You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone
“It’s funny,” I say, dipping a toe into the seemingly calm waters between us, “we’re both dating people for the first time.”
“What?” Adina sounds startled.
“What you said at the Mizrahis’. You’re dating someone, but it’s not official or anything? I won’t tell Ima and Aba, if you’re worried about them making a big deal about it or something.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Was it . . . Connor?”
“Who?”
“He’s in your orchestra class.”
“Oh. The bassist. We’ve exchanged maybe five sentences ever.”
“He asked me about you.”
“He did? When?”
“A while ago. I guess I forgot.”
“He’s pretty forgettable. Why would he ask you about me?”
“I don’t know, Adina. I told him I didn’t think you were seeing anyone.”
“Well. I am. And it’s definitely not him.” She opens her underwear drawer and carefully zips a few lacy underwire bras into a lingerie bag. My bras look like I’m going to the gym. I need new bras.
“Kind of fancy for an audition trip.”
“I like to look good.”
“Who’s going to be seeing your bra?”
Her eyes knife into slits. “Maybe I’m wearing them for myself, not for anyone else. Kind of antifeminist for you to think I could only wear a sexy bra for a guy.”
I clench my teeth. “You’re right. Pack all the sexy underwear you want.” I go back to my original line of questioning. “Can you at least tell me what your boyfriend is like?” Has he seen you in those bras? “Is he Jewish?” If I sound desperate, it’s because I am. I ache to talk to someone about the things I can’t—and don’t want to—share with Lindsay.
“No. He’s not Jewish.” She sighs contentedly, and for a second I think she’ll actually spill some details. “He’s . . . different.”
Different. Okay. I push out a breath. Maybe I was wrong to think she’d confide in me. Maybe nothing should surprise me about Adina at this point. Someone could tell me she spends her spare time reading to the elderly and my response, probably, would be, “Sure, that sounds like something she’d do, I guess,” if only because nothing sounds like something she’d do anymore.
“Different how?” I chance.
She slams a dresser drawer shut. Edges me toward the door. “I don’t ask you about your boyfriend, okay?”
“No, you just embarrass me in front of him.” The words slip out, and I grit my teeth hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, whoever he is, he’s your first boyfriend. I guess I thought we’d talk about those things.”
Adina laughs hard. Cruel. Before she shuts the door in my face, she says, “He’s not my first.”
Twenty-five
Adina
MY LAST STOP IS BALTIMORE. The ride from Manhattan is six hours long, a
nd the steady, rhythmic click of the train on the track nearly lulls me to sleep.
I have not spent much alone time with my father . . . well, ever. Most of our conversations this trip have been stilted, staccato. It irks me to see him praying over his food in public. How can you still do that? I want to ask.