OyMG (16 page)

CHAPTER 29

“I brought you a stale cinnamon roll and a Coke,” Megan said. “It's regular. I figured you could use extra sugar with your caffeine.”

Megan had shown up a while ago—I wasn't sure how long. Or even what time it was. She'd taken one look at me and prescribed immediate sugar. “Here,” she said, handing me the goodies. I took the bottle of Coke and shook my head at the bag. I couldn't eat.

She sat down next to me.

I held the Coke to my forehead for a second, rolling the cold plastic on my skin. “You were gone awhile,” I said. “Any news?”

“I'm supposed to tell you Zeydeh is finally back from x-ray. He's got a broken humerus—the upper bone in his arm—but it's a clean break and the doctor thinks it'll heal like new.”

I stood. “I'll go up.”

“Hang on,” she said, grabbing my arm. “He's getting a cast put on. Your mom says wait a little while and then you can see him.”

I sat back down.

“Maybe you should fix yourself up before you see Zeydeh. You look like two faucets broke and soaked your face.”

“Thanks.” I took a drink. The bubbles fizzed down my throat and felt good in my empty stomach.

“Your brother said Devon showed up a while ago.”

I nodded. “Guess who drove him here? Dear old Granny.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We had a real nice heart-to-heart.”

“Is she up in a room with a dented gluteus maximus?”

“I
should
have kicked her butt,” I muttered. I took another swallow of Coke. “I told her I'm Jewish.”

Megan sighed. She leaned close and bumped my shoulder. “You know, I've been thinking. Benedict's is completely lame. I'm going to Canyon View with you.”

“She says the scholarship is still mine.”

“What?” Megan jumped to her feet. “No way!” She startled two birds I hadn't known were in a tree.

“Not so fast. There's more.”

Megan dropped back down. “Why is there always more?”

“She said she's not a racist. Basically, because she's right about Jews.”

“Okay,” she said, jumping up again. “
I'm
going to kick her butt.”

I pulled her back down. “I know. It's sick. But then …” I sighed. “It was weird, Meg. She told me how she was in love with a Jewish guy in college, only his parents didn't approve of her. They made him break it off because she
wasn't
Jewish.”

“Serious?”

I nodded. “I almost felt sorry for her.”

“And Devon never told you about that?”

“I don't think he knows. I got the feeling she doesn't talk about it much.”

“But she told you?”

“Maybe so I'd understand.”

“What?” Megan asked.

“I don't know. That she has a good reason.”

“To hate you?” Megan's eyebrows lifted so high, they cleared the top of her glasses. “Maybe she has reason to hate that guy's parents. I mean, that was like reverse anti-Semitism or something.”

“I know.”

“But still,” she said. “It's like me hating all fruits just because strawberries give me hives.”

I frowned. “Huh?”

Megan waved her hand in the air. “Don't think about it too long. I'm terrible with analogies. The point is, it's stupid to hate millions of people because of one bad apple.”

“Is this another fruit analogy?”

She laughed. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I do.” And I felt a lot better. Maybe what happened to Mrs. Yeats had been crappy, but it wasn't a reason to hate a whole religion.

Or to try and make me hate it, too.

I gave Megan a look. “That wasn't all she said.”

She groaned. “I'm afraid to ask.”

“She said she can tell that I don't like Jews either. That it's obvious I chose not to be one of the chosen people.”

“Huh?”

“I filled out the application saying I'm Christian and she says that's a sign.” I reached to my throat where Bubbe's necklace should have been hanging. “She doesn't know about my Jewish star, but she'd say that's a sign, too.” I fought the sudden pressure behind my eyes. “But it's not, is it?”

“Of course it's not,” Megan agreed.

I couldn't stop my mind from going back to this afternoon—to Zeydeh in the Benedict's lobby. How embarrassed I'd been. How I'd tried to hurry him out. And then the fight. Pictures of it flashed in my mind like an evil PowerPoint. I wasn't trying to be someone else. I just wanted to get into Benedict's. Doris Yeats was wrong. Completely wrong.

“I say stuff all the time I don't actually believe.”

Megan nodded. “Everyone does.”

“Remember Regionals last year when I argued for school uniforms?”

“You were awesome.”

“But that didn't mean I wanted to wear one.”

“Who would?” Megan asked. “Anything that has to fit five hundred different people cannot be attractive. It was just a position.”

“That's what I was doing at camp. My goal was the scholarship. I looked at all sides, found an angle, and went for it.”

“Exactly.”

The traitorous slide show in my head replayed the beginning of camp. “Maybe I did do some bad stuff,” I admitted.
Hiding the necklace. Accepting Devon's lame explanation. Praying with everyone like I was one of them. Swaying and humming to the Lord's Prayer. Going to church. Lying about Zeydeh's name
.

“You did what anyone else would have done. Look at me.” Megan held up her arms. “Is this the real me?”

She gave me a little smile and I noticed the red lips outlined in black. Preeba lips. She wore the net stockings and a leopard-print shirt with fake fur, and she had a sparkling red tattoo of a broken heart on her neck. Angry Goth with a touch of playful. I sat up straight, suddenly remembering. “I can't believe I forgot to ask. How did it go tonight?”

She shrugged, but I could see her cheeks pinken. “Our scene took first place.”

“Serious?” I reached over and hugged her, smelling the fresh lemon that Megan had slid over her wrists as part of her Preeba persona. She felt so solid under the polyester and fake fur. “Oh, Megan, that's awesome! I knew you would.”

“Anna's scene took second, but she was incredible.”

I pulled back. “Second? I wish I'd been there to see you guys. Your mom and dad must have been thrilled.”

She nodded. “My mom gave me a standing O. I think she likes me better as Preeba.”

“You've got to cut her some slack.”

She adjusted the strip of fur around her neck. “Why should I? It's the truth. If she could reinvent me, she would.”

“She loves you.”

“Not the real me.”

“Maybe if you gave her a chance.”

“She had a chance,” Megan shot back, her eyes like lasers behind her glasses. “She wanted to dress me up like Barbie and take me to cotillion events. Those things are not
me.
”

“And Preeba is?”

She rolled her eyes.

And suddenly it hit me what she was saying. I was trying to be someone else so I could fit in, while Megan was trying to be someone else so she didn't fit in. How screwed up was that?

Megan squeezed my arm. “The important thing right now is you. What are you going to do?”

“Mrs. Yeats said all I have to do is show up and give my oratory, and the scholarship is mine. As if I'd still want it.”

As if I'd still want Benedict's. And the speech team.

And Devon.

My tear ducts filled. Again. My head throbbed. I felt sick, like I'd eaten something bad. Only it wasn't food—it was me that was bad. A part of me.

Because I did want those things.

Still.

My heart sank under the weight of guilt. I couldn't go back to camp. I couldn't give my oratory. I couldn't take the scholarship.

I couldn't let Mrs. Yeats be right about me.

CHAPTER 30

“Ellie, tell this crazy woman I have to go home!”

Zeydeh shouted his order at me as soon as I walked in. The crazy woman was my mother, who didn't look worried this morning. She looked pissed.

Suddenly, the sun coming in from the tiny window seemed brighter. The hospital room didn't even smell so bad today—probably because Dad had filled a water bucket with mixed flowers, and the room smelled like something living instead of something dying.

And, Zeydeh wasn't dying. Though, come to think of it, Mom looked ready to kill him.

“You can't get out of this bed. Do you want to faint again?”

“Faint, schmaint. I have soup to make,” Zeydeh said.

Mom rolled her eyes and blew out a breath. “You see how he's been?” she said to me. “Where's your father?”

“Cafeteria with Benny.”

She ran a hand over her face, pushing her hair off her forehead. Dad had come back last night with an overnight bag for Mom. The green dress with the repaired zipper was now stuffed into the gray duffel, and Mom wore a long-sleeve T-shirt, baggy black sweats, and flip-flops.

“I'm going to go grab a coffee. Maybe you can talk some sense into him, Ellie. He seems to think a pot of soup is more important than his health.”

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Try not to do anything stupid for the five minutes I'm gone.”

She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then walked out.

I smiled, blinking back an urge to cry. It was stupid to cry now—he was doing so much better. I grabbed the metal bed rail, looking him up and down. “So you're okay?”

He lay in bed, a green gown tied loosely over his shoulders, and the blankets pulled up to his chest. His skin looked pale, even with a clean white bandage tied around his head, but his eyes were full of fire.

“Of course I'm okay. It was nothing. A bump on the head.” He looked me up and down. “You look like
farkakte
.”

“You're not one to talk,” I retorted. A long tube ran from a bag of liquid and into a needle stuck in the back of his hand, where the skin had bruised into a quilt of black and blue.

“It's only an IV,” he said, following my gaze. “For fluids.”

I swallowed thickly. “I should have paid more attention. You weren't drinking your juice. You weren't taking care of yourself.”

“You can't take credit for my stupidity, Ellie.”

Before I could stop them, tears started dripping down my cheeks.

His face smoothed and softened. He patted the side of his bed. “Come sit. And stop with the tears. With all this equipment, you'll electrocute us.” He winked, then grimaced. “Oy,” he moaned. “My head feels like a lump of dough someone's kneaded too long.” He gestured toward the bandage. “How do I look with my head all wrapped up?”

“Like a gift.” I sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to bump him.

He smiled. “It's just to keep an ice pack on; don't look so scared. My head is still in one piece. They'll have to make a stronger floor to put a dent in Samuel Levine's head.”

New tears pooled in the corner of my eyes. “I'm so sorry, Zeydeh.”

“It takes two to argue.” He tried to sound gruff but already his voice sounded weaker—he was tiring out. “Help me up a little,” he said. “This bed has more humps than a herd of camels.” He held my hand and I helped him slide up a few inches.

“You were right about camp and Benedict's and everything,” I said. “I want you to know I'm done with it. All of it. What matters now is getting you better.”

“Nonsense,” he said. He wanted to wave me off but couldn't. One hand was stuck with an IV; the other arm was wrapped to the wrist in a cast. “My head is pounding too much for such grand gestures.”

“Should I call the nurse?” I reached for the nurse's button that hung by the bed.

He stopped me with a frown. “It's nothing that can't be cured by going home.” He blinked at me. His eyes looked so old and tired. “I need to get home, Ellie. There's a chicken in the refrigerator. I need to clean it and season it. I need to start the soup.”

“But your arm, Zeydeh.”

“I'll manage with one arm.”

“You heard Mom. You're not strong enough.”

“And what is the best cure, Ellie? What is the world's best medicine?”

I smiled, knowing the answer. “Chicken soup.”

“You've got to get me out of here,” he said. “Today is Saturday. Tomorrow is the cooking contest. If I go home now, there's still time. I can still have my soup ready.” There was a glint of panic in his eyes I'd never seen before. “Ellie,” he said, his voice trembling, “you must help me get home.”

In the end, it wasn't until Sunday morning that Zeydeh was released from the hospital. He spiked a fever on Saturday, and the doctor insisted he stay another night for observation. Mom threatened to sit on him when he tried to get up on his own.

The soup, she said, would have to wait one more year. I couldn't repeat what Zeydeh said back. I'd never even heard half the cuss words, but I knew they must be bad ones.

It wasn't that Mom didn't feel terrible. We both did. But neither one of us knew how to stew a chicken and add the right herbs—not to Zeydeh's standards. And it had to be done Saturday night so the cooked chicken could sit overnight in the fridge. Otherwise, Zeydeh said, the flavors would never come alive and the soup would lie on the tongue like a dead thing. I paced the hospital hallways for hours, wishing there was something I could do.

Then it came to me. Maybe there was. I ran to the cafeteria and found Mom and Dad sharing a stale donut. “I have an idea,” I said.

Mom's eyes brightened when I told them. She grinned at Dad. “I love it.”

“I love it, too,” Dad agreed. “But Zeydeh is going to hate it.”

We brought him home on Sunday in the VW. The sun was bright overhead with nothing but a few puffy clouds to break up the blue sky. Zeydeh grumbled the whole way and the rest of us tried not to listen. If he hadn't been so glum, he might have noticed all the smiles we shot each other.

Dad and Benny got Zeydeh's overnight bag and all the medical supplies from the back. Mom went ahead to open the door, and I walked Zeydeh up the sidewalk. “Careful,” I said. “There's a step.”

He rolled his eyes. “I've lived here almost ten years. You think I've forgotten the step?”

Mom pushed open the door and moved aside, making room for Zeydeh. He stopped at the doorway. His nose wrinkled. “What's that I smell?” He looked from Mom to me. “Did I leave soup on the stove?”

I raised my eyebrows as if I were surprised. “Why don't you go see?”

He glared, but there was more energy in his step as he hurried into the hall. Then he stopped, nearly backing into me. An elderly woman with silver hair, wide brown eyes, and bright red lipstick sat in one of the chairs facing the door.

“Mrs. Zuckerman?” he whispered, astonished.

Her lips twitched. “You were expecting Moses?”

I swallowed a laugh, but Zeydeh didn't look amused.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

“Making your soup,” she retorted. “What else?”

“My soup?”

“From the notes you left—not that your handwriting is anything to be proud of.”

“You made my soup?” he repeated.

“Only to stew the chicken last night.” She smiled softly then, her eyes getting all drippy, and I realized Mrs. Zuckerman had a thing for my zeydeh. It was kind of sweet. Only, it suddenly made me think of Devon with a sharp pang. He was never going to look at me like that now. We were never going to have a thing for each other. We were the antithing. We were nothing. I wished the thought of it would stop hurting already.

Zeydeh looked helplessly at the sling keeping his left arm immobile. “But my arm.”

“So I'll wash up. You'll tell me what to do next.” As if she'd lived there all her life, she stood up and walked back to the kitchen. A second later we heard the faucet running.

“You did this?” he said to me.

“You're not mad, are you?”

I could see it was finally sinking in. “You called Mrs. Zuckerman, the spy?”

“She's not a spy. She's a very nice lady.”

“
Hoomf
,” he grumbled. He glared in the direction of the kitchen. “She's very bossy. Did you hear her? Complaining about my handwriting?” But he shuffled toward the kitchen with his shoulders back. “You know how to make a matzo ball?” he asked her.

“What do you think?” she said. “I was born yesterday?”

“A soft touch is what it takes.”

“Soft as the skin on a baby's bottom.”

“
Hoomf.
”

Mom and I exchanged smiles. Dad and Benny set down Zeydeh's stuff.

“How's it going?” Dad whispered.

Mom gestured to the kitchen and we all stood there, listening.

“You added the onions and the celery?” Zeydeh demanded. “The herbs and seasonings, just as I had them written?”

“Of course,” she said, impatience in her voice. “I'd never use so much pepper myself.”

I heard the silverware drawer open, then the sound of a slurp. “Not bad,” Zeydeh said.

“Not bad? That's better than not bad! Even if it is your recipe.”

We all smiled at each other.

“Should we leave them to it?” Dad asked.

“We'll be back in a couple of hours,” Mom called out. “In time to load everything up and take it to the synagogue.”

Zeydeh didn't bother answering. Something was cooking in the kitchen. I had a feeling it was more than matzo ball soup.