Like No Other (16 page)

“Maybe it was for you, Devorah,” he kept suggesting, repeating it a couple of times throughout the meal until I finally had to dignify it with a response.

“That’s impossible,” I said coldly. “I’ve never flown a kite.”

“Some things you can’t explain,” my mother said, sighing, with a shrug. By the time dessert was finished, everyone seemed to have forgotten about it. Except, of course, for me.

Now I’m in my room, in pajamas, under the covers, with the sheet rolled up tight under my neck, the way I used to insist my mother tuck me in when I was young because I believed that bogeymen couldn’t get me as long as I was hidden. The phone is under my pillow, a hard little knot under the back of my skull. I know it’s just a dinky piece of plastic, but it feels much more thrilling, and dangerous.

I wish I could talk to Rose or my mother about what’s going on. Growing up, I was taught that it was a blessing not to have to worry about dating and romantic love. I felt grateful to be able to focus on my studies, and to give all my love to my family, thanking G-d that He in all His infinite wisdom took away the choices that kept so many other women across the world preoccupied and distracted from the divine: how to dress to attract a man, how to keep his interest, how to make him commit. I always assumed, just like Jacob said, that I wouldn’t experience love or romance until I was introduced to my husband, and this gave me a great sense of peace. I truly believed that freedom of choice was a burden, and that girls who wasted their thoughts on dating were pathetic.

But the deeper I get into whatever this is with Jaxon, the more I question all of that. I can still understand why Hasidic kids are never taught about love, or sex—according to the Torah, those things just aren’t allowed to happen—but we’re human beings with human hearts; surely
someone
must have realized that it wouldn’t always be possible to control romantic love. Or maybe Jacob’s right and there is something really wrong with me to even be having thoughts like these. Maybe my entire
frum
self-image has been a lie, and I’ve actually always been
frei
without even knowing it. Either way, having no one to turn to for advice is terrifying.

Ever since our heart-to-heart on the night Liya was born, Rose has closed up again, a wifely watercolor of her former self. And my mom—well, I’m not sure how she would react. I know she wouldn’t approve, but she might listen, at least. After all, she knows better than anyone what it’s like to have an “other” in her life. Her own mother came late to the faith, a blonde, blue-eyed
ba’al t’shuvah
, and had to be accepted by a family who didn’t fully trust her at first. Or so I assume; Mom and Zeidy never talk about Grandma that way. I once heard Rabbi Perl, from our synagogue, say that it’s a serious offense to remind a repentant sinner of his or her “evil deeds,” and I guess the “evil” of not being observant until she was eighteen years old extends to her family, too. It’s just not spoken about. All my mom has ever said on the subject is “What’s past is past.”

I roll onto my side, keeping the covers pulled tight around my shoulders. I often wish Grandma Deborah were still here, but never more than I do right now. She could tell me exactly what she went through. She could tell me what it was like on the other side. She could tell me if it was worth it.

All of a sudden, the phone buzzes alive under my pillowcase, sending vibrations through my jaw and into my teeth as a little chime rings out like a doorbell. I sit up straight and clamp my hands over my pillow, trying to smother technology into submission. Since it’s after sundown, I’m not supposed to use any electricity, and even though the phone isn’t plugged in (I’ll have to remember to poke around in the grass tomorrow for a charger), it definitely 100 percent counts.

Turn off the phone and call him tomorrow night
, my somewhat still-intact conscience echoes.
It can wait.

But can it? If I don’t respond to Jax tonight, will he come back tomorrow with an even bigger, bolder declaration of his feelings for me? I can’t risk that, even if it means breaking Shabbos rules.

And it’s just a drop in the bucket now, isn’t it?
(My conscience is starting to get bitchy.)

I cautiously slide the phone out from its hiding place and kick off my covers, lowering myself down to the carpet on the side of my bed farthest from the door. It figures that I have to make myself vulnerable to my imagined bogeyman if I want to communicate with Jaxon. No risk, no reward. I hold my breath and look down at the screen.

Did u find it?

I squint through the darkness and struggle to type a reply. I’ve used a cell phone before, but I’m not adept at texting, and I keep forgetting that I have to hit keys multiple times to find the right letter. After a few minutes of gibberish attempts, I manage to put together a semicoherent, vaguely punctuated thought:

Yes but amos almost found it first. could have been bad, You are crazy!!

Less than ten seconds go by, and the chime rings again, amplified now that there’s no pillow to muffle the sound, and thanks to Shabbos all the appliances in the house are silent.

Crazy about u :)

How do I turn off sound?
I type frantically, panic tamping down the bloom of euphoria.

Another chime. SHIT. I grab the pillow from the bed and stuff it into my lap, perking my ears up and listening for motion outside my room. After a minute or so, when it feels safe again, I look at the screen.

Should b a volume button on the left side

I find it and click it down to the lowest setting. It’s not muted, but it’s quieter. It’s something.

Thanks for the kite
, I type
. Now stay away from my house :)

Sorry
, he replies immediately.
Won’t need to again now that we can talk.

I smile giddily into the faint green glow, but I know I need to wrap it up.
Can’t talk now
,
I write.
Shabbos. No phones :( Text tomorrow after sundown?

Wait
, he shoots back. And he means it. I sit still with the bed frame poking into my spine for what feels like ages before the phone buzzes again in my fist.

Can u get away tmrw?
Jaxon has written. And then:
I can take you on special shabbos date, no electricity.

I drop the phone into my lap and lean back, letting my head fall against the mattress with a satisfying
thunk
. Poor Jax. He doesn’t realize that even if we spent the whole day praying in a pitch-black synagogue together, we would still be desecrating Shabbos just by virtue of the fact that we’re together. Of course, the bitter irony is that Saturday is by
far
the easiest day of the week for me to sneak out for a real date with him; the men are at synagogue, and the women are resting and relaxing, visiting friends . . . not really doing much or going anywhere more than a few blocks from home, since driving a car is forbidden. I could say I was hanging out with Shosh or anyone else from school. And almost everyone takes a long nap after the midday Shabbos meal. No one would be looking for me or expecting me to show up anyplace before dinner, and the chances of running into anyone from my family would be virtually nonexistent.

The cell buzzes against my inner thigh, and I blush even though I know no one else—not even Jax—knows about this accidental thrill. I bite my lip, feeling guilty, yes, but also magnificently unbidden. I’ve lived my whole life according to a strict set of rules, yet here I am breaking one after another. And lo and behold, the sky is not falling; no one is coming to drag me away to some sinners’ prison, even after I’ve had kisses that turned my entire body into a wildfire. I sit up straight, feeling a little woozy.

Pls say yes
, the screen pleads.

Yes
, I type, before I can talk myself out of it. I know I’ve crossed a line, for better or worse, that there’s no turning back from. And despite the pull of my conscience, I’m not all that sorry. Because following rules never felt this intoxicating.

J
axon

S
EPTEMBER
13, 10:30
AM

S
o thanks to Wikipedia I’m basically a Shabbat Jedi now. And thank God for the Internet, because when I told Devorah last night I would take her on a Shabbat (or “Shabbos,” but that’s the Yiddish, so as a “goy” I think I should stick with the normal spelling) date, I had no idea how crazy the rules were. There are
thirty-nine
major no-gos, and while some of them, like slaughtering or plowing (get your mind out of the gutter, they’re talking soil), seem easily avoidable, others (like, um, “carrying”) are trickier.
I
don’t have to abide by the rules of Shabbat, but she does, and planning a date that is both awesomely romantic
and
doesn’t require Devorah to carry anything, take any form of public transportation, or use any kind of electricity is a little more challenging than I was anticipating. I had wanted to pick her up on my bike and take her someplace special, but the message boards I found are pretty divided when it comes to whether bike riding violates the “no plowing” rule, since theoretically you could turn over dirt if you rode through a patch of grass.

I’m probably getting a little carried away (I might have even stayed up until three
AM
planning), but I need this to be perfect. The last time Devorah and I were alone together was five days ago, and with everything we have to deal with, it could be another whole week before we get our next chance. Each of our dates has to be like a dozen normal dates, to tide us over during the fast. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.

Luckily I’m off the hook in terms of coming up with an alibi for today. After a week or so of post-storm cooling, summer is back with a vengeance, and it’s supposed to hit ninety-five this afternoon, so Mom took the girls out to Rockaway Beach on the A train. I was invited, but I said I had too much homework, which is never an excuse she’ll argue with. And Dad still has repair work from the hurricane keeping him busy; he’ll be fixing a broken skylight on a Park Slope townhouse all day.

I know I’m gonna be dripping with sweat by the time I get to our rendezvous point, but I still take an extra-long shower, double up on deodorant, and run my electric shaver over my chin and upper lip. I’m on my way out the door, grabbing my Mets cap and some five-dollar wraparound shades for stealth purposes, when I hear the unmistakable weary stomp of my dad’s size-eleven Timberland work boots in the stairwell.

“Hey, J,” he says as I open the door, awkwardly cradling my backpack full of damning, unexplainable items. He frowns, confused. “I thought you were studying today.”

“Yeah, I am . . . I just thought I’d go to the library for a while. Fewer distractions.” I swing my bag onto one shoulder and give my dad my best
what can you do?
smirk.

“Oh, sure,” he says, patting my back as he steps past me into the cool AC. “Good idea.” He bends down and shuffles through a pile of tools stacked haphazardly on the entryway table we use for mail, finally pocketing a paint-encrusted slide rule. Then he walks to the kitchen, and I hear the hiss of tap water. When he comes back his face is dripping wet, but he’s smiling. “Hey, want a ride?” he asks. “It’s hot as Hades out there.”

“Thanks,” I hedge, “but I don’t want you to go out of the way.”

“It’s on my way,” he says, wiping droplets from his neck with a yellowed handkerchief. “I gotta drive down Prospect Park West anyhow.”

It’s not on
my
way, though. And I’m meeting Devorah in half an hour, so I can’t afford to lose the time.

“Nah,” I say, trying to sound disappointed. “I shouldn’t. I have a Spanish lesson on mp3 that I was gonna listen to on my walk. Kill two birds, or whatever.”

He laughs, revealing a mile-wide row of big white teeth and red gums. “Man, I wish I had your discipline,” he says. “Probably would have got me farther than this.” He gestures down to his dirty T-shirt and cargo pants, a tool belt slung low on his hips. “You know, your grandmama used to say to me, ‘Goats don’t make sheep.’ Meaning children always turn out like their parents. But not you, Jax.” His dark eyes turn serious, his smile a little sad now. “You’re so much better than I could ever be.”

“Dad—” I protest. I’m half embarrassed by the earnest compliment, half horribly guilty that it’s based on a lie. The only thing worse than betraying trusting parents is having them reward you for it.

“Don’t be modest,” he says. “I’m proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself.” He claps me on the back with another laugh. “Now get on,” he calls, as I start out the door. “Go hit those books.” I take the stairs two at a time and break into a run on the street, even though the thick, hot air makes me feel like I’m moving through stew. I just want to get around the corner before my father comes back out to his truck. I can’t look him in the face again, or else I might not be able to go through with it.

• • •

By the time I get to Wonder Wings, my T-shirt is damp to the touch and stuck to my skin in places, but being the detail-oriented guy I am, I packed a fresh one in my bag. Now I just need to get inside without drawing attention to myself. Cora doesn’t open until noon on weekends, since even in the most desperate circumstances our hot wings don’t qualify as brunch, but she’ll be rolling up around eleven thirty, which means I have only twenty minutes or so to get in and out, provided Devorah shows up on time. I try to look confident and nonchalant as I pull my key ring out of my pocket and open the padlock at the bottom of the grate that pulls down over the storefront like big steel window blinds at night. I squat down and pull up on the grate to get it off the ground, and then transfer the weight from my biceps to my shoulders as I push it up, Superman style, above my head. I leave it at about six feet since I’m just going to drag it back down in a few minutes, and then let myself in through the glass front door, leaving the sign turned to
CLOSED
.

The bathroom is around back next to the kitchen, invisible from the street, so I don’t bother to close the door as I peel off my shirt and set my backpack down on the sink. I sift through all the clothes in my bag until I find my red T-shirt, the same one I was wearing when I first met Devorah in the elevator. I hold it up for a sniff test and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my bare chest glistening with sweat under the fluorescent lights. What would she think if she saw me like this? I think about seeing Devorah naked way more than I probably should, maybe because she’s always so covered up. And it’s not even the dirty parts, either, although those cross my mind more than she would like to know. But I also want to see those jet-black curls cascading over bare shoulders, the small of her back, her knees, her ankles. I wonder idly if she ever fantasizes about me that way, and my face starts to get hot in a way that has nothing to do with the weather.

“Oh!”

I hear her voice before I see her in the mirror, standing frozen in front of the grease trap, taking in the sight of me with a mix of shock and amusement. I snap out of my daze and pull the shirt over my head as quickly as possible.

“Hey,” I say, trying to regroup, my tongue suddenly feeling heavy, as useless as a mop in my mouth. “I was, um . . .” Devorah blushes and breaks eye contact, examining a poster one of the line cooks has taped up to his work station, which shows a busty model eating a chicken wing in a . . . suggestive fashion. I clear my throat. “You’re early.”

“Only by about sixty seconds.”

“Well.” I sigh, launching into a nervous comedy act, “Still, I’m sorry you had to see that. My striptease usually has better choreography.”

“No need to apologize,” she says. We stare awkwardly at each other for a minute. I’d wanted to hug and kiss her as soon as I saw her, but now that she’s just seen my nipples, that seems way too forward.

“I need to tell you something,” Devorah finally blurts out. “Jacob knows.”

“Oh no.” I sit down on the closed toilet lid, my heart in my stomach. “I’m so sorry. I should have known leaving the kite was way too obvious.”

“No, not because of that,” she says quickly. “He saw us, last week. On this block. He followed me.”

“What? That’s crazy!”

“I know,” she says. “He thinks he’s some kind of one-man morality police force.”

“What’s he gonna do?” My eyes drift up to the kitchen wall clock. It’s 11:21; we have to get moving.

Devorah shrugs, but her eyes are full of fear. “He says he won’t do anything, as long as I stop seeing you.”

“So I guess you’ve made up your mind.” I know it’s serious, but I can’t help but smile. Knowing Devorah risked getting in major trouble to come meet me solidifies what I’ve been hoping the past two weeks: that she’s falling in love with me, too. Why else would she put everything on the line like this?

“It’s not that simple,” she says. “But I can’t let him control me. I’m not going to give him that power.”

I stand up and make a move to hug her, but she holds out a hand like a stop sign. “We can’t,” she says with a nervous smile. “Shabbos rules, remember?”

“Damn,” I whisper, and she laughs.

“Speaking of which, where are we going?” She’s warming up now that she’s gotten the Jacob business off her chest, and bounces excitedly from foot to foot.

“Not far,” I say. “But just to be safe”—I hold out my backpack—“I brought you a change of clothes.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“I figured you might feel more comfortable undercover,” I say. “Especially now that I know you’re being tailed.” As soon as Edna and Ameerah left this morning, I raided their closet, taking all the hoodies, long dresses, and hats I could find.

Devorah starts to rifle through the backpack. “Don’t worry,” she says. “There’s no way Jacob followed me today. He’s in synagogue until at least noon. Plus, I had Hanna walk me over.” She holds up a floor-length teal cotton dress and a yellow-and-white striped sweatshirt with the word
PINK
scrawled across the back. “You’re a genius.” She grins.

“I try,” I say. “The only downside is, you’re gonna be sweltering.”

She laughs gamely. “What else is new?”

• • •

“Do I look okay?” she whispers, keeping her back to the street as I lock the grate back up a few minutes later. Cora will be showing up any second; we’re cutting it dangerously close.

I look my date up and down: The breezy summer dress reaches almost to the sidewalk, barely showing the soles of her black leather shoes. She’s got the hoodie zipped up tight, with the hood on and her hair tucked in. A pair of Ameerah’s enormous, bug-eyed black sunglasses covers about two-thirds of her face.

You look like the Unabomber went shopping at Victoria’s Secret
, I want to say. But I know that will make her feel even more nervous than she already is, so instead I say, “You look beautiful.” Which is also true.

I take her hand, and she reflexively stiffens, but I lean in and whisper, “The more natural you act, the less people will look.” I drape an arm around her shoulder and pull my Mets cap down so it’s shielding my eyes. “Just trust me. Talk normally; stay close to me. Pretend you don’t even see anyone else.” I look around; the restaurant’s corner doesn’t usually get a big Hasidic crowd since it’s on the Caribbean fringe, but until we get across Eastern Parkway, I won’t be able to relax, either.

“Just think,” I say under my breath, trying to distract her as we rush across the street to make the light, “someday soon we can go wherever we want without worrying about who sees us.”

“Promise?” she whispers.

“Promise.” I hope I’m telling the truth.

It’s hot and relatively early for a weekend, so there aren’t too many people milling around as we start down Nostrand, trying to adopt the unhurried, in-sync steps of a normal young couple in love. A couple of old dudes sitting in plastic lawn chairs outside of a pizza place look at us a little funny, but it’s probably because my costume-design efforts have turned Devorah from a pretty, unflashy Orthodox girl into what probably looks to a lot of people like a bougie, over-the-top Sikh.

“Want to know something funny?” she asks, loosening up as we near the big Dunkin Donuts near the intersection at Eastern Parkway. “I’ve never worn sunglasses before.”

“What?!”

She shrugs helplessly. “We just don’t wear them. I only see them at Purim.”

“That’s like Hasidic Halloween, right?” I ask.

“Sort of,” she says, laughing. “There are masquerade parties, but it has nothing to do with ghosts or pumpkins. It’s about a woman named Esther who saved the Jews.”

“So what do you go as? Let me guess: a Ghostbuster!”

Devorah looks at me blankly. Oh, right. The great pop culture divide.

“I usually go as Esther,” she says with a self-conscious smile.

“What does she look like?”

“Well, she’s a queen. So my mom sewed me a dress out of red velvet and gold brocade. But other than that I just look like me.”

Devorah stops at the corner and looks over at the flashing red hand at the other end of the crosswalk, totally unaware that she’s just summed up exactly what it is that makes me love her so much. Right now she’s dressed ridiculously, but that’s my doing; if left to her own devices, Devorah would never be anybody but herself. It would never even occur to her. Other people put on disguises every single day—brand-name clothes to make them seem cooler than they are, makeup to cover up their flaws, personas carefully cultivated to make them more popular—but Devorah never does. She is always, almost helplessly, genuine. And that is endearing as hell.

The light changes, and we start to walk across the street, when I hear a sharp male voice call out after us.

“Hey! You two! Hey, stop!”

It feels like every muscle in my body clenches at once. Devorah grabs my elbow and digs her nails in.

“What do we do?” she whispers. The crosswalk light is already starting to flash, counting down from 25.
24, 23, 22 . . .
We could run. I think we can make it if we run. But—

20, 19 . . .