“Is she at Cedars?” the dean says. “I’d like to come by and offer my support.”
It didn’t occur to me that people would want to visit her. I hadn’t thought that far in advance. Now I need a story that will keep them away.
“She was at a yoga conference in Orange County when it happened,” I say.
Orange County. The foreign land thirty miles south of us.
The dean whistles through his teeth. No way he wants to drive to Orange County. At least that’s what I’m hoping.
“How terrible,” the dean says. “When will she be back?”
“That’s the problem,” I say. “We’re trying to get her home, but she can’t be moved yet. I think they’re going to rehabilitate her down there.”
“That will be expensive,” the dean says.
I lower my head. I’m learning that if I don’t have a good answer, I can just look at the ground. This doesn’t work under normal circumstances—in class, for instance, when a teacher asks me a question—but during a tragedy, people don’t seem to mind it.
“It’s going to be okay,” the dean says.
“I know it will,” I say, my head still down.
“In the meantime, we’d like to send a basket. Something to let her know the community is thinking about her.”
“You could send it to the house. I’ll make sure she gets it,” I say. And then I add, “Mom loves chocolate.”
Which is an outright lie. Mom doesn’t eat sugar at all. But if we’re going to start getting gift baskets, why not go for something good?
“That’s what we’ll do,” the dean says. His voice turns hyperserious: “If you need anything. Absolutely anything. Do not hesitate.”
I’m having bad thoughts, like using the situation to get out of doing homework, but I squelch the idea. This is going to blow up in my face at some point. Why make it worse?
“I will not hesitate,” I say, as seriously as I can.
“Don’t.”
“I won’t.”
“Thatta boy,” he says, and he goes down the hall.
Herschel shakes his head. “Rehabilitation? Where did you get that from?”
“I had to say something. If they think Mom is at Cedars Sinai, they’re going to want to see her.”
“You’re lying to the man’s face.”
“I’ll tell the truth eventually.”
“When?”
“I just need some time to work it out,” I say.
Just then the CORE crew passes by, the hardcore religious kids. The administration hand selected a group of particularly devout students last year and put them in an accelerated religious studies program. They even daven in a separate room every morning, personally coached by the rabbi.
“Boker tov,” one of the guys shouts to Herschel.
Why can’t he just say good morning like everyone else? You don’t have to prove you speak Hebrew. Everyone in the damn school speaks Hebrew.
Herschel waves.
“I have to catch up to my boys,” he says. “Do the right thing, huh?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Yo, yo, yo! Shalom chaverim!” Herschel shouts to the guys, and they head down the hall together.
I turn around to see if The Initials is still there, and Tyler is at the cabinet next to mine. He’s clutching a religious studies textbook like a life preserver.
“I’m praying for your mom,” he says.
“Which prayer?” I say.
“What?”
“Which prayer specifically are you saying?”
Tyler looks flustered. I’m being a jerk, but I can’t help it.
He says, “It’s not—I don’t mean a specific prayer. I mean prayer in general.”
Tyler motions for me to come closer. He leans towards me, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“If you want to know the truth, I believe he’ll help you,” he says. He points to the ceiling.
“Who?”
“Jesus.”
“I thought you were Jewish,” I say.
“Half-Jewish. Half other things.”
“Isn’t that confusing?”
“Not really. It’s all God,” he says.
“You’re killing me. I’m dying.”
That’s what Sweet Caroline says on the phone. She never calls in the middle of the day—or any time of day for that matter. That’s why I pick up. I excuse myself from math class by holding up my phone, and then I take the call out in the hall.
Tragedy has its privileges.
“How am I killing you?” I whisper.
“Do you know what it’s like here—”
“Wait a minute, how are you calling me? You can’t have cell phones in school.”
“I’m in the bathroom,” she says, “and I smuggled my phone in.”
I sometimes forget that Sweet Caroline has it even worse than me. She’s at a superstrict all-girls Jewish school. At least my school is coed so there’s something to look at besides the Torah.
“They’re asking about Mom,” she says.
“How is that possible? You don’t even go to my school.”
“It’s Jewish geography, like Dad says. They all talk.”
“Who’s asking?” I say.
“The head of school. The teachers. Everyone.”
“Crap,” I say. “How bad is it?”
“They want to know what they can do, how they can help, how I’m holding up. You know the deal.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them to send a gift basket to the house.”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Great minds think alike,” I say, even though I never considered Sweet Caroline to be in that particular club.
“It’s not funny, Sanskrit. I have to walk around looking sad all day, and it doesn’t come naturally. I’m a happy kid.”
A happy kid with a psychologist. But I don’t say that.
I say, “If it helps at all, I told them Mom is at a hospital in Orange County. So nobody can come to visit her.”
“You’re making my life miserable, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would get out of school.”
“How sorry are you?”
“What does that mean?”
“Are you twenty dollars sorry?”
“Goddamn you—”
“Lord’s name—” she says.
I stop myself. Not because I don’t want to take the Lord’s name in vain, but because if I go off on Sweet Caroline right now, I could be in big trouble.
“Twenty dollars?” I say.
“A week.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“It should be more,” she says. “But we’ll start with twenty. Remember, I’m keeping the secret, too.”
I think about ways to come up with twenty dollars a week. I’ll have to break into my book fund.
“Deal,” I say. Anything to keep Sweet Caroline on board.
“I can lie for a while,” she says, “but Mom better have a spontaneous recovery before Passover. We’re supposed to show up for the seder, right?”
Passover. Next week.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say.
I hear the toilet flush over the phone.
“Were you peeing while you were talking to me?” I say.
“I’m multitasking,” she says, and hangs up.
“I’ve got a little situation, professor.”
That’s all I have to say when I go back into math class. I don’t even walk all the way in, just stick my head in the door and hold up the phone.
“Of course,” the professor says, waving me off. “I’ll let your other professors know.”
I feel a little guilty ending school at one o’clock, but I’ve got business to attend to. Sweet Caroline’s report has me worried, and I want to get back to the house.
I walk through school in the middle of the day, all alone in the main hallway. I feel free, like the rules don’t apply to me anymore. I could walk into any room right now. I could interrupt Herschel’s science class and say I need him, pull him out. I could ask for a meeting with the dean. I could do anything.