"She's right here. Give your aba my love, tov?"
"Tov."
"Amy?" Osnat asks.
"Yeah, it's your American cousin. Remember me?"
"How could I forget. Our sheep still has a Mohawk from when you shaved it."
Ha, ha. Very funny. Okay, so my sheep-shearing skills are definitely lacking, but I did make a valiant effort. "Mah nishmah?" I ask her.
"Ah, evreet shelach mitzuyan."
"Okay, cut the Hebrew. You know I have no clue what you're saying. How's Avi?"
"Looking hot."
"You've seen him?"
"Yeah. Why, hasn't he called you since his basic training was over?"
No. "I'm sure he was busy." He wrote that he'd be in basic training for another week. I wonder what he's doing back home. Even more, I wonder why he hasn't called. You know what they say: if they're not into you, they don't call. If they're into you, they'll find the time.
My stomach muscles clench up, but I continue talking to Osnat and then talk to Sofia, my grandmother, who tells me the doctors think her tumor shrunk since her last set of chemo treatments. She insists she's doing fine, but her voice is weaker than I remember. I promise to call next week and she promises she'll stay healthy and strong until I come to Israel for summer break.
Jess is thumbing through my CD collection, looking more depressed than I am. I come up with an idea. "Try texting Mitch."
"I tried before. He ignored it."
I grab her phone and start texting.
Jess sits on the bed next to me. "What are you doing?"
"Getting your boyfriend's attention," I tell her. Mitch is obsessed with his cell phone. He'll for sure have it with him. If he's ignoring Jess on purpose, I'll kill him.
Me: Mitch, it's Amy. Jess is XOXOing another dude
Mitch: What?
Me: Just kidding. Where R U?
Mitch: At a movie w/friends. Cant talk.
Me: Call your gf tomorrow. Or else.
Mitch: U don't scare me, Amy.
Me: Y not?
Mitch: Bark worse than bite.
Me: I don't bite.
Mitch: I dated U. U bite.
I turn off the phone and look up at Jess. "He said he'll call you tomorrow."
"Really?" she asks, looking hopeful. "Where is he?"
"At a movie with friends."
"I talked to him earlier. He didn't say anything about a movie. Since when can't I go with him and his friends to a movie?"
I shrug. I can't figure out my own boyfriend. How am I supposed to figure out hers?
I lie in bed later thinking about all the promises I forgot to get from Avi. Maybe I'm delirious thinking he's waiting for me to come back to Israel. If he's not thinking of me, why am I so obsessed with him?
11
***
"When a woman at childbirth bears a male, she shall be unclean seven days... If she bears a female, she shall be unclean two weeks." (Leviticus 12:2-5) Umm... does this mean boys are viewed as cleaner than females? Has God seen the boys' restroom at Chicago Academy lately?
***
"Do you know if it's a boy or girl?"
It's Sunday and I'm in the 'burbs with my mom. We're sitting in her car, heading to a maternity-clothes shop. She looked so excited about this little excursion; I couldn't say no.
My mom rubs the bump in her stomach, like a prego person in the movies would. "We want it to be a surprise."
"What if it's twins?" I ask her.
When she smiles at me, the corners of her light blue eyes crinkle. Isn't she too old to have a baby? "There was only one heartbeat. No twins."
The baby is due in six months and already my mom's stomach looks like a small bowling ball. I can't believe I haven't noticed it before. Maybe she's been trying to hide it with those ponchos she's overly fond of lately.
When we drive up to a place called Modern Maternity I feel stupid. I'm seventeen years old. I could seriously be a mother myself.
"Marc and I both want you to be involved in this pregnancy," she says. "It's important to us."
My mom's not Jewish, but she definitely has the Jewish guilt thing down pat.
I put on a huge, toothy smile. I'm probably overdoing it, but the reality is I want my mom to be happy. "I'm so happy for you," I gush. "And I want to be a part of this new family, too!"
"Amy, I'm your mom. I can see right through you."
We're still sitting in the car. I watch her face turn from elation to unhappiness in a matter of seconds. Oh, no. I gotta talk to her before she starts crying. "Mom, I am happy for you and Marc. It's just weird for me. First the wedding, now the baby. I just need time to get used to it, okay?"
I remember back to when my mom took me to my first ballet lesson. I'd begged for her to sign me up and practically dragged her to Miss Gertie's Dance Studio where Jessica was already taking lessons. My mom paid the hefty tuition, bought me ballet slippers and a cute leotard, and off we went to the first class. Only there was one problem: I refused to go inside the studio. For some unknown reason (even to me) I cried in the car until my mom dragged me kicking and screaming into that studio.
She forced me to go.
In retaliation, I sat in the corner of the studio and refused to move even one pink ballet-slippered foot the entire time. This routine continued lesson after lesson until the costumes came in for the recital. My class danced to a song called "The Buzy Bees." We were little bees with black and yellow sparkly sequined leotards and black springy sparkly antennas. What can I say, all those sparkles would turn any reluctant kid into an instant ballerina just waiting to go on stage. The day those costumes came in, I stood up from my usual spot and danced and buzzed around as if I was making up for lost time.