The dubious pranks of sh.., p.5
The Dubious Pranks of Shaindy Goodman, page 5
Tzivia nods. “Our new fruit is rotten,” she says, holding up the bag and making a face.
“Ours too. We must have gotten the same thing.” I laugh. “For all we know, that thing is supposed to look like it’s rotten. But my mother didn’t want to serve it at the table.”
The light turns red and a wave of pedestrians cross the street in both directions. Tzivia has Rollerblades on too, hers a little shabbier than even mine. We glide together through the parking lot, keeping time with each other, and she says, “I always feel so rude when I’m rollerblading in the grocery store. But at this point, it feels like every kid over a certain age is doing it.” She looks rueful. “They’ll probably ban them in the store sometime soon.”
“You rollerbladed in camp too,” I remember suddenly. Tzivia had worn them before Heelys had been in, gliding through the tennis court with Sheva as Tammy had done cartwheels around them.
Tzivia nods. “Bet you didn’t know I’m a trendsetter,” she says, her voice teasing. “Before that, I always figured I was just the quiet, nerdy type.”
“Quiet, smart type,” I correct her. “You’re, like, the top student in the class. Except maybe Gayil and Rena,” I say thoughtfully, because I know how effortless their work is. I see them studying with Devorah sometimes, stretched out on the trampoline and ignoring their notebooks, and they still ace every test. Devorah, I think, struggles in school more. We’re on the same reading track in school, just barely above grade level.
Tzivia rolls her eyes. “Barely,” she says. “Everyone in our class is an overachiever. You know Rivky Klein from camp? She was in the other bunk.” I do vaguely remember her, a girl from the next development over who is in a different class in our grade. “Anyway, she told me that her class had an average of eighty-six on their first Yedios Klaliyos test this year.”
“Really?” Our class had managed an average of ninety-eight, though I’d only gotten an eighty-three. “That’s just our class,” I say, shrugging. “You know our reputation. It makes it even more impressive that you’re on top of it.”
We’ve reached the return counter, and we wait in line, our legs bent inward to keep from rolling forward. Tzivia says, “I guess. It gets very intense sometimes,” she admits, and a little bit of weariness creeps into her voice. “Especially this year. Did you see the test schedule up near the door of the classroom? A bunch of teachers have already scheduled their first tests for the week after Succos. Sixth grade is hard.”
I had noticed them, though I’d filed them away as problems for Future Shaindy. The first few weeks of school, before Rosh Hashanah and before Yom Kippur, never quite feel like school as much as an early taste of what’s to come. I’m not ready to be in sixth grade yet, but now I have more of an idea of what I’ll be dealing with soon.
We return our fruits. The man behind the counter barely glances at them, just puts a credit on the receipt and tells us to go pick out something else. “Careful on those Rollerblades,” he says, rubbing the side of his scraggly beard. “I like those new rolling sneakers that I’ve been seeing on all the girls lately. What are they called?”
“Heelys,” we say together, and he nods in satisfaction.
“Much less bulky,” he says. “Go ahead, get your fruit. I’m sure you have plenty more to do for Rosh Hashanah.” He passes us each a little honey candy, and we take them politely. I can’t stand honey candy, but I don’t tell him that. I only offer mine to Tzivia when we go down the next aisle.
She wrinkles her nose. “My mother’s a teacher, and she brought home three separate gifts from students with honey candy. Does anyone like them?”
“My father drops them into tea and lets them dissolve,” I offer. “But that’s about it. And I think he only does it because they keep sticking them into our grocery bags.” We’re making our way through the vegetable aisle, moving slowly between harried shoppers seizing last-minute parsnips and carrots for soup.
Finally, we make it to the new fruits, all of them displayed in open boxes beneath a big banner reading, NEW FRUITS in Hebrew. “Oh, these are weird,” Tzivia says, holding up a red fruit with what looks like yellow-green hair coming out of it. “Makes you want to just buy the starfruit.”
The starfruit is a classic, green and oval with a bland taste and pretty, star-shaped pieces when you slice it. “Nah,” I say. I’ve spotted something much more interesting. It looks like a dragon’s egg, red with green skin rising from it like flames. “I’m getting one of these. And this one.” There’s a pinkish fruit that is sold in a bunch, each of them with rugged skin that reminds me of raspberries. “If the cool fruit is bad, we’ll always have these.”
“Not this?” Tzivia says teasingly, picking up the brown fruit we’d returned. “Looks … nice and fuzzy.”
“Looks like an animal is about to pop out of it,” I correct her, laughing. “A little napping place for maggots—”
Tzivia mimes vomiting. “You say the grossest things,” she says, sighing in mock admiration. “I bet you were one of these fruits in a past life.”
“I bet you were one of these,” I say, plucking a fruit labeled Horned Melon from a box. “Subtle but vicious.”
Tzivia pulls a face at me. “You’ll never know.” I’m giggling helplessly, and on a less busy day, I might have attracted enough attention to be considered immodest. It feels nice to be out here with someone who is kind of like a friend, moving through a store with someone else instead of being the odd girl, alone. I’ve always been lonely, but it’s a surprise how much stronger that sense of loneliness gets when I have the chance to be with company.
And then, because I have a sense like no other for the friend of my dreams, I look to the right and spot Gayil. She’s with Rena, pushing along a double stroller with two little siblings in it, and she pauses at a spot with free samples and kneels down in front of them to offer one to each. The little ones grab them, and Gayil says, her clear voice drifting toward us, “Make a bracha.”
The little ones—Shlomit and Eitan, I remember vaguely—recite blessings from memory, and a few women stop to say amen when they’re done. “Such sweet children,” an older lady says, and Gayil smiles back, charming and modest.
“What a great big sister you have,” says another, and Gayil turns to smile at her too, and catches sight of Tzivia and me.
I stand a little straighter, relieved that I’m not alone when Gayil sees me. I do have friends, I try to exude, and then I grin at Gayil and start to move toward her. “Come on, Tzivia,” I say, tugging Tzivia along, but Tzivia hangs back. “What?”
Gayil looks swiftly away, whispering something to Rena, and Rena laughs and plucks something off the shelf and into her basket. I redden, remembering our agreement to keep our partnership secret, and I turn back to Tzivia. “I thought we could say hi to Rena and Gayil,” I mumble.
“Oh.” Tzivia sounds less than enthused about that.
It’s over and done with, but I can’t help but defend Gayil from Tzivia’s disinterest. “Gayil’s really nice,” I say. “I know that they’re really popular, but it’s just because they’re good girls. Everyone looks up to them.”
Tzivia shrugs, her diminutive frame shifting with the movement. “I guess. I just … you know that time in camp? That game of hide-and-seek we played, remember?”
I nod. It had been during the last week of camp, when we’d officially had sports for the last activity of the day but the sports counselor had never showed up. I’d suggested we would play a game of hide-and-seek instead, up near the sports fields, and Gayil had agreed, to my surprise. It had been the first time all summer when I’d actually felt like a part of the group. “It was fun, wasn’t it?”
But Tzivia looks troubled. “Yeah,” she says. “But remember how Gayil decided to hide out where no one could find her? And she wouldn’t come out when we called, even when it was dinnertime. I spent so much time stressing about her, and then she just showed up in the morning like she hadn’t made us all worry. It felt … well, kind of manipulative. To disappear just to see what we’d do.” She shrugs. “At the very least, it was selfish.”
“I thought it was funny,” I say, defensive. I’d told everyone that it was fine that she was still hiding, had convinced them to leave it alone. It had been a strange but not unwelcome feeling, being heard by everyone. “It’s Gayil. She’s a free spirit.”
“My mother says that’s just code for does whatever she wants,” Tzivia says, and she must see something unpleasant on my face, because she lifts and drops her narrow shoulders again and says, “Anyway, are you doing anything on Rosh Hashanah? The first afternoon is pretty long after lunch.”
It sounds almost like an overture, and I hesitate, torn. On one hand, I never get invited out. Sometimes, over the years, I would invite a girl over for Shabbos at my mother’s behest. They would come with awkward smiles and conversation, and Ema would direct our play, encouraging us toward different games and toys until it all finally petered out. It is never natural, and it feels natural right now.
On the other hand, Tzivia has called Gayil manipulative and selfish. Is this the kind of friend that I want? Someone who doesn’t like the closest thing I have to a friend? Beggars can’t be choosers, but I can’t help but feel that Gayil would be betrayed if she’d heard the things that Tzivia had said about her. And I don’t want to betray Gayil, who is on a completely different tier than Tzivia and me.
I shrug. “It might be pretty busy. Davening ends late by us.”
Tzivia falls silent, and she lingers in the store when I check out. I don’t wave goodbye to her, and I spot Gayil on the checkout line next to mine, chatting with the cashier and popping a honey candy into her mouth. “I love these,” she says.
I pull mine out of the shopping bag, unwrap it, and stick it into my mouth. It’s too sweet, but it’s not as bad as I remember.
CHAPTER 9
Rosh Hashanah is brought in by candles, lit by my mother in an elaborate silver candelabra, and by the sound of prayers drifting from the shuls through the streets of the development. I sit on the porch and listen to singing, close my eyes, and wonder about this New Year. My resolution for this year is to make real friends, to be noticed and liked by them, just like it is every Rosh Hashanah. This year, it feels attainable.
Gayil is on her porch too, bouncing another sister on her lap as she tries to pray the evening prayers. She waves at me, that familiar grin on her face, and when she calls, “Shana tova!” to me, I feel as though my resolution is already coming true.
I wander back inside after a few minutes to set the table. My brothers aren’t here for Rosh Hashanah, still studying in Miami, so it’s just Ema and Abba and Bayla and me. Our downstairs neighbors are coming tonight too, and I set up the folded high chair in the corner of the room for the baby.
Bayla is on our brown fabric couch, reading a magazine as she absentmindedly curls her short brown hair around a stubby finger, and I sit opposite her and flip through one of the local newspapers. I’m scanning the ads, bored, when Bayla looks up abruptly for what must be the first time in weeks and says, sounding startled, “That dress isn’t hideous.”
“Thanks,” I say, making a face at her. “It was yours first.”
“Yeah, I know. I hated it on me. But it looks good on you.” Bayla examines me, and I squirm under her gaze. We’ve never been super close, but we’d always gotten along until recently. Lately, she’s been sick of me and not afraid of saying so. “You look different tonight,” she says slowly.
“I think so too,” I admit. “This might be my year.”
Bayla snorts. “Sixth grade? Sixth grade is no one’s year,” she says. “It’s the most awful, difficult year you’ll ever have. You’ve just got to get through it.” She shrugs and looks suddenly wry. “Of course, tenth grade has kind of been a nightmare too, so I guess it can get worse.”
“It seems really hard,” I offer.
Bayla heaves a sigh. “It’s miserable,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve stopped studying since I started school. But that’s what the honors classes are like. If you don’t keep up, you fall behind.”
“Ew,” I say, trying to imagine it. There are no tracked classes until next year, when math will have us split up. “I’m glad I’ll never be in an honors class. Much too much pressure.”
Bayla scoffs. “You could easily do honors if you put yourself into it. It isn’t easy for me either,” she points out. “But it’s just a matter of how much time you’re willing to spend on schoolwork every night.” Her eyes glimmer with sudden amusement. “Of course, more time on school would mean much less time running off with Gayil Itzhaki, so I don’t think there’s a chance for you.”
I stare at her. “You know?” No one knows. I go out to rollerblade and come back a little while later with none the wiser. Bayla is always buried in homework, and there’s no way—
“Our window looks out at the side yard,” Bayla says, sitting back against the couch and looking smug. “I take breaks, you know. I’ve seen the two of you sneaking out a few times. What’s that all about? You and the class queen?”
“That’s not a thing,” I say, tossing a throw pillow at Bayla. “She’s just popular.”
Bayla’s eyebrows rise. “How nice for her. How’s that working out for you?”
“We’re doing something together.” I shift in my seat, relieved to have someone to talk to about all of this. Ema is out at shul, and the house is empty. Telling Bayla is safe, safer than talking to anyone else about it, and I’m careful what I reveal. “Just little pranks to shake up the class a little. We swapped everyone’s notebooks one day. And did a thing with slime another.”
“Whoa.” Bayla eyes me speculatively. “I thought your class was supposed to be, like, a bunch of angels. And isn’t Gayil the school poster child?” She puts her hands on her lap, demure and mocking, and bats her eyelashes at me. “Oh, Morah, I have such problems! I wanted to visit nursing home residents tonight but it might interfere with the amount of time I spend studying, and I don’t know if I’ll get all the extra credit–”
“Shut up.” I throw another pillow at her. She sends the first back to me, and I toss another one at her. “Gayil isn’t fake. She’s not perfect either.” I think about the way that she’d inadvertently hurt Rena, that first prank. “She makes mistakes. But she’s a good person. She taught me how to rollerblade,” I say, and I feel that jolt of pride at it. I bet I’m the only one who can say that, and half the class would be envious of me if they knew. I might be invisible, but I’m not invisible to Gayil, and that matters more than anything. “And she’s the first person in school who’s noticed I exist in years, so—”
“Okay, okay,” Bayla says, holding up her hands. “I got it. I’m just too cynical for my own good.” She offers me a dimpled grin. “Kind of cool, being secret friends with someone like Gayil, huh?” Bayla has friends—she’s smart and sarcastic and her teacher last year called her a force to be reckoned with on her report card—but Goodmans don’t have the leader gene. We’re staid and we work hard and we stay out of trouble, most of the time, and that’s enough for us to fit in fine in Fairview, just like everyone else.
People like Gayil though … they’re destined to shine. And I glow a little too, in Gayil’s sunbeams.
I see her again the next day, on my way back from shul. Most of the seven shuls in our development were once houses, but a few are boxy buildings in the inner U of the neighborhood. The words of our prayers vary minimally from shul to shul, but each davening experience is all about other things: the cadence of the singing, the speed at which prayers are read, the number of children there, or the length of the rabbi’s speech. We don’t go to any of them. Our shul is in the preschool next to Fairview Bais Yaakov, and I usually linger outside, standing close to groups of girls my age and trying to break into conversations.
Today, it feels silly to try to do that. I have a friend now, maybe two, and I don’t need to do that uncomfortable bit where I try to talk, get cut off, and let my voice trail off. Instead, I lean against the outer wall of the shul and try to daven a little bit, and a few girls drift over to stand beside me and daven. We all file inside for shofar blowing, and I have to bite back a laugh when the blower makes a strangled kind of burping noise on his first attempt. A girl catches my eye, both of us with lips twitching, and we wander outside together again after.
None of my classmates are at my shul, but I still feel a little less invisible today, and I even dare to wave at Gayil when I catch sight of her, herding along four of her younger siblings. All the Itzhaki kids have the same bend to their nose, the same light brown skin and glittering smiles, though none of them quite compare to Gayil. A few of them wave madly back at me, and Gayil falls into step with me as we head back to our houses. Ema looks surprised and Bayla takes her arm, helping her hang back as I move into the Itzhaki crowd. “Shul was long,” I say, mostly to make conversation.
“Not ours,” Gayil says brightly. “We finished a half hour ago and then ate cake. I’m stuffed.”
“I’m not hungry either,” I say quickly, at once self-conscious about my weight.
Gayil eyes me dubiously. “You must be,” she says. “It’s been hours.” She pats her stomach. “I don’t think I would have made it home without cake, and it’s literally down the block.”
I laugh. Gayil is pulled away by little Aharon, who is squabbling with Rikki, and I hold Eitan’s hand as we cross the crowded street. The Itzhakis are a lot, and I’ve always been overwhelmed by them, but today I’m feeling bold. “Hey,” I say as we near our houses. “If you wanted to come by after your meal, it’s nice and quiet at my house.”
Gayil looks startled, then thoughtful. She nods slowly. “I’ll see you then,” she says, and it makes me want to shout, to sing it out to the world. I’ve been following Gayil for a week, but this is different. This is me, making the first move. This has nothing to do with pranks or school.
