the layers and on top.

If I could get away with going only to the Oneg, I would. But I can’t go to services. No way. I could not possibly sit in
that
room and listen to His Phoniness pontificate from the (I can’t help but think of it this way) fucking
bima
.

“How will we explain it to the Silversteins if you’re not there? It’s their big night. You are so dear to them,” says Mom.

Oh please. They won’t even notice.

“They’ll understand,” I say. “I’m not feeling well.”

“So if you’re not feeling well, I guess you won’t be going out at all this weekend?”

Touché, Mama Bear.

“I mean emotionally,” I say. “Not physically.” This is, of course, true.

“Well then, a little sanctuary time is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” she says.

Sanctuary
time? Is that what they call it now? If she only knew.

I look at Grandma. She used to be my shopping buddy, my chick-flick-watching partner, my ally, the one who took my side in fights with Mom. But ever since Grandpa died, she’s been a shadow of her former self. She is picking at her noodle
kugel
, not looking up at all. I’m not even sure she’s paying attention.

“Grandma, help,” I say, but she keeps picking.

I give my father a pleading look. Dad, who I swear only goes to temple to please Mom, shakes his head slightly. “Sorry, Raebee, I gotta go with Mom here. I think you should come.”

She smiles at him, he smiles at her, and then it’s as if they’re alone in the room. What is it with them? This hot-and-cold thing is driving me crazy.

“I hate you,” I say, and I storm up to my room, or to what used to be my room.

My phone vibrates. A text. It’s Adam.

Gotta go to temple 2nite. Pls come.

Huh. I text back:

Punishment?

Yup. But u being there will make it OK.

Hmmmm. Adam wants
me
to come? I text him back, my heart beating a little faster than I would like.

OK

I take off my pants and top, throw them onto the floor, and go stand in my closet.

What to wear? Something the parental police will think is appropriate but that is not too uncool. A black skirt, red tank top, black sweater over that. Black leggings, black ballet slippers. I throw on my coat before they can tell me to button up the sweater.

I get a lecture in the car about not saying the word
hate
, but they don’t put a lot of oomph into it. I should be happy about that, but for some reason I’m not.

When I walk into the sanctuary, I swear I get post-traumatic stress syndrome. Seeing the dark blue velvet cushions and the blond wood, smelling that musty-old-prayer-book-ladies-in-perfume-old-man-onion-sweet-wine-so-many-people smell—brings it all back. I can’t even look at the
bima
. I turn around to leave and bump smack into Alexis.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her. She hasn’t been to services in forever.

But there’s Adam, next to her. Alexis raises her fingers to her lips as if she’s holding a joint and sucks in. “Wanna meet us out back during the sermon? You’ll enjoy the Oneg much more.”

“Come on, Rachel, time to lose your virginity,” says Adam, and he raises his eyebrows. Acting like he didn’t text me. “I mean your pot virginity, Rachel,” and he and Alexis both laugh. I
did
try pot once, at camp, but nothing happened. I guess Alexis forgot I told her that. I
am
curious to try again, but at temple? Really? And then Adam leans in close to me and whispers in my
ear (why does he keep doing that?), “We can always take care of the other kind when we’re alone.” Chills again.
Damn
him.

Alexis, Adam, and I are blocking the doorway of the sanctuary, so everyone has to walk around us going in. I am about to move away when Jake comes toward me.

“Hi, Rachel,” he says, looking into my eyes. We haven’t talked since study hall. His eyes lock with mine, and they’re so penetrating I lose my balance and step back right into some lady who snaps, “Careful!”

These boys are driving me crazy.

“Sorry,” I say, grabbing on to Jake’s arm.

“Hey, hey,” says Dr. Schmidt, Jake’s dad, who’s the new president of the synagogue. “You kids are in the way.” He’s smiling at us, though.

“Sorry, Dad,” says Jake.

“Sorry,” I mumble again. Adam and Alexis have disappeared.

“Please go sit down, son,” he says, patting Jake on the back. Jake looks at me, but I smile, shrug, point vaguely in the other direction, and turn around.

No way am I going in there.

I walk quickly down the hall to my favorite bathroom. No one is in here, but there are a bunch of girls’ coats thrown on the couch. I burrow under them and go to sleep.

I don’t know how long I’ve been hibernating under the coats, but I wake up to a giggle of little girls walking in.

It must be sermon time.

I sit up and climb out from the pile. The girls squeal and scream.

“Grrrr,” I say, making a monster face, my hands up in the air, like claws. “Grrr …”

More squeals, and laughter, as they pile onto the couch in a puppy heap.

I go to the parking lot out back.

CHAPTER 6A

NOT A VIRGIN

Adam and Alexis are definitely high. They are giggling and telling stupid jokes as we walk back into the temple. I feel nothing.

With my first toke I had a coughing fit. That didn’t happen at camp, but I don’t think I was doing it right then. This time I inhaled big and it really hurt going in, but they said it would be easier the second time. They told me how to inhale, how to hold it in. It didn’t hurt the second time, but I don’t think I did it right, because I feel nothing. So they kept getting me to take more hits, as they called them. Why are they called hits? Or tokes? Why not just puffs? Or drags? It did get easier and easier to do the whatever-you-want-to-call-thems. You? Who’s you? Who am I talking to?

When I said I wasn’t stoned, Adam said he didn’t feel anything his first time either. I said it wasn’t my first time, but Alexis interrupted me, saying she had felt something
her
first time. I think she was lying to impress Adam. She would do that. But I could tell. Couldn’t he? Not if he’s stoned, I guess. I’m not stoned. I wish I were. Stoned, I mean, not lying. Stoned. Wish I were.

Wish, witch, which. Which way did Adam and Alexis go? Where are they? Should I walk into the temple? How should I walk into the temple? Through the kitchen? Or should I go around to the front? Where are they? Oh, there they are, in front of me, walking down the ramp from the parking lot, in through the kitchen. I remember one time cooking pancakes in that kitchen with Dad. That was nice. We had to make, like, four hundred pancakes for a Brotherhood breakfast. Pancakes. Oooh. Pancakes would taste pretty good right now. Or waffles. I like waffles better. All those nooks and crannies for the maple syrup to get stuck in.

I wish it had worked. I wish I were stoned. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so horrible. All I feel is let down. I wish I were stoned.

I’d better go in. Oh, I am in. How did I get here? I’m here in the auditorium. It’s like I’m not in me, I’m outside me looking at me. I felt this way the other night, in class after—God. Oh God. Oh no, don’t go there, Rachel. Look. Look around you. Look at all the people in here.

Wow.
Look
at all these people. How will I ever get through them to the devil’s food cake?

How long have I been standing here looking at the crowd? I think I’ve been standing here for a long time. I should go get some of the devil’s food cake. It’s going to taste soooo good.