Like No Other (8 page)

D
evorah

S
EPTEMBER
2, 12:30
PM

P
eople like to say it’s a small world. And even if you’re talking big picture, that’s probably true. But my world sometimes redefines the word “small.” Like the fact that my school is four blocks from my house, and my family’s store is one block from my school. Which means that on the average day, I travel exclusively within the same quarter-mile radius.

It didn’t used to feel so small. I never wanted to venture outside. We’re taught early on that strangers can’t be trusted and that we are never to speak to anyone who isn’t Hasidic (well, except for the boys and men who get to ride around in the Mitzvah mobiles, trying to bring non-Orthodox Jews back into the fold; Chabad is the only Hasidic sect that embraces proselytizing, which in a way is the only reason I exist, since my grandma was allowed to convert). Anyway, I know it sounds closed-minded, but I never really even wondered about what life was like beyond the borders of my neighborhood. People outside the faith didn’t seem real, more like two-dimensional cutouts living in a far-off other world.

Before I met Jaxon, my only connection to life beyond Chabad, ironically, was through the subjects I studied in school. This might sound nerdy, but I really loved learning. I used to pore over my textbooks when I got home, following the words with my pointer finger and stopping whenever I struck something I wanted to commit to memory, like
octopuses have rectangular pupils
, or
every hour the universe expands by a billion miles in all directions
. When my finger hit a sentence that was blacked out by the school censors, it felt like an exciting mystery.

But something about this year feels very different. Suddenly nothing quite fits—and not just my billowy white school blouse, which is straining at the bust for the first time under my thick navy vest. I feel an unrest creeping in, that expanding, unknown universe straining against the confines of my consciousness. And it’s paralyzing. This morning I sat through my Hebrew class without raising my hand once, even though as usual I knew all the answers. I forgot to take notes during Halakha because Mrs. Piekarski started talking about the three levels of sin—
pesha
,
avon
, and
chet
—and I got distracted trying to figure out which sin I’m committing by not being able to stop thinking about Jaxon.
Pesha
is purposeful and wicked, deliberately defying G-d, like stealing or killing.
Avon
is uncontrollable lust or emotion against your will or better judgment. And
chet
is unintentional, obviously the best kind. I want it to be
chet
, but I’m pretty sure it’s
avon
. It can’t be a good sign that I keep thinking about the curve of his lips in profile, or the way his skin felt against my own, like electrified velvet. Incidentally, I don’t marvel over the censored pages in my schoolbooks anymore. I
know
what Romeo and Juliet are doing behind those marks. And more than that, I
want
to know.

“Are you okay?” Shoshana asks me when we break for lunch in the courtyard, sitting down at a wooden table and unwrapping our chicken sandwiches. “You seem weird.” The sun shines brightly in my eyes, lending Shosh’s light brown hair a halo of starbursts.

“What do you mean?” I take a bite of my sandwich but find it hard to chew. My mouth is dry, dehydrated. I probably sweated all my fluids out through stress over the weekend. Mom took us clothes shopping in the city, and every dark-skinned boy I saw made my heart pound. I don’t know if I was more scared to find out that it
was
him or that it wasn’t.

“Ever since Rose had the baby you haven’t been returning my calls,” she says, pouting a little. “And you haven’t told me anything yet.” She lowers her voice and leans in so that the teachers chaperoning lunch won’t hear. “
Especially
about the stranger.”

“How did you hear about that?” I stage-whisper. But it’s not surprising. Gossip travels fast in our community, because the culture is so insular. Everyone wants to know everyone’s business. Amos probably told Shosh’s brother, Judah, or Hanna told her friend Naomi who lives next door to Shosh’s older sister, Aviva. Jacob also sometimes does his Shomrim patrol with Aviva’s husband, Michah. The potential paths are endless.

“Come on,” Shoshana says with a playful smile. “
You?
Trapped in a confined space with a black man? That’s like a joke setup, like ‘Two rabbis walk into a bar.’”

“Thanks,” I say.

“But seriously,” she says. “What did you
do
? Did you freak out?” Shosh has always been easily excitable; the first time I met her, on the street in our neighborhood when we were six, she was literally spinning in circles because she’d eaten too much chocolate babka. I can’t help but get worked up by proxy.

“A little,” I admit, taking a gulp from my water bottle. “Inside, anyway.”

“Did he try to talk to you?”

I nod, ducking my chin to hide the smile that reflexively parts my lips every time I think about our conversation.

“What did he
say
?”

“Not much at first. He told me not to worry. Then he tried to get us out. He actually climbed through a hatch in the ceiling.”

“No!” Shosh’s eyes have grown perfectly round. She is loving this.

“Mmm hmmm.”

“What did you do?”

I look around to make sure that none of the teachers are paying attention, and then I lean forward, my chin nearly trembling from the weight of what I’m about to say. I’ve been dying for four days to get the guilt off my chest, and if anyone will understand, I know it’s Shosh. “I spoke to him,” I whisper.

“Shut
up
.”

“I know,” I say. “But he was being so considerate, and after he kicked open the ceiling just to try to help, I felt bad—or rude—not saying anything.”

Shoshana sits back, smiling softly. “I’m impressed,” she says. “I never would have pegged you for such a rebel.” Of course she’s joking, just like Jaxon was when
he
called me a rebel. But still, my face burns with shame.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” I ask.

“It’s not awful, it’s awesome,” Shoshana cries, drawing the attention of the nearby tables. I glare at her, and she lowers her voice again. “What did you guys talk about? No, wait, first tell me what he looked like. Spare no details.”

“He was . . . normal,” I sputter, unprepared for the question.

“Was he handsome?”

“I . . .”
am obsessed with his face, even though I can’t remember exactly what it looks like
. “Couldn’t really tell. It was dark.”

“What about his body?” Shoshana wiggles her eyebrows. Girls in my community tend to respond to the laws of
yichud
in two ways: Some never, ever think about the opposite sex, to keep their minds pure; and some think about them all the time, seeing romance as a forbidden mystery. My best friend is clearly in the second camp.

“Shosh! Stop it,” I say, covering my face with my hands.

“Oh, you’re no fun, frummie,” she says, tearing off the end of her straw wrapper and blowing the paper at me. I raise an eyebrow.

“Hey,” I say. “If you must know, my
frum
status has been falling steadily since Thursday.”

“Prove it,” she challenges, sipping her cranberry juice and feigning disinterest.

“Well, I talked to him,” I say. “I listened to music on his phone—”

“What?! Which songs?” Shosh interjects.

“Something old, I don’t know it,” I say dismissively, rushing to get to the secret I need to spill, that’s burning like a wildfire in my chest. “And . . . I keep
thinking
about him, too. About Jaxon. That’s his name. His first name, anyway. I don’t know his last name.”

“Wow, that’s manly,” she says dreamily. “Like a general or something.”

“He spells it with an X,” I add, unable to help myself.

“Oooh, edgy!”

“I guess,” I say. “He wasn’t edgy, though. He seemed pretty nerdy, actually.” I smile self-consciously. “In a good way.”

“Dev,” she says, pushing away her half-eaten sandwich, “this is
literally
the best thing I have heard in months. I’m so glad this happened. Not Rose’s baby being born early or any of the dangerous parts, of course, but you getting a crush. On a goy!”

“Shhhhhh!” The girls at other tables don’t seem to be listening, but it’s a risk to be discussing this out in the open. There’s a lot of inner policing at my school, girls turning one another in for bad behavior. Shosh is the only person I trust with this, and I have to be careful, especially since the news is spreading. Not through Jacob, I’m pretty sure—he’s too concerned with piety to risk the family’s reputation—but through my younger siblings, who don’t know any better.

“Oh, what, you don’t think half the girls at school don’t go home and pine for Ryan Gosling?”

“Who’s Ryan Gosling?”

“This is my point,” she says excitedly. “You don’t watch regular movies. You don’t sneak gossip magazines into your room on Shabbos. You don’t secretly text boys—you don’t even have a cell phone! You don’t do
any
of the things most of us do. I love you, Dev, but sometimes I’ve wondered if you’re not some kind of perfect robot. Until now.” She grins. “You’re officially normal.”

I know this is a backhanded compliment, but it fills me with relief. Maybe I’ve been worrying over nothing. Maybe this really
is
normal.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It doesn’t feel normal to think this much about a boy—
any
boy.”

“It definitely is,” Shosh says. “It’s hormones. Hormones don’t care if we’re saving ourselves for marriage.” I feel my cheeks flush bright red.

“I’m not thinking about him like
that
,” I say. Which is true. Even in my fantasies, we just sit and talk some more. Or okay, maybe hold hands. But that’s
it
. “I just think about . . . what he’s doing. Or if I’ll ever run into him again.”

“Too bad you don’t know his last name or where he lives,” Shosh says, laughing.

“Well . . .” I lean in conspiratorially. “He mentioned that he works at some place called Wonder Wings. And I know it’s crazy, but I was thinking of going there. One day after school. Just to say hi.”

Shoshana’s face suddenly changes. Her smile disappears and is replaced by a look of true shock.

“Devorah,” she says, dead serious for the first time all day—and maybe ever. “You can’t do that.”

I’m momentarily speechless. Of course she’s right. And I can’t believe I even said that out loud. The giggly girl talk gave me a sense of security that I have no business having. Shosh may be my best friend since first grade, but she’s still Hasidic.
I’m
still Hasidic. Even if I secretly met with a Chabad boy I could ruin my reputation. And here I am blithely suggesting that I meet Jaxon just blocks from my home, steps from the watchful eyes of my neighbors, my family, the Shomrim. I can’t do that. I know this, the way I know my alphabet or my prayers or how to arrange the Shabbos silverware, but it’s not until this moment that I actually understand: I can
never
see him again. Not by choice. A lump rises in my throat, and I take a bite of my cold sandwich just to force it back down.

“I mean, think about him, yeah,” Shosh says, relaxing a little bit. “Pretend he’s your boyfriend in your head if you want. But you know that it can never,
ever
happen in real life. That’s not an option.”

I know that I should just backtrack and pretend I was joking. But something is overflowing in me now—years of compartmentalization, years of pushing down the questions, years of accepting the pat answer of
Because that’s what it says in the Torah
with an obedient nod.

“Why not?” I hear myself say. “What would be so wrong about it?”

“Are you kidding?” Shosh asks, looking at me like I’ve just started doing cartwheels in the middle of temple. “He’s not one of us. He’s not even
Jewish
.” I press my lips together and try to breathe deeply.
What am I doing?
Just as Jax doesn’t understand my world, no one I know will sympathize with this insane crush I’m harboring. I should have known better. “Unless he converted,” Shosh continues, “you could never be with him and still live here. And even if he converted, you’d have to be matched . . .” She stares at me like I’m crazy. “You
know
this, Dev. You know the rules backward and forward. And until about five seconds ago, I thought you followed them. All of them.”

“I do,” I say defensively. “All I’m saying is I
liked
talking to him, and I don’t know why it’s such a big deal.” I emphasize the past-tense verb, feeling a little guilty. It’s a lie. Just one more drop in the bucket of sins I seem to be hauling around ever since I stepped off the elevator.

“Well, okay,” Shoshana says tentatively. “It’s over anyway. Just don’t do anything more. If you went away I would die.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes. “Where would I go?” I ask.

“Maybe to ‘Israel,’” Shosh says, making air quotes. “Like Ruchy.”

I perk up. I had been meaning to ask Shoshana about the mystery of what happened to Ruchy Silverman. Getting an answer about her could be the silver lining to what’s shaping up to be a totally depressing lunch period.

“You mean she didn’t go to Israel?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Shoshana shakes her head. “She had a boyfriend,” she says. “A film student at NYU. Her parents found some texts.”

I furrow my brow. That’s bad, but not as bad as I thought it would be. Niv made it sound like Ruchy had made some fatal error in judgment. Like she was dead.

“How did she meet him?” I probe. Ruchy may have been beautiful and popular, but she definitely wasn’t a “bad girl.”

Shoshana smirks. “You know the home for the mentally disabled where she worked after school? The guy had an uncle there. They got to talking, and one thing led to another.” She fixes me with an I-told-you-so look.

“But then why is she gone from school? I mean, didn’t Mr. and Mrs. Silverman just break them up when they found out?”