OyMG (7 page)

CHAPTER 13

Megan glanced over the questionnaire, then handed it back to me. “It doesn't
look
complicated.”

“Believe me,” I said in a low voice, “it's complicated. I still haven't told you everything.”

I lay back on her bed and breathed in the wisteria scent that Hannah sprayed every day. Hannah was the cleaning lady, and I never saw her without a can of air freshener. Not that anything in the Swan house ever smelled. Megan had no pets and no brothers—which eliminated 99 percent of all odors. And she was the only one in the house who ever farted. Her parents would die first.

I still wore my black clothes from camp. I'd sweated through the top, but I didn't want to take time to go home and change. I had to figure out what to do, and Megan had to help. I couldn't talk to her with my dad in the car, but I'd warned Megan to prepare for something big.

By the time we'd grabbed Dr Peppers from the fridge and Double Stufs from the pantry, I'd told her about the eulogies—about my second place, and slinking off to the window nook to hide. While we circled the dining room, walked through the study and behind the home theater, I told her about Devon's finding me. As we climbed the winding staircase to Megan's bedroom, I told her about the meeting with Mrs. Yeats.

And after she kicked off her orange Crocs and dropped into a beanbag chair, I showed her the questionnaire.

Now, I had to tell her the rest. I sat up, grabbed a pink, fluffy pillow from the back of her bed, and wrapped my arms around it. “Here's the kicker. Devon told me to hide my Jewish star before I met his grandmother. Apparently, Dynamite Doris has a weird thing about Jews.”

Megan pushed her glasses up on her nose. “No way!”

“Exactly,” I muttered. “And now I have to fill out a questionnaire that says I'm Jewish.”

“Oh-kay,” she said slowly. “That
is
a little complicated.”

I shifted on the thick mattress. Megan's room was so not Megan. It was like someone had barfed cotton candy all over everything. Mrs. Swan had seen a picture of it in a luxury-homes magazine and called in the decorator. The house was a showpiece, and that included Megan's room.

Megan said her mother did it just to piss her off. Megan liked to say they have a love-hate relationship: they love to hate each other. According to Megan, Mrs. Swan can't stand the horror of having given birth to an ugly duckling. (Megan has fought off all attempts to be a “swan” in anything but name.) And according to Mrs. Swan, Megan acts out just to be rebellious.

I think they're both right.

I dug my toes into her pink puffy comforter. “I don't know what to do.” I stared at the questionnaire where it lay on the bed. A rectangle of white on a pink background. “What do you think?”

Megan shook up a bottle of black nail polish. It sounded like a mini–pinball machine as it mixed. “First of all, you should talk to Devon. Find out what he means. Doris is weird in what way?”

“Is there a good way?”

She thought for a second. “Maybe she once got food poisoning from a bad piece of lox, and the word ‘Jewish' still gives her the runs.”

I groaned. “Nice mental picture, thanks.”

She laughed and opened the bottle. The wisteria faded under the sharp scent of polish as Megan spread the black over her thumbnail. “I'm just saying it doesn't have to be something awful like anti-Semitism. I mean, that's so last century, isn't it? And this is America. The Home of the Free and the Semi-intelligent.”

“Devon did start off by saying it wasn't a big deal. But if it's not a big deal, why tell me to hide the necklace?”

“That's why you have to ask.”

“That should go over real well.” I tried to imagine it. “Uh, by the way, Devon, is your grandmother a Nazi?” I looked at Megan to see if that sounded as bad to her as it had to me.

She nodded. “I see the problem.”

“Besides, I met Mrs. Yeats. She was really nice.” I rested my chin on the pillow. “If only it wasn't on the questionnaire. It wouldn't ever have to come up.”

Megan nodded. “Problems are so much easier to deal with when you can ignore them.”

“I can't lie,” I said.

“Depends on what you mean by lying.” Megan switched the bottle and started on her other hand. “What you've got to do is look at it like an interview for a job. You want the job of going to Benedict's, right? Which makes this questionnaire a job application.”

“That makes sense.”

“So you want to give yourself the best chance.” She waved the polish brush at me. “Accentuate the positive. Tell them what they want to hear. That's not lying. That's good business sense.”

“In other words, say I'm Christian?”

“If that's what she wants to hear.”

“But it's a lie.”

“Not technically,” Megan said. “Your dad is Lutheran.”

“Yeah, but he doesn't act like it. We don't go to church, and unless Grandma and Grandpa Taylor are around, we don't do Christian holidays. I couldn't even do an impromptu on a Christmas tree.”

“Doesn't matter. It's still in your dad's blood, which means it's in your blood.”

“That works?”

“It worked for Hitler. He killed people for being one-eighth Jewish. If it can work against you, why can't it work for you?”

“Oh God,” I said, suddenly remembering. I looked at the bottom of the form. “My parents have to sign this.”

Megan paused. “Will they?”

“If I say I'm a Christian?” I thought a minute. “Well, maybe. They don't make a big deal about religion—not like Zeydeh.”

“You can
not
let your zeydeh see this!” Megan breathed.

I shuddered, just imagining it. “He'd freak.”

“And then he'd let loose some seriously good swear words.”

Megan loved Yiddish swear words. She could call a kid a
szhlob
and he'd never know he'd just been called a moron. Megan also loved Zeydeh—almost as much as I did. According to Megan, it was a black-and-white world but Zeydeh had color.

I read the question about religious affiliation again. “Why does she even care?”

Megan blew on her nails. “She probably wants kids just like her. Rich people are all into conformity.”

“I'll be a good orator no matter what religion I am. Isn't that what matters?”

“Obviously.”

“And Devon's the one who told me to hide my necklace. He's her grandson—he wouldn't have said anything if the reason was really bad.”

“Unless he likes you.”

“He doesn't like me like that.”

“He thinks you're funny.”

“Maybe he thinks clowns are funny.”

“Clowns are not funny. They're scary.” She waved her wet fingers in the air. “I think you like him, too.”

“I do not.”

“You're blushing.”

I covered my traitorous cheeks. “I don't
not
like him. How's that?”

“Ooooooh,” she teased. “This is serious.”

I stuck out my tongue at her, then found myself thinking about Devon for the billionth time that afternoon. “He
was
kind of cool today.”

She nodded knowingly. “Because he likes you.”

“He doesn't even know me.”

“He'll have a chance to if you go to Benedict's.” She wiggled her brows.

I couldn't help laughing. “You have such a one-track mind.”

“Would it be such an awful thing if he did like you?” she asked. “I realize he's much too good looking. How any girl could date a guy with better eyelashes than hers is beyond me. But he is helping you get into Benedict's.” She wiggled her eyebrows again. “This could be love.”

“I've only known him a week.”

“So? I've only known Jared a week and I think I'm going to fall for him.”

“Who?”

“Jared is a camper on the performing-arts side. We met at the water fountain.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“He had a Handi Wipe, and he cleaned off the fountain head before he took a drink. It was so cute.”

“That's not cute,” I told her. “That's weird. Why do you like him?”

“Why not?”

I squeezed the fluffy pillow. “Do you have a pillow that's not so soft?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to throw it at your head.”

She laughed. “You can't. You'll mess up my Preeba nails.” She held up her left hand. Light from the pink chandelier glinted off the drying polish.

“What's Preeba?”

“Preeba is the name of my character. We chose pieces today for our final performance. I could have done
Our Town
with Anna, but instead, I chose a scene from a new play. I'm a genetically altered girl who lives on the far side of the moon. The dark side.” She trailed her black nails dramatically down one arm. “I escape to earth and pretend to be normal. Only of course, there is no normal.” She grinned. “It's the perfect character—I'm not who anyone expects me to be, but I'm still totally cool.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, the polish works.”

She studied her nails. “I'm thinking Preeba dresses angry Goth with a touch of playful.”

“Playful angry Goth?”

“It's what everyone wears on the moon.” She shot me another grin. “I've already started memorizing my lines. My scene partners—Sean and Alec—they're way into it, too. It's going to be amazing.” She frowned at her nails. “Maybe some red polka dots?” She grabbed a bottle of Ruby Red.

Megan had just picked her character and already she was morphing into Preeba. I reached for my necklace and pulled it out from under my shirt. Would it be so hard to morph into a Christian? It was just on paper. It wasn't as if it meant anything. “You really think I should do this?”

“How can you not?” she said. “Remember, you're not just doing this for you—you're doing this for me. I can't go to Benedict's without you.”

I picked up the questionnaire. “It's not an actual lie.”

“Exactly.”

“And once I'm in, I can bring my matzo sandwiches during Passover and they won't be able to do anything about it.”

“By then,” Megan agreed, “you'll be the star orator and you can grow a beard and chant Hebrew and they'll all say ‘Amen.' ”

I took a breath. “Toss me a pen.”

She did, and I punched the top with my thumb. I tried to write carefully, but my hand wobbled a little so it wasn't the neatest thing. But it was clear.

I'd just labeled myself a Christian.

I tried not to think what Zeydeh would label me if he ever found out.

CHAPTER 14

“Zeydeh, it was delicious,” Dad said. He patted his stomach as if the bulge was all from tonight. Though, in all honesty, he had eaten like a pig—we all had. Except Zeydeh.

On Friday nights, to welcome in the Jewish Sabbath, Zeydeh always outdid himself in the kitchen. He baked fresh challah bread and cooked a huge feast. Mom and I lit the Sabbath candles, the men said the prayer over the wine, Zeydeh blessed Benny and me, and then we all said the
motzei
—the blessing over the bread. There was always an extra bounce in Zeydeh's step and when he brought dinner to the table, he'd hum a Jewish tune:
bim bom bimbimbim bom
…

But tonight, no bounce. No humming. The rest of us shot worried glances at each other through dinner, while Zeydeh seemed half asleep. Was it low blood pressure again? He did look kind of pale.

He perked up a little when I told everyone about the surprise meeting with Mrs. Yeats.

“I knew you were better than that boy,” Zeydeh said, his eyes snapping open. “Didn't I say she was better, Skip? Didn't I say it the whole way home?”

“So you'll have an interview next week with Mrs. Yeats?” Mom asked.

I nodded. “I already filled out the questionnaire—it's due on Monday.” I'd slid the folder under the stack of newspapers on the counter. I wanted to get it signed quick so I could stick it in my backpack and forget about it. Plus, if I was lucky, Mom would be tired after a long week and she'd sign without looking. “Can you sign it after dinner?” I asked.

“Of course.” She laid a hand over her heart. “I'm just so proud of you.”

“We all are, honey.” Dad blinked, his eyes suddenly watery.

“Da-ad!” Benny groaned. “Crying is so not cool.”

“If a man can cry over a chopped onion,” Zeydeh said, “he can cry over his daughter's good fortune.”

I smiled at Zeydeh. His eyes smiled back. “It's no more than you deserve, Ellie. I told you, didn't I, you would do great things in this world?” Then his gaze dropped back to his uneaten bowl of soup and his shoulders dipped.

Mom reached out and patted his arm. “You going to services tonight?”

Zeydeh shook his head. “I'll go in the morning. I'm a little tired tonight.” He looked around the table. “If you don't mind, I'll excuse myself.” He stood, pushing up with his skinny arms as if his legs were too weak to lift himself.

“You sure you're okay?” I asked.

“Fine, fine. Just a little indigestion. I'll use the john, and be back to help clean up.”

“We'll clean up,” Mom said. “You sit down and take it easy tonight.” She watched him shuffle out of the kitchen, worry in her eyes.

Even Benny stopped chewing to watch him go.

“Dinner was delicious,” Mom called after Zeydeh.

“It was average,” he called back, not bothering to turn around. Mom frowned and dropped her napkin on the table.

Cleanup was quiet tonight. Benny usually banged plates and rattled silverware clearing the table, but not now. I think we were all listening for Zeydeh.

I opened the dishwasher and took the plate Mom handed me. Dad had carried his to the counter, and he stood there waiting for me to have a free hand.

Above my head, I could feel Mom and Dad looking at each other.

“Should I say something?” Mom asked.

“I don't know what you can say,” he answered. “It's the soup.”

“The soup was fine.”

“Fine, yes. Great, no.” Dad mouthed the word “no” and Mom and I both darted glances toward the hall. No sign of Zeydeh.

“But surely he can make a few adjustments,” she whispered. “He's always adjusting.”

Dad leaned in, his voice a microwhisper. “I caught him this afternoon, standing over the soup pot with a pinch of herbs in his fingers.”

“So?” Mom asked.

“So he just stood there. I washed my hands at the sink, poured a glass of iced tea, drank it, ate two cookies, and he was still standing there with the herbs in his fingers. Frozen. He didn't know whether to add them or not. I've never seen him like that.”

Mom clenched her hands over her heart. “Did you say something?”

“I asked if everything was okay.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘Just stewing over my dreams.' ”

Benny pushed through the middle of us and set another dish in the sink. “I'm going to shoot some hoops,” he said, and headed for the back door.

Mom nodded, her eyes still on Dad. “That's what he said? That's … awful. You should have done something.”

“Done what?”

Just then, we heard the shuffle of Zeydeh's shoes coming down the hall. Mom got out a rag and Dad pulled out some containers for the leftovers. I went back to loading dishes.

“Has anyone seen my glasses?” Zeydeh asked.

“On the counter, I think,” Mom said.

I heard him rummage around the bowl of car keys. He cursed low, under his breath. Then the newspapers rustled and crunched. I was loading the last plate when it hit me.
Newspapers. Rustling. The application!
I jerked up just as Zeydeh said, “What's this?”

My heart frog-leaped into my throat. “That's mine, Zeydeh.”

“What is it?” He held out the slim white folder that Mrs. Yeats had given me that afternoon.

I flung the dishwasher door up so fast, plates rattled. “Just a folder.”

“What kind of folder?” He flipped it open.

“Zeydeh!”

Mom and Dad stared at me, confused. I tried telling them with my eyes, but there was no way. No time. I had to get the folder out of Zeydeh's hands. If he saw what I'd written …

I lunged across the kitchen island and grabbed for it. But Zeydeh turned at the last second and I ended up with nothing but air.

He held the paper at arm's length and squinted at the words. “This is the questionnaire for Benedict's? What's so secret about—”

Then his voice broke and he leaned a hand on the counter.

“What is it?” Mom asked. “What's going on?”

Zeydeh turned, his eyes bulging. “You want to know? Ask Ellie. Ask your
Christian
daughter.”

Then suddenly, he moaned and clutched his chest. His head dropped back and his eyes rolled shut. With a slight
whoosh
of breath, he collapsed into Dad's arms.