Gravity (21 page)

“Forget it. I’m going.”

“Just wait a minute.”

Another car stops, a red sedan driven by a young guy. He rolls down the window. “Where are you going?”

Lindsay leans into the car. “Depends.”

He has longish, greasy, blond hair and a sly smile. He blinks his blue eyes. “I’m heading uptown.”

She looks back at me. “Perfect, right?”

I fold my arms across my chest. The guy unlocks the car door. “Aren’t you coming?”

I back away. “Neh, I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Oh, c’mon. I dare you.”

I shiver in my wet tights, the rain still falling.

“I double-dog dare you.” Lindsay smiles her teasing grin. She slides one hand down her hip, glancing over at the guy in the car, her shoulder coming up to rub against her cheek.

“No, I’m not playing.”

Lindsay shrugs and starts climbing down the snowbank into the car.

“What are you trying to escape from anyway?” I ask.

Lindsay whirls around. Her face falls. She looks flustered. “Nothing.” She gets in the car and gazes up at the guy. She is no longer teasing and confident, but looks younger, more vulnerable. I take a step back, recoiling.

The car swerves into traffic, spraying me with slush. I stare after it until it disappears in the maze of lights and traffic. Vehicles roar up the street; people brush by me on the sidewalk; a dog stops to sniff my damp legs.

I stand on the street, stunned. That look on Lindsay’s face, I’ve never seen it before. She’s trying to escape from herself.
I know it: She doesn’t like herself. I’ve never seen her like that, unconfident, or weak. My mouth fills with a bitter taste. All along I’ve admired Lindsay, wanted to be like her, but not now. She doesn’t have any idea what it really means to escape, what sacrifice it entails.

I wipe the slush off my coat with my mitten and start running up Yonge Street, my feet slipping on the melting snow. My arms pump as I weave through side streets.

When I get home I run up to my room. Neshama follows me. “Abba was wondering where you were. I told them you stopped to talk to a friend.”

“Fine.” I slam the door in her face.

“Hey!”

“Go away.”

“They’re waiting for you for lunch.” “Tell them I’m not hungry.” I jam an old book under the door.

“Ellie?”

“GO AWAY!”

I rip down the poster of Joey McIntyre and start shredding it into tiny pieces.

“Ellie, someone saw you.”

I yank open the door. “What do you mean?”

“I ran into Sari Blum on my way home. She saw you walking this morning. She asked me where you were going to
shul
. She said it looked like you were heading to the subway...”

I slump against the doorway. My stomach twists. “I don’t feel well. Tell Abba I feel sick.”

Neshama closes the door, and I crumple onto my bed. I’m taking crazy risks for a girl who would rather ride in cars with strange men. She’s not worth it. No matter how much Lindsay makes me swoon, she isn’t worth getting caught.

ON MONDAY I
can’t find my
Chumash,
and I forget my lunch at home. In the afternoon, I fail my Shakespeare test. On Tuesday I go straight home instead of to Lindsay’s. When I get home there are two messages from her. I don’t return them. I stare at my fish circling in their tank for a while, and then I reorganize my collection of fossils. Lindsay calls again on Wednesday, but I quietly hang up. On Thursday we get out of school early for Purim. I race home and erase two messages from Lindsay off the answering machine before anyone else hears them.

“What’s with the phone calls?”

I lie on Neshama’s bed watching her get dressed for Purim. “Nothing.”

Her room is empty without the bears and music boxes. She even gave away the Harlequins from under the bed. Just her dresser is still messy—littered with makeup.

She pulls on a pair of black tuxedo pants, sings, “Don’t cry for me Argentina
.
”

“Why are you in such a good mood?”

“Just am. Do you want to be my lovely assistant?”

“Why, what are you?”

Neshama pulls on a tuxedo jacket and top hat. “Houdini.” She holds out her arms. “I will now perform a magical
disappearing act.” She waves a tinfoil-covered chopstick and slips behind her closet door. “Ladies and Gentleman, Houdini has disappeared.” She pops back out. “What are you going to be?”

“I’m not going.”

She sits next to me on the bed. “They’re starting to ask a lot of questions—about the phone calls, about where you go after school.” She tries to read my face. I look out the window. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “C’mon, Purim will be fun.”

I groan. “Fine. Can you make me a costume?”

Neshama turns to her mirror and starts patting on face powder. “How about a cat?”

“Too boring.”

“Bride?”

“For sure not.”

“The Grim Reaper?”

“Too morbid.”

“How about Queen Vashti?”

“No one wants to be her. She wouldn’t even dance for the King.”

“Yes, but she kept her self-respect,” Neshama shoots back. She adjusts a black eye mask.

In the end I drape a white sheet over me and go as a ghost.

IN THE CHAPEL
at Abba’s school Neshama and I sit in the back row on the women’s side, specially erected for Purim, listening to the chanting of the book of Esther.

Whenever the dreaded name of Haman is mentioned, the dressed-up, painted and inebriated crowd stomps and boos, rattling noisemakers, twirling small plastic
gregors.
A parade of tiny queen Esthers with shiny dresses and heavily made-up faces marches up and down at the front of the women’s section. Miniature Mordecais with painted-on beards run in the aisle. I slouch in my folding chair, listlessly fiddling with my
gregor.

Neshama clasps my hand. “I have something to tell you.”

I turn to look at her, but I’ve lost my eyeholes. I lift my bum and twist the sheet.

“I got into university,” she whispers.

The congregation stamps and yells. An adolescent boy stands on his chair, his face red from alcohol. He beats his chest, yodeling, “Yiyiyiyiyiiii” in a falsetto.

“That’s great!” I hug Neshama and kiss her through the sheet, cotton against the hard plastic mask.

“Business?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

Neshama pushes back the cuticle on her thumb. “I got into U of T and York, but I also got into the University of British Columbia and the University of Victoria.”

“You applied away?” The congregation continues cheering, stomping Haman’s name into oblivion.

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow.” I stare at her. “You’re leaving?”

Neshama nods.

I hug her. “Wow, congratulations. Have you told Ima and Abba?” I glance at Ima a few rows up in her silk kimono and white face makeup. The congregation quiets down and the chanting continues.

She shakes her head. “Bubbie knows. She said she’d pay for it. The extra flights, living costs.”

“That’s amazing.”

She nods again.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes. Sort of. Nervous and excited and I don’t know...” She pauses. “Now I have to tell them.” She gestures toward Ima with her head.

“What do you think they’ll say?”

“That I’m going to burn in hell.” Neshama’s mask conceals her face. She clamps my hand in hers.

AFTER THE CHANTING
, the chairs are pushed away and the dancing begins, the men in one circle, the women in another. At the back of the room, tables sag with baked goods and an immense bowl of alcoholic punch. Neshama and I nibble on poppy-seed
hamentaschen
and sip the tangy drink. The men form a tight circle, arms woven around shoulders, feet stamping in unison to a lively klezmer tune, clarinets blasting. A man dressed as a bride, a white veil covering his hair, his lips smeared with lipstick, is hoisted up and down on a chair.
“Oy, Oy, Oy, Oy!
”
he shouts. Backless high heels dangle from his thick feet. He blows drunken kisses as they put him down.

The women hold hands and whirl by, feet twisting and kicking. Dancers break off to form smaller inner circles. A woman dressed as a gypsy spins in the center, hips jiggling, her enormous bosom heaving. The women catcall and ululate in shrill voices. Tiny Queen Esthers worm their way through the swirling, stamping women and form their own small clapping circle around the gypsy lady. Ima spins by, laughing, taking tiny steps in her kimono.

“You really want to leave all this?”

Neshama finishes the rest of her punch, hiccups and shrugs. “Tradition is the illusion of permanence,” she recites, her jaw firm.

“You won’t miss it?”

“Nope.”

I slump in my chair. “I really miss the Torah.”

“So go back to it.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Maybe for you it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Make the Torah whatever you want it to be. It’s so huge and contradictory, you can find whatever you want and ignore the other parts. Everybody does it.”

“You think?”

“I know. Just don’t take it as the word of God.”

“Do you think Ima does?”

“Ima floats along in her own little world, taking in the parts that fit her life. Women can’t sing in public—I bet she finds a way out of that one.”

“And Abba?”

Neshama shudders. “He really does think the Torah is the word of God, but I try and cut him some slack because everything he does, misguided as it is, comes from his love for
Hashem
.”

We both sigh. Then Neshama gets up and pulls me through the circle of dancing, stomping women, weaving into the center. Grabbing my hands she leans back and starts to turn. I shriek and pull back harder, the room spinning.

ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON
when I leave school with Becca and Esther, Lindsay is waiting outside. My cheeks burn. Becca and Esther stare at Lindsay’s short kilt and bare legs. “This is my friend from the summer,” I mumble. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Bye, Ellie,” they say. “Good
Shabbos
.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask Lindsay when they walk away.

“I came to see you.”

“You can’t just come here.” I guide her through the side alley to the bank parking lot.

“I waited for you to come over yesterday.”

“It was a Jewish holiday. I had to go to
shul
.”

“Well, you could’ve called.”

“I didn’t think you’d notice.”

Lindsay looks at me skeptically. “You’ve come over twice a week for the past two months.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you have better things to do, like ride in cars with boys,” I mutter. I start walking down the side street.

“Do you have some time now? We could—”

“What?” I whirl around to face her. “Get in a car with some guys?”

“I just thought we’d talk—”

“I need to get home for dinner. We’re having guests.”

Lindsay follows me, walking quickly to keep up with my long strides. “I thought you stopped doing that.”

I walk faster. “They decided to start again. You really need to get out of here.”

She grabs my arm. “Look, about last time, I just thought it would be fun.”

I stop. “Fun? What about me?”

“I like being with you too.”

“That’s it? Fun? I’m fun, like hitching, like boys?”

“Oh, c’mon, Ellie.”

“Fun? Do you know what would happen if I got caught?” I stand on the corner, my mouth open, hands on my hips. “Do you have any idea how much I risk? You probably think it’s funny. Ellie Gold:
yeshiva
girl by day, whore by night,” I spit out the word. “You can do whatever dangerous stuff you like, but I can’t.”

“El—”

“You don’t really even like me,” I hiss.

Lindsay stares at me, mouth open. “I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t bother. Ever.”

I run across the street, leaving her standing on the corner.

Reaching home, I burst through the front door.

“You’re late.” Abba stands waiting in the front hall.

“Sorry.”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Busy.” I take off my coat and hat.

“Busy? Guests will be here soon.”

“I was busy.”

He glares at me. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve been acting strange all week.”

“Just leave me alone.” I push past him to the hall closet. “Hey!”

Ima peeks her head into the hall. “Ellie, just come and make the salad, okay?”

Abba follows me into the kitchen. Ima and Neshama are making meatballs, their hands sticky with raw hamburger. I sling my jacket and bag over a kitchen chair. Ima points to the tomatoes beside the cutting board. I pick up the knife.

Abba asks, “Neshama, did you vacuum?”

“You didn’t ask me to.”

“Can you do it now?”

“I need to finish getting ready.”

His eyes flare at her. He turns to leave, and I hear the whirr of the vacuum cleaner a moment later.

“He’s mad at me because I bought hors d’oeuvres instead of making them,” Neshama says.

“What?” I stop chopping tomatoes.

“I said, Abba’s mad at me because I didn’t make the hors d’oeuvres. Are you okay? You look really pale.”

“I’m fine.”

Neshama digs her hands into a bowl of raw hamburger meat. “Ima, are you going to give a lesson tonight?”

Ima rolls the cold meat into a sphere and drops it in a pot of simmering tomato sauce.

“Your father’s going to talk instead.”

“What?” Neshama spins around.

My hand slips, the knife nicking my knuckle. Blood dribbles out of the cut.

“He has something to say.”

“About dating?” Neshama asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“Ima!”

I run my finger under cold water.

“What did you do?” Ima asks.

“It’s nothing.”

“Here.” Neshama gives me a napkin.

“Let me finish that.” Ima takes the knife from me. “Go shower.” She looks at me carefully. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I mumble, “Yes.”

In the bathroom, I turn the shower on and let the water beat down on my scalp. I wish it were a rainstorm in China, a monsoon, hot drops falling in sizzling heat. I put the stopper in the drain and let the water build around my feet. I wish it were a flood, water crashing over banks, ripping though fields, wrenching trees, my body snatched by a wave. Tears sneak down my face.