“College is not equivalent to a human life.”
“Brandeis is.”
“Very funny.”
“So you want me to tell the professors the truth? What about Yitzhak?”
Yitzhak was a visiting Israeli student who broke the Code of Conduct last year. He got expelled for plagiarism.
“They sent him all the way back to Tel Aviv,” I say.
“Actions have consequences,” Herschel says. “I know better than most.”
“Please. When have you ever been in trouble?”
Herschel clears his throat. “Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you. And ethics.”
I groan. Where is the old Herschel who used to give advice? That’s what friends do for other friends. They tell you what you should do when you’re in a bind and can’t decide for yourself. But Herschel has become some sort of sage who speaks in abstractions and biblical verses. It’s frustrating.
“It’s late now,” Herschel says. “Sleep on it, pray on it, and you’ll know the right answer in the morning.”
Thanks for nothing, I think.
But I don’t say it. I express my gratitude, hang up, and turn off the phone.
Pray on it.
What does that really mean? I can say the Hebrew prayers they teach me in school, but they have no meaning to me. I can use the English translations, but those just sound like gibberish. They all begin the same way:
Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe…
I sit on my bed. I think about all the different prayers I know.
Dr. Prem, the chiropractor that Mom sends me to, calls out to the Divine.
“Repeat after me,” he says. “I am willing, ready, and able to experience the Divine.”
But I’m not willing, ready, and able.
Mom tells me to access the Great Spirit.
None of those works for me.
I should be praying to HaShem. That’s what they teach us.
I try it in my own words. I say, “I’m sorry, HaShem, for lying about Mom—”
I can’t even finish the prayer. I feel like an idiot, alone and talking to myself in an empty room.
Is this what prayer is supposed to feel like?
Instead of praying, I get practical. I need to buy myself some time. But how?
Mom’s phone.
I open my door and slip into the hallway.
Mom and Sweet Caroline are in bed.
I make my way to the kitchen.
I navigate by moonlight shining through the kitchen window. I can see the black square of Mom’s phone still on the kitchen table where she tossed it. She often leaves it on the table and forgets to plug it in. Then she’s baffled when it’s not charged the next day. Usually I plug it in for her, but that has the unintended effect of making her believe there are power fairies who keep her battery at 100 percent.
I pick up the phone, slip it into my pocket—
“What are you doing?” Sweet Caroline says.
She’s standing in the kitchen doorway. I swear, the girl has elephant ears.
“Nothing,” I whisper.
“You’re taking Mom’s phone.”
“I’m plugging it in for her.”
“The plug is on the counter. You’re putting it in your pocket.”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“He’s not our Lord.”
“He’s someone’s Lord. You could have a little respect for that.”
“Not now, Caroline.”
She sucks in a quick breath. Her cheeks puff out, and she picks at the corner of her lip.
“Don’t pick,” I say. She picks until she bleeds. It’s as gross as it sounds.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” she says. She pulls on her lip even harder.
“Sweet Caroline,” I say quickly. “Very sweet.”
She relaxes a little and comes into the kitchen.
“Why are you stealing Mom’s phone?”
“I’m prepping it for her. For the morning. She asked me to.”
“So I can tell her you’re doing it?”
“Tell her whatever you want,” I say.
“I will. First thing in the morning.”
She starts to leave.
“Wait—”
“What?”
“I’m stealing Mom’s phone,” I say.
“Why?”
“I’m in trouble.”
That perks her up. Sweet Caroline loves trouble. Especially other people’s.
“What kind of trouble?” she says.
“The kind that gets you thrown out of school.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“Why not?”
“You hate school.”
“I can’t get expelled. I have to do college applications in a few months. How can I explain something like that?”
“You can always do a year in Israel. They’ll take anyone.”
“Very funny,” I say.
Sweet Caroline hops onto a chair at the kitchen counter.
“So, what happened?” she says.
“It’s a secret.”
“I love secrets.”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not,” she says. “But how can I keep a secret if I don’t know what the secret is?”
Before I open my mouth, I know it’s a mistake.
It’s always a mistake to tell secrets to Sweet Caroline. It’s like the Miranda warnings. Anything you say may be used against you. Only in Sweet Caroline’s case, it will be used against you. But how can I keep this secret without her help?
I know I shouldn’t say anything.
But I do.
“You’re in trouble, Sanskrit.”
I open my eyes. Mom is standing outside my room with my door cracked open. We don’t open each other’s doors in our house without permission. It’s part of Mom’s respect-the-individual policy.
I sit up, panicked.
“What kind of trouble?” I say. I’m imagining all manner of terrible things. Sweet Caroline ratted me out. Professors from school came to the door.
“You’re late for school,” Mom says through the tiny crack.
Most mothers wake you up before you’re late for school. At least this is what I’ve been told.
“You overslept,” Mom says. “Sorry.”
The clock says 8:15. I sit up in bed.
“Will you drive us?” I say.
“Sweet Caroline already left. You know how she is.”
Right. Sweet Caroline sets two alarms, then wakes up before both of them. It’s the definition of anal adolescence.
“She didn’t bother to wake us up?” I say.
Mom shrugs. Sweet Caroline’s still a perfect little girl in her eyes. A perfect little girl who goes to a psychologist. But we’re not supposed to talk about that.
“Of course I’ll drive you. Just let me hop in the shower.”
Mom closes my door.
That’s when it hits me. Mom can’t drive me because the school thinks she was in a car accident. If we pull up smiling and waving, it’s going to be a disaster.
“Mom!” I shout.
I jump out of bed. The air is cool on my bare legs. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I see a scrawny kid, a miniature version of Dad. I think of Dad crammed into his home workshop surrounded by clutter. The last time he had a date was the middle of the last decade. That does not bode well for my future.
“Mom!”
I hear the shower running in the bathroom down the hall.
I rush back into my room and slide on yesterday’s jeans. Choosing clothes is hard enough on a good day. On a bad day it’s better to just sniff yesterday’s pants and put them back on. Fewer decisions. Less room for error.
The pocket is heavy. I reach in and pull out Mom’s phone.
Last night comes rushing back to me.
I make sure Mom is still in the shower, and I turn on the phone. It takes a minute to warm up, and then the NEW VOICE MAIL window starts to pop.