OyMG (8 page)

CHAPTER 15

“Zeydeh!” I screamed.

A sob caught in my throat, choking me as I rushed forward. Mom was already there, already reaching for his hand.

“Zeydeh!”

His eyelids fluttered, then opened. I nearly dropped to the tile, sweaty and light-headed with relief.
Thank you, God.

“You didn't!” Mom said.

I blinked, wondering why Mom sounded almost … angry? Dad helped Zeydeh to his feet. I looked more closely, and realized his eyes weren't confused and unfocused like someone coming out of a faint. They were sharp and knowing.

“You were pretending?” Mom had her hands pressed to her cheeks. “I'm going to kill you, Dad. If you ever do that again, I'm going to hit you with one of your gourmet pans and kill you.”

I gaped, fear heating into anger. “You were
faking
?”

“What?” he said, reaching for the questionnaire and waving it in my face. “It's okay for you to pretend you're Christian, but not okay for me to pretend to faint?”

“It's not the same thing,” I snapped.

“Why isn't it?” he snapped back. “We're both pretending to be something we're not.”

“What is going on?” Mom cried.

Dad scratched at his head, looking bewildered. “Okay,” he said. “Enough drama. Family discussion. In the living room.”

Dad led the way, then Mom, then Zeydeh. He had a little bounce in his step now. I wanted to kick him.

“That's not arguing fair,” I muttered.

“You call yourself a Christian and you're surprised if it kills me?”

“You faked it.”

“The pain is real, believe me.” He smacked the sheet of paper on the coffee table.

“Would both of you just sit?” Mom ordered.

But Zeydeh wouldn't sit. He took up a spot by the far armchair. He held on to the back of the chair with one hand, a tiny tremor running down his arm. So I stood behind the other armchair. It felt like a staged debate: Zeydeh vs. Ellie. Mom and Dad sat between us, stationed on each end of the couch like judges.

“So what is going on?” Dad asked.

“Why don't you start with the questionnaire, Ellie,” Mom added. She pulled the paper closer and tapped her fingers on the edge.

“It's from Mrs. Yeats,” I said. “I told you about it at dinner. It's for the scholarship, and I'm supposed to fill it out and hand it in.”

“You forgot to mention question number seven,” Zeydeh retorted.

I glared at him. “Because I knew you'd blow it all out of proportion.” I looked from Mom to Dad. “Number seven asks about religious affiliation.”

Mom flipped over the paper. Her eyes widened. “You wrote ‘Christian'?”

Dad frowned. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you the girl who had a Bat Mitzvah last year and proclaimed herself a Jew in front of everyone she knew?”

“I only wrote it because of something Devon said—about his grandmother.”

“His grandmother?” Zeydeh planted a hand on one bony hip. “The woman is anti-Semitic, isn't she? A Jew hater?”

“She is not,” I half shouted. “Why does she have to be anti-Semitic? Why is that always your first thought?”

He shouted back, wagging his finger, “
Besser fri'er bevorent aider shpeter bevaint.
Better caution at first than tears afterward.”

Dad held up his hands. “All right, both of you. Let's try to get through this without raising our voices.” He looked at me. “Ellie?”

“Devon just said she's really into her religion.”

“And from that you decided to lie?” Zeydeh's eyes narrowed into a laser squint.

“Technically, it's not a lie.”

“So now you're a religious technician?”

I swallowed a scream of frustration. Arguing with Zeydeh was impossible, but somehow I had to make him understand. “Dad
is
Lutheran.”

“So they think you're Lutheran?” Mom asked.

“No,” I said. “They don't think anything. The only reason it came up was because Devon saw Bubbe's necklace. He asked me about it, and then asked about the name Taylor because it doesn't sound Jewish.”

“Did he ask why you don't have a big nose?” Zeydeh said, sarcasm as thick as an accent. “Jews always have big noses.”

“He's not like that, Zeydeh. He was just asking.”

“It's because of that camp. I said it was no place for a Jewish girl. No place for you.”

“It's a great place for me.”

“Then why are you lying?”

“I'm not lying! I'm telling half the truth.”

Zeydeh wagged a finger at me. “A half truth is a whole lie!”

I looked pleadingly at Mom and Dad. “It's just a stupid questionnaire. What's the big deal?”

Mom gave me her teacher expression: pursed lips and wrinkled forehead. “You're using religion for your own convenience. Does that seem right to you?”

“It's just for the scholarship.”

“But you're misrepresenting yourself,” Mom said.

“Please!” I sputtered. “You told me to lie when I set up a page on Facebook. Remember? I lied about my age and my address.”

“That was for your safety,” Dad said.

“And this is for my future!”

“You shouldn't have to lie to get into a school,” Mom said.

“I also shouldn't have to answer questions about religion,” I shot back. “But it's on the form, and I don't have any choice because it's a private scholarship offered by a private donor. Do you want my religion to be the reason I don't get in?”

Mom glanced at Dad. They both looked uncomfortable.
Point for Ellie.

I turned to Zeydeh, pressing my advantage. “I thought you wanted me to follow my dreams?”

“What do dreams matter if you lose yourself along the way?”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm not going to forget who I am. I'm not going to forget Bubbe's family who died in the Holocaust. Mrs. Yeats isn't a Nazi. She's just a little weird about the speech team. You should have heard her talk. She thinks of the team as her extended family. Megan thinks she wants everyone to be a miniature version of herself. It's not that crazy. I'm sure plenty of Jewish families give scholarships just to Jewish applicants.”

“Then you should apply for one of those.”

“There aren't any for Benedict's,” I said, punching the chair with my fist. “And last time I asked, no one in this family could afford the tuition. In fact, as I recall, you said if I wanted to go to Benedict's, I'd have to find a way to pay for it. So”—I crossed my arms in front of my chest—“I've found a way.” I looked from Mom to Dad, daring either of them to deny it. But they couldn't. “It's just on this one form,” I added, going for the big finish. “I filled out all the other paperwork for Benedict's and it never came up. Once I turn this in, that'll be the end of it.”

“What if it comes up during the interview next week?” Mom asked.

“I'll tell Mrs. Yeats the truth. I'll even show her pictures from my Bat Mitzvah and chant the opening to my haftarah.” I gave Mom a long, pleading look. “I know it's nothing bad. And just to be sure, I'll ask Devon about it first thing on Monday. It's not like I want to take money from someone who's anti-Semitic, either.
”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Zeydeh muttered.

I clasped my hands together, begging for a yes. “Please, Mom.”

Mom paused a long moment, then reached for the pen in Dad's front pocket. I held my breath until she'd finished signing.

“And if his grandmother
is
prejudiced?” Zeydeh asked.

“I'll call her a
szhlob
and spit in her eye.”

“That's my Ellie,” he said. But there was a flatness in his voice. And in his eyes. I'd make it okay with him again, I promised myself. No way could Doris Yeats secretly hate Jews. She wasn't like that. If only Zeydeh could have seen how nice she'd been. On Monday, I'd ask Devon, and Devon would explain, and Zeydeh would be cool.

And I'd be in at Benedict's.

CHAPTER 16

Monday morning was another scorcher. Beneath my white tank and navy capris, my stomach was full of butterflies when Mr. Swan dropped us outside Benedict's. The sun glinted off the glass doors, and the bronze handles had already heated from the morning sun. I pulled open the door, and Megan and I paused a second, breathing in cool air and letting our eyes adjust to the overhead lights. Groups of kids hung out around the lobby, some standing and talking, others sitting against the walls and listening to iPods or texting before assembly started.

As if there were a Devon sensor in my head, I glanced toward the far wall. He stood next to Peter Burrows, laughing about something. He wore a T-shirt as black as his hair over gray board shorts and black tennis shoes. I wasn't sure if black was a color, or every color, or the absence of color, but it was definitely
his
color. Before I could look away, his head turned and our eyes met. He smiled.

Holy crap
.

Just when I decided he really wasn't all that great looking, he had to look like
that.
Megan and I walked toward the auditorium, but my heart thumped like we were sprinting.

“Did you catch that smile?” Megan said, under her breath.

“Unfortunately.”

“He's hot for you.”

I shook my head. “He's just hot.”

Megan led the way down a row toward the back, and we took the middle seats—good for people watching. I saw Devon come in with Peter. They sat next to the aisle in the row in front of us.

“He's looking around,” Megan said, nudging my shoulder.

“Who?” I asked, even though I knew she meant Devon. I knew he was looking around because I hadn't been able to take my eyes off him.

“I'll bet he's looking for you.”

Before I could deny it, Mrs. Clancy cleared her throat into the mic. I cringed. She did it every morning—it was like starting the day with the croak of a dying frog.

“Good morning,” she began. “Welcome to week two of camp. I will quickly run through announcements, as I have a special treat for you this morning.” She said it with her usual puckered-lip scowl, so it was hard to feel too excited.

She launched into her update, and Megan leaned toward me. “Is that woman ever happy?”

“If she cracks a smile, her whole face might crumble,” I whispered back.

Megan giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

As soon as she'd read through the announcements, Mrs. Clancy cleared her throat again. Megan and I cringed in unison.

“Now for our treat,” she said. “We will close today's assembly with a song of praise led by the Christian Society's very own Stephen Kayle.”

I watched a man climb the steps, a guitar in his left hand. He had thinning blond hair and a round face. He waved at us and grinned. “Good morning, campers. I'm Stephen. Please stand and join me in song. You all know this one—it's our Lord's Prayer.”

I stood slowly, and gave Megan a pointed look.
No, we don't all know this one
.

She shrugged.
What can you do?

Guitar chords thrummed low and tinny from the podium. Stephen adjusted the mic, then began pounding out an upbeat tempo. It was pretty catchy, I had to admit. The music poured out from overhead speakers, and kids in front of us started clapping and swaying to the beat. I looked around. More swaying.

“That's right,” Stephen called out, “let the Spirit move you.”

I squeezed Megan's arm and asked, “Does he mean the
Holy
Spirit? Because there was nothing in the syllabus about dancing with the Holy Spirit.”

Megan laughed. “Just fake it.”

Stephen started singing, and I recognized the prayer as soon as he said, “Our Father who art in heaven.” I didn't know all the words, but I'd heard them before on TV shows, and probably from Grandma Taylor.

After a slow start, the sound of voices built. Stephen beamed and strummed louder. I picked at my fingernails and waited for the magic word—
Amen—
because that would mean
The End
. Only, Stephen looked like he was just warming up.

That's when I realized the swaying had changed. Suddenly, everyone was swaying together like some kind of line dance. And instead of
Amen
ing, Stephen had launched into the beginning again.
Oh no.
The girl on my left swayed my way and shot me an irritated look when our hips bumped. I wasn't in sway mode.

I didn't want to be in sway mode.

I looked at Megan. She gave me a helpless shrug, and swayed.

Then, I don't know why, but I looked at him—Devon—and sucked in a sharp breath. He was swaying and clapping—and looking at me. He smiled.
At me.
I smiled back. Then he looked away and I looked away. I could feel the heat of a blush on my cheeks, and hear my heart thud louder than the music. It took me another second to realize I was clapping.

And swaying.

The girl on my left smiled at me. Like now we were swaying buddies.
Christian buddies.
What was I supposed I do? Tell her I was only fake swaying? How stupid would that sound? So I wobbled a smile back at her.

And then Stephen thrummed the guitar strings with a huge sweep of his hand and sang, “
Ahhhhmennnn
.”

Thank God
. I looked up then, a little guilty.
Sorry, God. You know it was a fake sway, right? No Spirit involved, I promise.

“You are excused,” Mrs. Clancy announced.

The auditorium filled with a wave of voices and the scuffle of eighty kids reaching for their packs. But there was an energy still thrumming through the air like the guitar music. Like the music had connected everyone.

Well, almost everyone.

It was like being in a crowd of kids when someone tells a joke, but you don't get the punch line. You laugh with everyone else because you don't want to look out of it. But you still
feel
out of it. I was glad to follow Megan through the double doors and back into camp mode. When we hit the lobby, I took a deep breath. The air felt cooler out here. Like I could breathe easy again.

Groups of kids veered off down the different hallways, and for a minute we had to concentrate on dodging traffic. Once we hit our hallway, Megan grabbed my arm and pulled me close. “Did you catch Devon giving you the eye? Because I did.” She dipped her head so she could look over the edge of her glasses and bat her eyelashes. “As an expert in sizzle, I can tell he's falling for you. Big time.”

I shook my arm free. “He is not falling for me.”

“He might be,” she said. “Instead of grilling him with questions, I'd be searing him with my lips.”

I groaned. “When did you come up with that one?”

“This weekend. I've been saving it.”

We reached my classroom door. Hers was farther down—I could see Anna sitting on the carpet with a book in her hands.

“I've thought about this over and over,” I said. I ticked off the points with my fingers. “One: Mrs. Yeats is a nice lady. Two: she's intelligent and sophisticated. Three: nice, intelligent, sophisticated ladies do not hate an entire race.”

Megan adjusted a plastic pink flower she'd pinned to her raspberry top. “If you say so.”

“As soon as I get a chance, I'm going to ask Devon to explain.”

“Really?” Her eyes shifted to look over my shoulder. “Then here's your chance. He's headed this way.”