You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

“You’re not at lunch with Lindsay and Troy?” I ask.

“Nah.” He stares at the ground for a moment. “You know that whole B-average thing? I’m sort of working on that. Last week I had a bad test . . . or three.”

“Oh.” I chew the inside of my cheek, feeling guilty for assuming a B average was easy to maintain. In my AP classes, kids weep over Bs. I’d weep over a B too, but I’ve only ever gotten a B-plus in Introduction to Drawing, actually, which I took freshman year to fulfill an art elective. Somehow, the introduction was too advanced for me. Mrs. Willoughby insisted we were graded on effort and not talent, but still, it was clear my apple and orange baskets looked like cerebral hemispheres, not fruit.

He must sense the awkwardness because he changes the subject. “Happy New Year, by the way.” Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, is tomorrow. My family will spend hours at our synagogue, both morning and evening, to observe it.

“You too. Doing anything for it?”

One of Zack’s moms is Jewish, but his family is pretty secular, while I was raised Conservative Jewish. We have this running joke that he’ll never be as Jewish as I am. Obviously it isn’t an actual competition, and if it were, well, I’ve already won.

Conservative Judaism isn’t at all related to American political beliefs; “conservative” simply means we conserve Jewish tradition. We obey halacha, Jewish law, but we’re flexible enough to adapt as society progresses. “Tradition and change”—that’s the motto of the movement. My family and I keep kosher, observe Shabbat, pray multiple times daily, and attend synagogue weekly, though much of our spirituality takes place outside of that. We’re a people with a history, thousands of years of culture and traditions.

There’s this phrase “klal Yisrael,” which means “all of Israel,” that all Jews are connected. I’ll admit I’m drawn to Zack partially because he’s Jewish too, one of fewer than ten kids in my thousand-person school who are.

“I get presents. Does that count?”

“Barely.” Gift giving isn’t a typical part of Jewish holidays. Some families exchange gifts on Chanukah because of its proximity to Christmas, but we haven’t done that since Adina and I were kids.

“Then I’ll have to impress you with my Hebrew,” he says, and I lift my eyebrows, a challenge. He clears his throat. “L’shanah tovah . . . Tovah.”

“Kol hakavod,” I commend him. “And nice pronunciation.” I’m sweating in my coat, but I refuse to reveal Lindsay’s triple-XS shirt.

“L’shanah tovah” means “for a good year.” My name means “good” in Hebrew, hence the double Tovahs. Adina’s name means “delicate and refined,” because of course it does. My name’s definition is boring in comparison.

L’shanah tovah, Tovah. I like the way he said it. Maybe good isn’t so bad after all.

“You know, we’ve been doing this thing for a while,” Zack says. “This our-best-friends-are-dating-so-we-might-as-well-hang-out-with-each-other-too thing.”

“Yeah . . .” Though we don’t hang out just the two of us, not ever. “We have. It’s like we each got a bonus friend.”

“Bonus friend. I like that.” Zack’s fingers fidget with his plate. I’ve never seen him nervous, not even before a track meet. “I wanted to ask you something. Bonus friend to bonus friend. Do you . . . maybe want to see a movie sometime? With me?” When I don’t respond right away, he continues: “Or it doesn’t have to be a movie. Most movies these days aren’t that good anyway. It could be dinner. Somewhere kosher! Or we could go to a science museum—you’re into that kind of thing, right? Or an art museum if you wanna make fun of some famous masterpieces . . .” At last he trails off, ripping the plate crookedly in half.

My jacket is suffocating me, my temperature probably well over thirty-seven degrees Celsius. I can handle the joking around. I can pretend the elbow bumping happened by accident. But this is impossible to ignore. As much as I want to say yes, I can’t. What’s the best possible outcome here—we have a spectacular first date, and then he has to comfort me if/when my life falls apart at the end of the month? He plays the role of supportive boyfriend because he’d be an asshole not to? That isn’t how I want to begin my first relationship. If I’m ever going to be with Zack, I should be entirely unburdened.

“I, um.” Telling him about the test flashes across my mind for an instant. Then this would turn into a pity party, and I don’t want that. “I—can’t,” I say, because Ask me again in ten days would require more explanation than I’m capable of giving.

“Oh. That’s fine. Never mind, then. It was just an idea. Don’t worry about it.” He flicks his hair out of his eyes again and spins to head down the hall. “See ya.”

“See you,” I mumble.

Zack’s meaningless art stares down at me. He was wrong: it does mean something. It means that inside his mind is all this creativity and life and energy. All this color. It’s not mundane at all. It’s a reminder that today I got too close to him, and I won’t make that mistake again.

Five

Adina

TODAY ARJUN IS MUCH TOO far away, my mistake heavy between us. There’s too much space between our chairs. The legs are bolted to the floor and we are chained to the backs like prisoners.

“I think we should talk about what happened last week,” he says, more to my music stand than to me. His voice makes it clear we are not going to talk about how he’s fantasized about me every night since that afternoon.

I grip my bow too tightly. I’ve been dreading this lesson.

“I’d rather forget it,” I say. “Please. I shouldn’t have . . . whatever. I misinterpreted things. It was . . . a mistake.” My tongue trips over the lie. A mistake is accidental. This is not who I am; he has taken my confidence.

Arjun looks relieved. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back. I hope you know how much I enjoy working with you. Professionally.”

Professionally. The word has a hard edge to it, like it is trying to prove itself to me. I give him a professional nod in return.