OyMG (10 page)

CHAPTER 19

I knocked on Zeydeh's door, then opened it with my key. “Zeydeh?” I called. “It's me.”

“In the kitchen,” he called back.

“I've only got a few minutes,” I said, weaving through his living room. “It's almost four o'clock, and I've got to get some work done before dinner.”

Everything in Zeydeh's house was pure vintage—but not in a cool way. In an
old
way. Zeydeh said couches gave him a crick in the neck, so he'd never had one. Instead, there were four chairs—none of them the same—facing a round coffee table. The furniture was all in one piece, but just barely. Kind of like Zeydeh.

He was bent over the open oven, huge yellow mitts on his hands. “How was camp?” he asked.

“Great!” I dropped into a scarred wooden chair. “I picked my topic. You've heard of pediatricians for kids and geriatricians for seniors? Say hello to teenatricians.”

He half turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “Nice, very nice. I like it.” Then he pulled out a pan.

I sniffed and wrinkled my nose. “Not the muffins again.”

The oven door closed with a bang. He turned toward me and waved the tray under my nose. “Pomegranate and prune,” he said. “First they pucker your lips, then they pucker your bottom.”

I groaned and waved him away. “I am not going to eat one of those. None of us will. I don't know why you bother.”

“They're Bubbe's favorites.”

“I hate to state the obvious, but Bubbe's gone.”

“So?” he retorted. “That means she lost her appreciation for a good muffin?”

I rolled my eyes. “There's nothing good about those muffins.”

“They remind me of Bubbe. They cheer me up.”

He loosened the muffins from his signature Calphalon pan. Zeydeh ate off plates as old as dinosaurs with chipped edges and scary food stains, but he had the best cookware money could buy. He tossed the muffins into a basket and brought them to the table.

“Why do you need cheering up?” I asked. “Is it still the soup?”

“What else but the soup?” His head dipped, as if it were too heavy for his neck. “I don't know why I bother. Mrs. Zuckerman will win again. Mrs. Zuckerman always wins.”

“Come on.” I slapped my hand on the table. “You're not giving up. You have two weeks, right?”

“Two weeks, two years …” He shrugged. “She's rubbing it in, Ellie. She knows.”

“What do you mean, she knows?” Zeydeh had always been a little crazy, but he was starting to sound
crazy
crazy.

“She was here. This morning.”

“Mrs. Zuckerman?”

“She came to the door with a letter addressed to me. Said the postman accidentally put my letter in her box. As if such a thing ever happens.”

“It happens all the time.” I reached for a muffin. It was hot on the tips of my fingers. Gray wisps of steam escaped as I broke off a piece and handed it to him. “Here, eat a little. You'll feel better.”

He took the bit of muffin, but didn't eat it.

“So did you talk to her?” I asked.

“She wasn't here to talk. She was here to spy.” Disapproval rumbled low in his throat. “She wanted to have coffee.”

“Zeydeh, that's nice.”

He lifted his eyes long enough to glare at me. “Who suggests coffee with the competition? Unless it's poisoned.”

“Maybe she's trying to be friendly.”

“Friendly, my
tuchus,
my rear end. She wants in so she can snoop around my kitchen.” He sighed. “The only way my name will get on a plaque at the shul is when I'm dead.”

“Don't say that!”

He waved a hand at me. “Enough with the bad news. Tell me about camp. Did you talk to that boy?” He sat a little straighter. “What did he say?”

“Yes, I talked to that boy and his name is Devon.” I ate a bit of muffin, then puckered when the tartness hit my tongue. I got up for some water. “It's because of Devon's dad. He died when Devon was a kid.”

“What's his father got to do with a scholarship?”

I grabbed a cup off the draining board and stuck it under the faucet. “Nothing,” I said, “except his dad was very involved in his church. The scholarship is in his memory, so religion is on the application.” I turned off the faucet and took a drink.

Zeydeh scratched his whiskers. “I still don't like it. Religion should not be an issue.”

“I told you it was nothing bad. Besides, Devon knows I'm Jewish. And he likes me just fine.”

“What's not to like?” As if he couldn't help himself, his face softened into a mushy Zeydeh smile.

I reached over and hugged him, scratching my cheek on his stubbly chin. “I love you.”

He pulled back and waved me off, but his cheeks looked pinker than they had in a while.

“I should go now,” I said. “I promised Devon I'd help him come up with intro ideas. He's probably waiting for me to call right now.”
Waiting. For me
.

“What's that smile for?” Zeydeh asked.

I smiled wider. “He asked me out for Friday.”

“Devon?” His voice rose with his eyebrows. “You're too young to date.”

“It's a charity event. I'm going with Megan's family, but Devon will be there and we'll sit together.”

“You're too young to sit with a boy.”

I laughed.

“Will his grandmother be there?”

“I think so. And probably his mother, too.”

“Good. Then you can tell them both you're Jewish.”

I planted a hand on my hip. “Stop trying to turn this into such a big deal.”

“Hello, good to see you, I'm a Jew,” he said. “What's the big deal?”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm going home now. You'll be over for dinner?”

“Who else will cook? Your mother?” His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the table, but when he spoke, his voice was soft. “You really like this boy, Ellie?”

I felt the answer flow through me—surprising, but as strong and as steady as my heartbeat:
Yes
.

“Yeah, Zeydeh,” I said, my voice a little thick. “I really like this boy.”

“I still say you're too young to date.”

“Maybe it's time
you
go on a date,” I said. “Next time she comes to spy, you should ask out Mrs. Zuckerman.”

“Me?” He waved a hand in my direction. “I'm too old to date.”

CHAPTER 20

“I'm about to kill myself,” Devon said. He held a deep-fried beef chalupa with sour cream and cheese from Taco Bell. He raised it an inch from his mouth. The class stopped shifting in their chairs. The classroom, our makeshift tournament stage for this Friday, had never been so quiet. No one wanted to miss what he said next—even me—and the intro was my idea. Talk about helping the enemy. Even crazier—I wanted him to nail it.

Sizzle had short-circuited my brain.

And I wasn't even sorry about it.

Fortunately, I had two things going for me. One, Devon wasn't an applicant for the Benedict's Scholarship—he already had all the Yeats money he could want. Two, I did still want to kick his butt. Just for the fun of it. So I couldn't be completely mindless, right?

Devon opened his mouth, started to take a bite—then stopped. “And when I do kill myself, I'm going to take some of you with me.”

Today's presentation was just for the class. Mrs. Lee didn't want to spoil the final tournament for parents by letting them hear our intros now. But I hadn't missed Mrs. Yeats sneaking in the back this time.

“By eating this chalupa, I'm going to send heart disease, high blood pressure, and obesity through the roof,” Devon said. “I'm going to impact the economic health of this country. I'm going to cause grisly deaths of the underage and undereducated in meatpacking plants. And that's just the beginning, according to authors such as Eric Schlosser of
Fast Food Nation
. The bookstore shelves are full of experts' books proclaiming our nation is spiraling toward processed death—all because of fast food. If only we could turn back time. Go back to the good old days. To the way our parents and grandparents used to eat. Those were the healthy days. Or were they? Were the good old days really that good? Is fast food really that bad? If this chalupa doesn't kill you, the truth just might.”

Devon paused another second, made eye contact with everyone in the room, then took a bite of the chalupa.

The whole class burst into applause.
Nice.

A second later, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Even as I turned, I caught the scent of roses. Mrs. Yeats smiled down at me. “One of his best intros. I believe you had something to do with that.”

My heart kicked against my ribs. “I only helped him brainstorm.”

She squeezed my shoulder gently, but I felt it to my bones. Felt warmth where her hand rested. “Humility is another quality we admire at Benedict's,” she whispered.

Then she walked back to her chair.

Yes!

It was going so perfectly. Devon and I had spent every afternoon that week at our nook. We brainstormed ideas for our oratories, and talked about his old school and my old school and what it would be like at Benedict's.
Together.
The word “together” hadn't actually come up, but it was all I thought about. I'd imagined a million scenarios of our getting together. My favorite: Devon presenting me the trophy on stage and admitting he was completely smitten. Did guys say “smitten”? They should, I decided.

It wasn't all my imagination. Tonight was the charity theater event, and even if he hadn't used the word “date,” Megan said it counted as one. By the time we started school at Benedict's, she predicted, we'd be going out.

When
we
started at Benedict's. I shouldn't say it like that, as if it was a sure thing. But it was getting closer. This afternoon, I'd meet with Mrs. Yeats. As long as I didn't blow it somehow, the scholarship felt like mine.

And I wasn't going to blow it. I was prepared—even for Question #7. If Mrs. Yeats asked about religion, I'd tell her how Grandma Taylor was on the board of her Lutheran church—that ought to score me some points. And if I didn't happen to bring up other things, like being Jewish, that wasn't lying. It was Selective Sharing. Mrs. Yeats didn't have to know everything. And Zeydeh didn't have to know that she didn't know. Fortunately, he was preoccupied with the ratio of celery to carrots in soup.

I couldn't believe the butterflies in my stomach. I wanted the interview to go really well. I wanted her to like me. Devon told me she'd had dinner at the White House once. Talk about a good person to have on your side.

When Mrs. Lee called my name, I stood, feeling invincible. My long, straight skirt forced me to take slow, even steps to the front of the room. I'd pinned up my bangs and rolled the rest of my hair into a bun. I looked older and more mature—or at least, that was the idea.

“I'm fourteen years old,” I began. “I continue to face the horrible indignities of puberty. Changing body, womanly issues, acne, and bone growth. The teenage years are some of the most important and terrifying in the realm of growth and development. And how does the medical community respond to my needs? They send me to a pediatrician where I wait in a lobby with screaming infants and a video of
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
. I'm led to a room with Mickey Mouse wallpaper, magazines about puppies and kittens, and a gentle reminder on bright yellow construction paper not to chew the books. Then, a nurse tells me to strip down and put on a paper robe. With Mickey Mouse watching? I don't think so. It's humiliating. More importantly, it can be dangerous if pediatricians are not prepared for the unique biological and mental needs of teenagers. What, then, is the solution?” I asked.

“There are pediatricians for infants and children. There are family doctors for adults. There are geriatricians for seniors. It's time the medical community reacts to the very real, very individual needs of teens. For the sake of our health—mental and physical—our society must train and prepare a new kind of doctor: a teenatrician.”

I looked around the room, then smiled and bowed. The sound of applause swirled around me, my heart beating in time with the rhythm of it.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

When the bell rang for lunch, I waited for Devon at my desk. He'd been coming over to talk whenever we had a few minutes' break. Sarah had noticed—everyone had noticed. “You guys hooking up?” she had asked yesterday. I said we were just friends, and shrugged like it was no big deal. But the idea of it felt so big that I could hardly keep it inside. Devon and me—it hardly seemed possible, much less real.

I watched him angle around the desks on his way over. A shivery feeling ran through me, and I couldn't help smiling.

“Nice intro,” he said, sliding into Sarah's seat as she got up. He gave me his smart-ass grin. “Good enough for second place.”

I stuck out my tongue. “Very funny. And you have chalupa in your teeth.”

He laughed, and draped an arm over the back of the chair. “You meeting with my grandmother?”

I nodded. “After lunch.”

“I'll walk over with you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Devon still ate lunch with Peter, and I ate with Megan and Anna. After all, we were just friends. But I couldn't stop myself from wanting it to be more than that. Which was why the scholarship had become even more important. Benedict's wasn't just about speech team. Now it was a chance to be with Devon, too.

Lunch flew by. I couldn't eat much and mostly listened to Megan and Anna talk about their scenes. When I dumped my trash and stacked my tray, Devon was at the door to the cafeteria, waiting.

I'd noticed that he'd started carrying his backpack on his left shoulder instead of his right. It was a little thing, but it meant that we could walk side by side closer—without any backpacks between us. Every time he did it, my stomach fluttered, and every hair on the back of my neck stood up and danced.

When had I started to like him so much? If you'd asked me two weeks ago, I'd have sworn he was the last guy I'd ever like. Now, he seemed like the only guy I'd ever like again.

“So we're on for tonight?” he asked.

We hooked a left through the lobby and down the hallway toward the offices. “Megan's picking me up at seven.”

“Cool.” He slanted me a half smile as we rounded the corner to Admin. The secretary wasn't at the front desk, and it didn't look like Mrs. Clancy was in her office, either. The door of the vice principal's office was half open. I couldn't see Mrs. Yeats, but I could hear her on the phone. “He sold the company? When?”

Devon and I exchanged a smile. One of those secret smiles you only shared with a guy you liked. Who liked you back.

“He sold to a Jew? My God, don't they already own a piece of everything?”

Mrs. Yeats's voice startled me back to earth.
What?
She had to be joking. She had to be talking to her best friend, who was Jewish, and they were joking.

I stared at Devon. “It's nothing,” he mouthed, but he looked embarrassed. “Business stuff.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Yeats said, with a short laugh. “And the country wonders why the financial markets are in ruins.” She let out a loud breath. “If we have to, we have to. I need those printers delivered by August first.” I could hear her tap a pencil on the desk. “It irks me, though. You know I hate working with those people.”

It didn't sound like a joke. It didn't sound like nothing.

Those people?

“Uh … Grandmother?” Devon called.

A second later, I heard her say good-bye, and then she appeared at the door, smiling like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn't just said all those things. It felt like a snake had coiled around my windpipe. I couldn't breathe.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Ellie's here,” Devon said.

“Wonderful.” Then her perfectly tweezed brows lifted an inch. “Are you all right, Ellie? You look a little pale.”

I didn't feel pale—I felt hot. My head pounded so hard, my brain felt sore.

“She's fine. Right, Ellie?”

I glanced at Devon. What was that look? Was that the eye version of a shrug? Was I supposed to shrug off what I'd heard?
What had I heard?

Mrs. Yeats gestured to the office. “Why don't you come in? Have a seat.”

Someone had to do something—say something. She had to know I was a Jew so she could explain. So she could say she didn't mean anything by it.

I looked at Devon.
Say something.

His eyes urged me forward.

“Ellie?” Mrs. Yeats said again.

I swallowed hard, and followed her in.