“If you look at my paperwork,” I say.
She lifts the clipboard to chest level, and we both look at it. Actually, she’s looking at the clipboard. I’m looking elsewhere.
She says, “Your father is listed as an alternate parent? Mah zeh? What is this?”
Alternate. That’s code for, “Don’t expect that parent to show up.”
“My father is not expected to come to school events,” I say.
“That’s strange,” she says.
“It’s not so strange,” I say.
“No? Maybe my English is not good with this word?”
I glance around the room. Half the parents are looking at me, and the other half are looking away. Which just means they’re listening.
“Whatever,” I say. “Could you let someone else go ahead of me?”
“You are the Z. There isn’t anyone else.”
I see Herschel’s parents walking towards me.
“Give me two minutes,” I tell the office lady, and I run towards the Weingartens.
Herschel’s parents used to consider me a good influence on their son. We were close, we studied together, I got him out of the house. But now that he’s their religious pride and joy, I am no longer considered a good influence. I am considered a dangerous, subversive influence. As such, I am no longer welcome around the Weingarten household with the exception of a few major holidays. It’s not like they lock the doors and turn out the lights when they see me coming, but let’s just say the Shabbat invitations are infrequent.
“Hello, Sanskrit,” Mrs. Weingarten says. “Is everything all right?”
“Perfect,” I say.
I glance behind me. The office lady has been temporarily swallowed up by the crowd.
“I wanted to say shalom to your mother.”
“She hasn’t arrived just yet,” I say.
“I see,” Mrs. Weingarten says. “I hope there’s no problem.”
“Maybe she left the country without telling me,” I say.
“God forbid!” Mrs. Weingarten says.
“It was a joke,” I say.
“Sanskrit is funny. Remember, Mom?” Herschel says.
He’s swooped in from the side to spare me any more embarrassment. Very decent of him.
“Of course I remember,” Mrs. Weingarten says. She nudges her husband. “You remember Sanskrit, don’t you, Stanley?”
Stanley Weingarten nods his head. That’s their entire relationship. Mrs. Weingarten talks and Mr. Weingarten nods. Maybe that’s the secret to staying married. If my father had nodded more, things would have worked out.
“Sanskrit, will we see you at Pesach this year?” Mrs. Weingarten says.
“Of course,” I say. Usually, we’d be scarce on a big holiday like Passover, but the Family Education Contract means we need to make a show of it. I still haven’t told Mom she’s going to the Weingartens’ seder next week. It’s their once-yearly attempt to bring us back into the fold. I’ve learned you don’t bring Mom bad news during a juice fast.
“We’ll look forward to seeing you,” Mrs. Weingarten says.
I reach for my pocket like my phone is vibrating. “I think that’s my mom now. Will you excuse me?” I say.
I walk away, checking my phone for the twenty-seventh time.
Not even a text.
I dial Mom again, and it goes directly to voice mail. Which means her phone still isn’t on.
I start to feel angry. My mother knows how important this is. I’ve reminded her enough times.
Somehow she never misses a yoga class, either taking one or teaching one. But all other appointments are considered optional. Including mine. Which means I’m as forgettable as everyone else in Mom’s life.
I check the time and see that Mom is now an hour and a half late.
Time for emergency action.
I call my little sister, Sweet Caroline. That’s actually her name. Our parents had a deal that Mom got to name the first child, Dad the second. They each named us after their favorite things—Mom an ancient language and Dad an ancient Neil Diamond song.
Sanskrit and Sweet Caroline Zuckerman.
The seeds of divorce were planted early in our family.
“What do you want?” Sweet Caroline says when she answers the phone.
She doesn’t even bother to say hello. That’s how sweet she is.
“Where’s Mom?” I say.
“How the hell should I know?”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Right. Like you never swear.”
“Caroline, please.”
“Sweet,” she says.
She hates it when I don’t say her whole name. Unlike me, she’s taken ownership of her name. She says it’s cool to have a weird name in Los Angeles. It makes her feel like the daughter of famous actors.
“Caroline,” I say again, because I’m angry, and maybe I want to take it out on her a little. That’s what sisters are for.
“My name is Sweet Caroline,” she says, “not just Caroline.”
“It’s not like you went to Sweet School and earned the title,” I say.
“My father gave me this name and it’s the name I will be called,” she demands.
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine,” she says.
And she hangs up.
Jesus.
I dial her number again.
“What?” she says as if we didn’t just talk.
“Hi, Sweet Caroline.”
A pause.
“How can I help you?”
“Do you by any chance know where our mother is?” I say.
“Yoga center meeting,” she says.
“How do you know?”
“Because I got home from gymnastics, and she texted me that there was curry tofu for dinner in the fridge. If she asks, we ate it and loved it.”
“Could you look at her calendar?”
She moans.
“It’s important,” I say.
“What’s so important?”
“Excuse me,” a professor says as she walks through the gymnasium. “No cell phones.”
B-Jew has a strict no-cell-phone policy. Strict is an understatement.
“I’m just calling my mother,” I say to her. “It’s an emergency.”
“No. A bomb on a bus in Tel Aviv is an emergency. Your cell phone is a nuisance.” She points to the door.
I run outside.
“Look at Mom’s calendar, Sweet Caroline,” I say. “Please. I’m in a bind here.”
“What kind of bind?”
“A bad one.”
“Details. I need details.”
“Why?”
“Because I like to hear you suffering.”
I think of a few choice things I’d like to say to her, but I keep them to myself.
“We’ve got parent-professor conferences tonight,” I say.
“Ohhhh,” Sweet Caroline says, like she understands without me saying another word.
I hear her walking into the kitchen. It sounds crazy, but I’m sort of hoping there’s nothing on the calendar. Maybe Mom didn’t forget. Maybe it’s my fault because I forgot to remind her.
“The calendar says juice fast,” Sweet Caroline says.
“That’s it?”
“Wait. There’s a big arrow pointing from today to a card on the refrigerator. Parent-professor conference for Sanskrit. 5:30 p.m. There are about fifteen exclamation marks.”
“I know. I wrote it.”
So Mom outright forgot. Or she remembered and didn’t care enough to show up. Either way, I’m screwed.
“No Mom?” Sweet Caroline says.
“No Mom,” I say.
“Did you call Dad?”
“Are you crazy?”
“He might come.”
“Yeah, if I was in the emergency room.”
“You’re right. You are screwed,” she says.
You’d expect a tiny bit of understanding from your own sister. It’s not like I’m the only one who’s ever been screwed over by Mom in our family. On her last birthday, Mom surprised Sweet Caroline with a vegan cake that said Happy Eleventh!