me like Catwoman and we tumble down on her soft pink rug laughing until we clutch our stomachs in pain. The funniest thing, though, is that I wasn’t joking, not one bit. I’m tired of telling people I’m Jewish when I don’t really feel Jewish, whatever being Jewish is supposed to feel like.
Kate’s church is in a stone building that, I swear, looks like a smaller version of Notre Dame in Paris. Inside are all these stained-glass windows and shiny wooden benches, and the ceiling’s a hundred feet up in the air. I don’t really listen that carefully to the priest during the sermon, but it sounds like sort of the same stuff the rabbi talks about when we go to temple with my grandparents. I wonder why they’re supposed to be so different, being Jewish and being Christian.They both talk about what God is, and what we can do to be better people, and stories from the Bible that teach us lessons. I like the dark wooden pews, the stone floor, the echoing sounds pinging off the walls. Mostly I love looking at the stained-glass windows, the way the light shows through all the colors like jewels and makes me think of the Taj Mahal. For some reason it makes me happy.
My house is still as heavy as burned bran muffins. It’s good that Dad’s not sulking around in his bathrobe anymore, but he works such late hours that he’s never around. Mom’s still working more too. Her classes are all in the morning now, but she spends every night in her office grading papers. We’ve been getting a lot of takeout pizza these days, something we never used to do.
When Mom’s not working, she’s asking me how I feel about
everything
with wide, worried eyes. How do you feel about having new friends? How do you feel about Dad working so much? How do you feel about school? I just answer “okay” or “I don’t know” most of the time. She likes the “okay” answer better, but “I don’t know” is closer to the truth.
Tonight’s different, though. I have to get my homework done early because I’m going back to Community. Not for real of course, just to see the sixth-grade play. Sam invited me before our bad conversation. It’s almost hard to believe thatCommunity still exists, that Jack and all my old friends are just having another year as if nothing’s changed. It makes my stomach hurt to think about seeing everyone and yet I can’t wait to go.
Dad’s expected home late because of his new job, so he’ll miss the play. I don’t really care since I’m not in it. Mom rushes us through a quick dinner of rice and beans. I can barely eat, I have so many thoughts swirling around. The drive there feels different since it’s dark out.
When I walk through the big gray front doors, the first thing that hits me is the smell. I didn’t even know Community had a smell, but when I walk into the high-ceilinged lobby, with its big jungle-animal mural surrounding me, the combined scent of floor cleaner, and wood, and different foods from people’s lunches—hard to describe but so clear to my nose—grabs me like a fast hug.
Mom takes my hand and pulls me and Natasha toward the auditorium. I see Iris, the art teacher, who stands at the front of the auditorium handing out playbills. “Hi, girls!” she shrieks when she sees us. Then she hands me a playbill. The play is called
The Poodle Mystery
. There are all these drawings in the playbill too. I see a picture of a house with a black poodle in the yard and a rainbow above it. It must be Sam’s work. We follow Iris toward three seats in the seventh row. As I walk past the rows, I see Connor O’Reilly’s father. He waves. He’s hard to miss since he’s very tall, wears his hairin a ponytail, and has a diamond earring in one ear. He’s a dog trainer, kind of a famous one actually, so he must be excited about the play. I see a bunch of other parents who know us too. Each friendly wave makes me sadder and sadder.
“Sonia,” I hear a man’s deep voice call out behind me. I turn
Kate’s church is in a stone building that, I swear, looks like a smaller version of Notre Dame in Paris. Inside are all these stained-glass windows and shiny wooden benches, and the ceiling’s a hundred feet up in the air. I don’t really listen that carefully to the priest during the sermon, but it sounds like sort of the same stuff the rabbi talks about when we go to temple with my grandparents. I wonder why they’re supposed to be so different, being Jewish and being Christian.They both talk about what God is, and what we can do to be better people, and stories from the Bible that teach us lessons. I like the dark wooden pews, the stone floor, the echoing sounds pinging off the walls. Mostly I love looking at the stained-glass windows, the way the light shows through all the colors like jewels and makes me think of the Taj Mahal. For some reason it makes me happy.
My house is still as heavy as burned bran muffins. It’s good that Dad’s not sulking around in his bathrobe anymore, but he works such late hours that he’s never around. Mom’s still working more too. Her classes are all in the morning now, but she spends every night in her office grading papers. We’ve been getting a lot of takeout pizza these days, something we never used to do.
When Mom’s not working, she’s asking me how I feel about
everything
with wide, worried eyes. How do you feel about having new friends? How do you feel about Dad working so much? How do you feel about school? I just answer “okay” or “I don’t know” most of the time. She likes the “okay” answer better, but “I don’t know” is closer to the truth.
Tonight’s different, though. I have to get my homework done early because I’m going back to Community. Not for real of course, just to see the sixth-grade play. Sam invited me before our bad conversation. It’s almost hard to believe thatCommunity still exists, that Jack and all my old friends are just having another year as if nothing’s changed. It makes my stomach hurt to think about seeing everyone and yet I can’t wait to go.
Dad’s expected home late because of his new job, so he’ll miss the play. I don’t really care since I’m not in it. Mom rushes us through a quick dinner of rice and beans. I can barely eat, I have so many thoughts swirling around. The drive there feels different since it’s dark out.
When I walk through the big gray front doors, the first thing that hits me is the smell. I didn’t even know Community had a smell, but when I walk into the high-ceilinged lobby, with its big jungle-animal mural surrounding me, the combined scent of floor cleaner, and wood, and different foods from people’s lunches—hard to describe but so clear to my nose—grabs me like a fast hug.
Mom takes my hand and pulls me and Natasha toward the auditorium. I see Iris, the art teacher, who stands at the front of the auditorium handing out playbills. “Hi, girls!” she shrieks when she sees us. Then she hands me a playbill. The play is called
The Poodle Mystery
. There are all these drawings in the playbill too. I see a picture of a house with a black poodle in the yard and a rainbow above it. It must be Sam’s work. We follow Iris toward three seats in the seventh row. As I walk past the rows, I see Connor O’Reilly’s father. He waves. He’s hard to miss since he’s very tall, wears his hairin a ponytail, and has a diamond earring in one ear. He’s a dog trainer, kind of a famous one actually, so he must be excited about the play. I see a bunch of other parents who know us too. Each friendly wave makes me sadder and sadder.
“Sonia,” I hear a man’s deep voice call out behind me. I turn
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