“Sanskrit,” she says.
It’s exciting to hear her say my name after all this time.
“Guilty,” I say, and I smile.
“We used to go to elementary together.”
“We did? I don’t remember.” Which is the second biggest lie I’ve told in my life.
“How are you holding up, Aaron?” the dean says.
“Good,” I say. Then I look at The Initials and add, “As good as can be expected.”
“Of course,” he says.
“I need to speak with you for a moment, sir,” I say. He says, “I’m a little embarrassed to be caught with my hand in the cookie jar like this.”
“Cookie jar?”
He motions towards the room, the students.
“We’re planning a little something,” he says. He gives The Initials a nod. “It was the students’ idea. Ms. Jacobs presented it to me.”
Judi Jacobs. JJ.
The Initials.
“We wanted to do something for your family,” she says. “A fund-raiser to help get your mom well.”
“You’re giving us a telethon?”
She laughs. The dean throws her a look.
“Sorry, that was funny. But seriously, I hope the idea isn’t insulting. We just—I mean—the dean said they were keeping your mom down in South Bay—”
“Orange County,” the dean says.
“That’s right,” she says. “And she needs rehabilitation? That’s going to cost thousands of dollars.”
The dean interrupts.
“He gets the idea, Ms. Jacobs. Understand, Aaron. It’s as much for us as it is for you. A way for the school to come together and help a member of our community.”
“We’re the planning committee,” The Initials says. “We wanted to surprise you.”
“I’m surprised,” I say.
I look around at the assembled students. It’s crazy that they’re all here for me. Crazy and touching at the same time. How am I going to tell them they’re wasting their time?
That’s when I notice Barry Goldwasser in the crowd. Mr. One-Minute Mitzvahs himself.
“We’re going to get your mom home, no matter what it takes,” he says, stepping to the front of the pack. “That’s one thing about the Jewish community. We take care of our own.”
God, I hate this kid.
“You said you needed to talk to me,” the dean says.
“Yes,” I say.
“What is it?”
The Initials looks at me. They all do, all these kids who want to help me and my family.
“Another time,” I tell the dean.
“Are you sure? We can step out.”
“I’m at a loss for words right now.”
The students laugh. A nice laugh, like they’re on my side. I don’t hear a laugh like that very often.
“We’ll plan the event for this Thursday night,” Barry says. “We’ll call it A Night of Tzedakah for—What’s your mother’s name?”
“Rebekah,” I say.
“Tzedakah for Rebekah. That has a nice ring to it,” he says.
Tzedakah. Charity.
“I know you have a lot going on,” The Initials says, “but I need a few minutes to ask you some questions about your life. So we can tell people about your family.”
The first class tone sounds.
“We’ll meet again at lunch, everyone,” Barry calls out.
The room starts to clear.
“Dean Shapiro,” The Initials says, “I know it’s time for class, but would it be alright if I stayed here and did a little work with—”
“Of course,” he says.
She smiles. That’s when I realize she’s talking about me.
And her.
Together.
“You two take all the time you need,” the dean says. “I’ll let your first-period professors know you’ll be late.”
Then he goes out and leaves us alone.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
The Initials flips open a yellow pad as she says it. She’s businesslike, getting ready for the interview while barely looking at me.
“A long time since when?” I say.
“Since we spoke last,” she says.
“I’m not sure how long it’s been,” I say, even though I know exactly how long.
“We were friends, like, a thousand years ago in second grade.”
“That is a long time,” I say. “I barely remember.” She looks at her pad.
“Me, neither,” she says. She clicks open a pen. “Anyway, I’m sorry to hear about your mom. Is there anything I can do?”
“You’re doing it. Thank you.”
“How is she? Everyone is wondering.”
“You know—”
I stare at the ground as if the thought of Mom’s suffering is too painful.
“Say no more,” she says. And she smiles. “I’m glad we can help in some small way.”
I look at her eyes. They’re bright green, dotted with a few speckles of brown. I don’t think I’ve ever looked directly in her eyes. I’m always seeing her from behind or the side, studying different parts of her without really looking at her.
For a moment I consider hugging her, or at least opening my arms to see what happens. Maybe sick mom equals hugs from girls. If the mean Israeli office lady was scratching my back ten minutes ago, who knows what’s possible?
“I’ve got a ton of questions to ask you,” she says.
“Why?”
“The dean wants us to prepare something for him to say.”
“Like at a funeral.”
“Not at all,” she says, horrified.
“I just mean—You know how the rabbi interviews the family before a funeral so he knows what to say?”
I’m thinking about when Zadie died. His rabbi asked if I had any special memories of my grandfather. What I mostly remembered was how my mother complained every weekend when we had to go over to his house. And my father would say, “Zadie bought us this house. We can suck it up for one more Shabbat.”
“It’s not a funeral,” The Initials says. “God forbid.”
“I know,” I say.
“But you’re okay if I ask you some things?”
“Of course.”
The Initials looks at her phone.
“Shoot, look how late it is,” she says. “I have math first period and Burchstein’s a killer.”
“Professor Burchstein? That’s AP calculus. I didn’t know there were juniors in that class.”
She shrugs. “I’m pretty good at math. And I’m out of courses after this, so I have to take classes at UCLA next year.”
“Impressive.”
“Right. Jewish girls who are good at math. Very exciting stuff.”
“You guys should have your own calendar. How many of you are there?”
“Just me.”
“Do you have twelve good photos?” She laughs.
“You should get to class,” I say. “I mean, we don’t want the wrath of Burchstein coming down on you.”
“How about if I get your number?” Judi says. “We can meet up someplace later. I mean, if that’s okay with you. We’ve only got a few days to put this whole thing together.”
“It’s okay with me,” I say.
Judi waits.
“Your number?” she says.
I try to think of my phone number, and I can’t. Not with her staring at me. I start to panic, not knowing what I’m going to do. Then I remember that you can look at your phone and check the number in the settings.
I take out my phone while she waits patiently with her own.
“New phone,” I say. “Oh, okay,” she says.
The number finally pops up, and I read it to her. “Thanks, Sanskrit. I’m glad we’re having a chance to be of service to you like this. Barry is excited, too.”
“Barry?”
“Barry Goldwasser.”
“Oh, that Barry.”
“He’s everywhere, right?”
“Like acne,” I say.