OyMG (12 page)

“Benedict's, you mean?”

He nodded.

I frowned, my thoughts turning back to his grandmother. “I just can't believe she wouldn't like me because of my religion. It's like something out of a history book, something that doesn't happen anymore. You know?”

“She's old, Ellie. Old people still think old thoughts. I don't think the same way. You know that, right?”

Just hearing him say it made me feel better. It also made me want to reach over and hug him. Instead, I curled my hands tighter around the smooth edge of the bench. But I couldn't help leaning in his direction. “It just doesn't make sense. I mean, if she knew I was Jewish, then what? Does she think that suddenly I wouldn't be talented and smart? Suddenly I wouldn't be worthy of Benedict's?”

“So prove her wrong.”

“How?”

“By winning.”

The thought spread through me like heat in my veins. What if Devon was right? If I won the tournament, I'd win her respect. I'd prove myself. Then, when I told her I was Jewish, she'd see how wrong she'd been.

“It doesn't bother you that I'm lying to your grandmother?” I asked.

He got quiet. “Normally it would.”

“But?”

“But this isn't normal.” He slid his hand over the top of my hand, then curved his fingers around mine. My mouth went dry. His eyes flickered at me, questioning at first, then more intense when I slid my fingers between his.

“I don't normally fall for girls who are so much trouble.”

I fought a smile, then gave up. It felt like a sparkler had gone off inside of me, shooting light and heat in a million directions. “Me, trouble?”

“From day one, you wanted to kick my butt.”

“You're the one who challenged me to a cuckoo duel.”

He fit his palm to mine, and squeezed my hand. “You have to go to Benedict's, Ellie. It's a huge pain if your girlfriend doesn't go to the same school.”

I shivered in the warm night. “Girlfriend?”

“If you say yes.” He shifted so close our knees touched. So close I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Not that you've ever said yes to anything in the two weeks I've known you. And I know it's only been two weeks, but—”

“Yes,” I breathed.

He paused, his slow smile making my heart stall. Then he leaned forward and kissed me.

It felt like magic, sitting there. Like something in a movie—the moon above, the quiet night, his hand in mine. Only better. Only
real.
I didn't want to move. I didn't want it to end.

But the doors were banging open and people were coming out, heels tapping on the concrete, conversations rising and falling. I pulled back. “We missed the first half,” I said, embarrassed.

“Best play I've ever been to.”

I laughed.

His fingers squeezed mine again. “We cool?”

I nodded.

He looked toward the open doors and the streams of people walking into the night. “You sure?” he asked, a catch in his voice.

“Why?”

“Because in another minute, my grandmother is going to be here.”

I pulled my hand free and ran it through my bangs. “Great.”

“You can tell her you're Jewish after you get into Benedict's. We'll tell her together. Okay?”

I pushed back my worries. “Okay.”

He looked toward the stairs again, then reached for my hand. Doris Yeats stood at the doorway. I could tell the moment she spotted us.

My muscles tensed, as if I were preparing for a punch to the gut. It seemed unreal. How could the sweet-looking woman smiling at me hate me?

“I need to warn you,” he said. “She wants to invite you to Sunday brunch.”

“Sunday brunch?” I repeated. She had started down the stairs toward us.

“She likes you, Ellie,” he said urgently. “She knows I like you.”

I took a deep breath, shifting my gaze to him.

“Just say yes, okay?”

I knew Zeydeh wouldn't say yes. Just the thought of him tugged at my gut. But I knew it was a tug toward the past. Walking toward me was the future. “I'll say yes,” I said.

Only I didn't know I was saying yes to more than brunch.

CHAPTER 22

The flagstone felt rough on my bare feet as I stepped outside. The patio was shaded, but I still squinted against the morning sun. The intense glare made the landscape rock sparkle and had burned the Bermuda grass to a yellow green.

Dad looked up from his potting bench, and his mouth dropped open. “What are you doing awake so early?” He looked up at the clock hanging on the patio wall. We'd only had it a few weeks, but already the copper had oxidized and turned a speckled green.

I yawned and shuffled around a bag of potting soil. I dropped into a lounge chair. “I forgot to close the blinds last night. The sun got me.”

“What time did you get home?”

“About eleven. Mom said you were already asleep.”

He went back to pouring soil into a wide, round pot. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah.” It wasn't the most descriptive word, but then again, I wasn't going to tell my dad about Devon. I wasn't going to use the word “magic.” Or confess that I was completely in love and that Megan had been so right about Respecting the Sizzle. I couldn't tell him it was the most perfect night of my life, right up until the second when Mrs. Yeats had shown up, opened her mouth, and ruined everything.

Dad's work area was a mess. Tools and gloves and empty pots were stacked on the shelves of the hutch, and bags of soil and fertilizer sat half open and leaking over the flagstone. But somehow, out of the disaster area, he created amazing things.

“That looks pretty,” I said. He'd combined white zinnias with orange marigolds. I watched him tamp down the earth around the flowers. It always relaxed me, watching him work with flowers. It felt simple, natural. Why couldn't life be like gardening?

I let out a long breath.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Why does something have to be wrong?”

“You just thought it would be nice to sit outside in hundred-degree weather on a Saturday morning and watch your dad plant flowers?”

I played with the hem of the shorts I'd thrown on with the cami I slept in. “Mrs. Yeats asked me to brunch tomorrow.”

Dad paused, looking up. “Really? Does she invite all the Benedict's applicants?”

“I've kind of started hanging out with Devon.”

“Ah,” he said. “I take it you like Devon?”

I nodded, my heart answering with a squeeze. “He's really cool, Dad.”

Lines fanned out from the corner of his eyes as he studied me. “And he thinks you're really cool?”

“He asked me to be his girlfriend last night.”

“What?” He shook his head. “You're too young to have a boyfriend.”

“You sound like Zeydeh.”

“Probably because Zeydeh also knows the rules: no dating until you're sixteen.”

“I know,” I said, shifting deeper in the chair. “We're just going to hang out. Talk on the phone, that kind of thing.”

“I suppose that's all right.” He puffed up his chest, and showed off his biceps. “But if I have to, I'll give him my scary-dad routine.”

I laughed. “You have no scary-dad routine.”

“I can work on one,” he said, depuffing. “So what's the problem?”

“Turns out it's not just Sunday brunch.” I looked at him through the curve of my eyelashes. “As long as I'm joining them for lunch, Mrs. Yeats asked why didn't I also join them for church.”

His hands stilled. “Uh-oh.”

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “It's a Lutheran church, so she's sure I'll feel right at home.”

“You did give her that impression.” He gave me a sharp look, then went back to his flowers.

“I'm thinking I can chalk it up to religious exploration. You and Mom always say Benny and I should be open-minded.”

He set the finished pot at my feet and reached for another one. “Is that what this is really about? Open-minded, honest exploration?”

“It could be,” I said slowly.

“Or it could be a lie, which is why you feel bad about it.”

“Who says I feel bad about it?”

“You're not still in bed sleeping like a baby.”

I sat up, folding my legs under. “You've done it, too,” I said defensively. “Remember a few months ago when those Bible-thumpers came to our door?”

“No.” He sprinkled some plant food into the pot.

“You told them you were Jewish, which you're not. Just to get rid of them.” I twisted my hands around the metal armrests. “People lie about their religion all the time. Even Zeydeh's grandfather changed his name when he came to America.”

“It's not the same, Ellie.”

“Why isn't it?” I asked. “I watched that show on PBS—Jews lied about being Jews to get into colleges all the time.”

“Because there was discrimination—quotas—it was their only chance.”

“Well, this is my only chance,” I said stubbornly. “Isn't discrimination still discrimination?”

He paused again. “Is that what this is?” he asked. “Discrimination?”

I rested back in the chair again, only every one of my muscles suddenly felt stiff and tight. “It turns out, the weird thing she has about Jewish people … is that she doesn't like them.”

“You serious?” He stared at me, his mouth hanging open. “What happened to your spitting in her eye?”

“Devon said it wouldn't do any good,” I admitted. “The only way to fight discrimination is not to let it affect me.”

“But it will affect you, Ellie. It already has.”

“But why should it? Religion is supposed to be about good things. Besides, Christians and Jews have a lot of things the same, like the same God. The Christians just have one more dead guy than we do.”

He wiped the back of his hand over his chin. “That's one way of looking at it.”

“Shouldn't religion be about being a good person? What's it matter what you call yourself? It's all the same thing.”

He rested his hands on the edge of the pot, the tips of his fingers as brown as the dirt. “It's not the same, Ellie. Grandma Taylor isn't a Christian because that's what she calls herself. She's a Christian because she believes that Jesus lived and died for her sins. She finds great comfort in her beliefs, and in the church.”

“Then why don't you go to church?”

He wiped his chin again, this time leaving a thin line of dirt. “Do you know who George Bernard Shaw was?”

I frowned. “A writer?”

He nodded. “He once said, ‘The best place to find God is in a garden. You can dig for him there.' ” He looked at his plants. “This is my church. This is where God lives for me.”

“It makes Grandma mad, doesn't it?” I said. “That you're not more religious? Was she mad when you married Mom?”

He shook his head. “Not really. The hardest part for her was when you and Benny were born. She wanted to baptize you.”

“You mean, put water on our heads?”

“Something like that. She worried you wouldn't go to heaven.”

“Of course I'm going to heaven.” I made a face. “But maybe she should worry about Benny. I have my doubts.”

He smiled.

I leaned down and wiped a clump of dirt from the edge of the pot he'd finished. “I wonder if God cares? Or if it seems dumb from up there? You know, how things feel so big on earth—like a house seems big, but when you get up in a plane, it's barely the size of a bread crumb.”

“I don't know,” he said. “But I do know that no matter how much distance you try to put between yourself and a lie, it's still a lie.”

I swallowed. “I promised Devon I would go.”

“It's your choice, Ellie. Just be sure you're thinking it through.”

I could feel his eyes on me, even though I didn't look up. “I wish we were more like flowers.” I traced a finger over an orange petal shot through with a curl of yellow. “Zinnias and marigolds are different, but look how nice they are in the same pot.”

He sighed. “Amen to that.”

CHAPTER 23

The Lamb of God felt like the church Grandma Taylor attended when she came for visits. High ceilings made the church feel bigger than it was, and a little awe inspiring even for me—and I wasn't in the mood to feel awed.

The wood pews were polished to a shine, and I was pretty sure that lemony scent was Pledge. A row of stained-glass windows caught the morning sun, and prisms of light floated on the far wall like a moving watercolor.

Devon's family had the third row. His grandmother sat on the middle aisle, then a friend sat next to her, then Devon's mom, then Devon, and then me. Even with the carpeted aisles, I could hear people filing in around us, but no strangers sat in our row. Not that there were any strangers at Lamb of God. That's what the minister had said when Mrs. Yeats introduced me.

It wasn't totally different from a synagogue—except for the sculpture of Jesus that hung over the altar, the collection of crosses arranged on one wall, and the Christian Bible in every pew. In other words, okay yeah, it was different.

I'd told myself there wasn't anything to feel bad about. It was just a church service and it didn't mean anything. That's what I would have told Zeydeh—if I'd told him I was going. Instead, I got Benny to do Juice Duty and figured Zeydeh would think I was sleeping in. I smoothed down the skirt of my green dress. I just wanted to avoid an argument, but it still felt like he was in my head making old-man noises and squinting in disapproval.

Devon handed me a Bible. I realized everyone else already had one out and in their laps. I smiled to show I was okay, and he winked to show he was okay with me not being okay.

I flipped open the book and tried to focus. In synagogue, the prayer books opened to the right, and Hebrew would have filled half the pages. But I only knew a little Hebrew, anyway. Maybe if Devon and I kept dating, I'd want to go to church with him. But would I always be trying to look Lutheran, whatever that meant?

Can you help me out here, God?

I closed my eyes. The choir had started a song, but the music faded in my head as I pictured God. When I was little, I always thought of him sitting in heaven on a chair, like Abraham Lincoln in his Washington monument. Even though I knew it wasn't really like that, I still pictured him that way, right down to the beard.

You know what's going on, God. It's not like I'm trying to change teams or anything. This doesn't make me a traitor to Zeydeh and Bubbe and every Jew who's been killed in the past five thousand years. I just want to prove to Mrs. Yeats that I deserve the scholarship. You wouldn't have given me the talent if you didn't want me to use it, right? Just so we're clear, God, that it's okay, because if it isn't—well, just give me a sign if it isn't.

I opened my eyes and looked toward the pulpit. There was no flashing sign saying, “Ellie, you're a traitor.” The sculpture of Jesus hadn't suddenly woken up and pointed his finger at me. For a second, I studied the sculpture with the blank stone eyes. What would Jesus have been like? The eyes were shadowed and sad, the head tilted down.

I'd never really known what to think about Jesus. One of the first things I'd ever been told about him was that I'd killed him.

I was seven years old, in Miss Kennedy's second-grade class.

It was a Friday. I could still picture it like yesterday. It was too hot and sunny for the playground equipment, but the teachers had set up games to play under the shade structure. I was standing in line for hopscotch and picking at a scab on my elbow.

Lisa Fernando turned around and twirled one of her braids at me. “You killed Jesus,” she said.

I opened and closed my mouth five or six times, then said, “What?”

“And you're going to H. E. double toothpick. Hell,” she added in a whisper, and stuck out her tongue.

I stuck out mine, too, and told her she had ugly knees. But after school, I took one step into my house and burst out crying. Zeydeh was in the kitchen. He dropped the ball of dough he'd been kneading and pulled me into a floury hug. Then he took my hand and led me to the couch. He sat down, pulled me onto his lap, and waited for me to cry it out.

Zeydeh said some emotions were too big for words—they spoke only in tears. That day, my tears had a lot to say.

“So,” he asked when I was done, “tell me what happened.”

“Lisa Fernando said I'm going to hell.”

“She said
what
?” he sputtered.

More tears poured from my eyes. “She said I killed Jesus and I'm going to burn for it.”

“Rubbish,” he grunted.

“It's true,” I sniffled. “They told her in church.”

“And did they also tell Lisa Fernando that Jesus was a Jew?”

I nearly fell off Zeydeh's lap. “He was? Really?”

Zeydeh nodded. “As Jewish as you and I. Would he send a fellow Jew to you-know-where?”

I smiled at the face he made and wiped at my runny nose. “Grandma Taylor says Jesus is coming back.”

“Well,” Zeydeh said, “then we'll invite him to join us for Shabbat dinner. I'll make my famous noodle kugel. You think Jesus's mother made a kugel as good as mine?”

I thought about Jesus eating noodle pudding with cinnamon and raisins, just like we did. “So I can go to heaven, too, Zeydeh?”

“Of course, my little one,” he said, rubbing a hand over my wet cheek. “But not, I pray, for a very long time.”

His face went dark then, the way it did when his mind had gone somewhere sad. I knew he was thinking about Bubbe being in heaven.

“Zeydeh?” I asked. “You can cry, too, if you want.”

He blinked. His eyes cleared and he hugged me. “Today, I will only cry tears of happiness that I should have a granddaughter like you.”

I hugged him back.

And the next day, I delivered my first oratory—to Lisa Fernando on Jesus and noodle kugel.

I sighed, blinking myself back to the present. I studied the sculpture again.
Did you eat noodle kugel, Jesus?
It was strange to think of him as more than a symbol—to think of him as a person. If Jesus were here right now, would he come to Lamb of God to pray? Or would he go to a synagogue? Did
he
feel bad, being here in a church?

Did I?

I thought about it as if I could feel Christianity on my skin, breathe it into my lungs. It didn't feel bad being here, just different. Just not … me. I studied Jesus again, and suddenly, it hit me. Our connection. He and I were the only two Jews in the place.

By the time the service ended, I felt better. There'd been no sign from God. Zeydeh might not understand, but obviously God did.

I drove with the Yeatses to the Shadow Mountain Resort for brunch. From the front seat, Devon's mom filled me in on who would be joining us, while in the backseat, Devon held my hand.

We were shown to a private room with windows draped in green velvet and a long table with eight settings of white china, polished silverware, and cloth napkins. The manager had come forward when he'd seen Mrs. Yeats. He'd followed us in, his hand on her elbow—nothing was too much trouble for her. It took me two minutes to decide I could get used to this—three waiters hustling around asking if I wanted anything. What more could I want? If I was looking for a sign, wasn't this it? Just the fact that this was so perfect had to mean something.

I followed Devon to the long white tables of buffet food. Steam rose from covered silver dishes, and with every step we took, the smells got better and better. I filled my plate with eggs Benedict and bright yellow mango and three kinds of pastries all dripping with icing. And bacon. A pile of crispy bacon. Why not? We never had it at home, mostly because Zeydeh kept kosher and bacon was
treyf
—unclean. But it wasn't as if I kept kosher, too.

When we got back to the table, everyone was already seated with their plates full and coffee steaming out of dainty white cups. There were full glasses of orange juice for Devon and me. We'd been given the two seats at the far end of the table. It felt like brunch for two, and we ate our way through our plates of food, talking about camp and the other kids and their oratory topics. Then we got onto the topic of fast food, and it wasn't long before we were laughing more than we were eating.

“That's what we need,” he said, “a fast-food breakfast buffet. Just think of the possibilities.”

I licked bacon grease off my thumb. “I am, and it sounds gross to me.”

“You kidding?” he said. “Pancake sticks with fake butter and french-fried eggs.”

“What about taco-flavored muffins?” I asked. “Or biscuit-gravy burgers?”

That made him laugh. “And for dessert—sausage chunks and cheese cereal.”

I was wiping tears of laughter from the corner of my eye when Mrs. Yeats set down her napkin and asked, “What's so funny down there?”

I tried to catch my breath.

“Just ideas for my oratory,” Devon said.

“Which I've yet to see,” Mrs. Yeats replied.

“You'll see it during the final tourney in two weeks.”

She shook her head with mock impatience. “Do you share ideas with your family, Ellie? Devon is very secretive with his.”

“I try not to share,” I said. “But my grandpa usually manages to get it out of me.”

“Ah yes,” Mrs. Yeats said. “Devon mentioned that you're very close to your grandfather. He lives with your family?”

“Just down the street.”

“Your father's father?”

I wiped the napkin over my mouth. “My mother's father.” My stomach suddenly felt full in a bad way.

“Then he's not a Taylor?” she continued.

I shook my head. I tried taking a sip of water, but even my throat felt full. Zeydeh had once tried to teach me how to play chess. I didn't have the patience for it, but the one thing I liked was how you figured out your opponent's next move before they even made it. It felt like that now … like I could see where she was headed, but I couldn't see how to stop her.

“What is his name, Ellie?”

Checkmate.
His name ran through my mind: Shmuel ben Yakov in Hebrew, Samuel Morris Levine in English. About as Jewish as a name could be.

“It's very possible we might have met,” she added. “I'm very involved in the senior community. Perhaps his name will ring a bell.”

And it would. Just not the one she expects
.

I paused, not sure what to say. Was this a sign from God? Was I meant to tell the truth? The whole truth? What if I did? Would she tell me to leave? My stomach curled into a painful knot. Maybe a half truth?
Half the truth—for half a Lutheran?
And suddenly the words were coming out. “His name is Sam,” I said. “Samuel Morris.”

She looked thoughtful. “I don't believe I know the name, after all.”

I tried to look disappointed, and a second later the subject was dropped.

And there was no bolt of lightning from God.

Fifteen minutes later, Mom showed up to drive me home. Devon's mom had offered to give me a ride, but Mom wanted to come. She wore a summer dress with splashes of pink flowers and her only cool pair of sandals, which sucked, because I couldn't borrow shoes that Devon had seen on my mom's feet.

She shook hands with everyone, and she and Jennifer Yeats got into a discussion about teaching. Devon's mom had worked in a school library years ago and was thinking it might be time to go back. “It's changed so much,” Mom said. “Everything is computerized and Internet based.” They talked until the waiter came to clear. Then we said our good-byes and Doris Yeats walked us to the front of the hotel. Devon came, too.

A huge chandelier hung in the center of the lobby, with teardrop crystals hanging below each light. They reflected prisms along the wide glass windows that overlooked the entrance. I could see Mom's VW parked along the circular drive.

“I'm so glad Ellie was able to join us,” Doris said to Mom. “It's wonderful that we share the same beliefs.”

Mom nodded, but slowly. Really slowly. “It was kind of you to invite her,” she finally answered. Then she had to turn away, because Devon's mom was saying how nice it was to meet her. And the two of them started talking again, and then Doris reached for my hand and clasped it between the two of hers.

“I hope you enjoyed our service,” she said.

“I did,” I answered, and realized it wasn't even a lie. “In fact,” I said, smiling to myself, “I've never felt closer to Jesus.”

As soon as the words were out, I realized Mrs. Yeats wasn't the only one listening. My mom had finished with Devon's mom. From the pinched look around her mouth, I could tell she'd heard every syllable.