“Lots of kids at B-Jew don’t believe, and it’s not a problem for them.”
“You know I don’t like when you call it that.”
“I’m just saying I’m not the only nonbeliever.”
“I’m not asking you to believe what they teach you at school. I just think you should believe in something greater than you.”
“But why?”
Mom thinks about it.
“Well, for one thing, not believing really bothers you.”
I don’t say anything.
“Why do you think that is?” Mom says.
I shrug. Is Mom right? I’m not sure.
“You could talk to the guru about it,” Mom says.
“Why did you have to bring him up?”
“He’s a spiritual leader. Maybe he could be a resource for you.”
“I go to Jewish school. I’ve got plenty of resources.”
Real resources, I think. Not self-proclaimed resources.
Before Mom can say anything else, we’re interrupted by a plate of chicken satay.
I look at skewers of something that approximates chicken, complete with a thick peanut sauce to dip it in. It may be fake, but it’s also fried. Everything tastes good when it’s fried, even crappy vegetarian food. It’s the most democratic of the cooking processes.
Mom bows her head. I wait for her to finish praying or whatever it is she does, and then I dig in.
“I’m glad we have some time together,” Mom says as she attacks her skewer.
“Me, too,” I say. “Especially without Sweet Caroline.”
“That’s not nice.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say.
I remind myself to be careful about telling the truth. Most of the time Mom doesn’t like it.
The rest of the food arrives. Steaming sticky rice, a giant platter of peanut noodles, and the beef rainbow dish, which neither looks like beef nor rainbow. Finally, the waiter brings out a giant tofu patty shaped like a smiling fish.
“What’s he smiling about?” I say. “We’re going to eat him.”
Mom laughs, but then she stops suddenly and looks over my shoulder. Her eyes widen.
“What are the chances?” she says.
I turn around.
The guru is walking into Vegan Glory.
At first I’m stunned. I can’t believe he’s here, all the way on the east side of town. Then I think we’re in a popular vegan place, so it’s not so surprising. Then I think something else, but I push that out of my head.
Mom jumps up, smiling.
The guru sees us and comes over. He’s dressed in clean, bright blue sheets, beaming his guru smile. He looks like a happy load of laundry.
“Namaste,” Mom says, giving him a bow, her hands pressed in front of her chest.
“Namaste,” the guru says. “Dear Rebekah. And dear Sanskrit.”
“I’m not your dear,” I say. “And neither is my mom.”
“It’s an honorific,” the guru says, but with his accent, it’s a little hard to understand him. It sounds like a combination of horror and terrific.
Terrific horror. Welcome to my world.
“What a surprise,” Mom says.
She’s smiling so hard, it looks like she’s wearing a mask. Happy Mom mask.
“A surprise, yes,” the guru says. But he doesn’t seem surprised at all.
There’s an awkward moment with the three of us standing over a table full of food. Then Mom says, “Would you like to join us, guru? You don’t mind, do you, Sanskrit?”
“It doesn’t thrill me,” I say.
They both look at me.
I think about walking out of the restaurant without a word. Slamming the door behind me like I did in the gym the other night.
Then I remember we’re far from home, all the way on Beverly and La Cienega near The Grove. I could take a bus home. But nobody takes the bus in L.A. Correction: lots of people take the bus, but not a lot of kids in Brentwood. I curse myself for not knowing how the buses work. I could call a cab, but that would be like thirty dollars or more. I’d have to ask Mom to borrow money before I stormed out. That would sort of ruin the gesture.
In other words, I’m stuck.
“Sanskrit. May I join you?” the guru says.
Is he really asking, or is he just being polite? I look at Mom with her happy mask still on.
“Fine,” I say.
“Good,” he says, “Because I am famished.”
Mom calls for an extra place setting for the guru. People around the restaurant are looking at us. You don’t often see a man dressed head to toe in blue in Los Angeles. Not unless he’s panhandling on the Walk of Fame.
The waiter with the twitch comes back to the table. He takes one look at the guru and bows deeply.
“Guru Bharat!” he whispers.
“Please,” the guru says, gesturing for him to rise.
“What an honor,” the waiter says, and winks three times. “What brings you to our humble restaurant?”
“Hunger,” the guru says.
“That is so profound,” the waiter says.
The waiter puts down a fork and backs away.
“You must get that a lot,” Mom says.
“Misunderstanding?” the guru says. “Yes, I get it a lot. Don’t we all?”
“Amen,” I say.
Mom throws me a warning look.
“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Mom says.
She looks at the guru, whose head is bowed.
“Wait,” she says to me, and I pause with a chicken skewer halfway in my mouth while the guru prays.
It goes on for a long time—so long that my mouth starts to water. Finally, the guru looks up. I chew.
The guru pulls up his long sleeves and digs into the tofu fish.
“Tell me about yourself, Sanskrit,” he says.
I’m still holding the skewer in my hand. I think about poking him in the eye with it.
“Nothing to tell,” I say.
“Sanskrit goes to Jewish school,” Mom says.
“The religion of your birth,” the guru says to Mom.
“You remember,” Mom says.
“I remember everything from our chats,” the guru says.
Mom giggles and puts her hand on the guru’s forearm. The fake chicken churns in my stomach.
“How do you feel about being Jewish?” the guru asks me.
“I love it,” I say.
“He does not love it,” Mom says.
“Sure I do. We invented the bagel. How can you not love that?”
“I wish you would tell the truth,” Mom says.
Her hand is still on the guru’s arm. I stare at it.
I look at Mom—her makeup, the way she’s taken her hair down into two loose pigtails, the white dress with blue stitching that she never wears.
“I wish you would tell the truth, too,” I say.
“What are you talking about?” Mom says.
“You planned this. This whole coincidence. It’s not a coincidence at all.”
“That’s not true,” Mom says.
“It’s more than true,” I say. “And I’m sick of pretending it’s not.”
I pull at my button-down shirt. A minute ago it felt good on me, but now it feels scratchy, foreign.
“Don’t lie to him,” the guru says.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Mom says.
“Don’t lie to me, Mom,” I say.
Mom gives the guru an angry look. The same kind she used to give Dad.
“Fine. You want the truth?” Mom says. “I wanted you two to have a chance to get to know each other, so you would like each other.”
“Why do we need to like each other?” I say.
Mom and the guru share a look. Mom nods to him.
“Your mother and I started a relationship as friends—” the guru says.
“I don’t want to hear this,” I say.
“—but something has happened between us,” he says. “Something beautiful.”
Mom’s hand slides down his forearm to his fingers. They intertwine.