Like No Other (23 page)

“He’s not a
novelty
,” I snap, sorry that I even tried to explain. If Rose is too blind to see the truth of her own marriage, there’s no way she could ever understand the beauty of what I have with Jax.

“Dev, he’s not even Jewish,” Rose says gently. “You had to have known from the start that it was never going to work out.”

“But that’s what made it possible,” I say. “If he had been Hasidic he never would have spoken to me, and I never would have had the opportunity to talk to someone so different.”

“Different is overrated,” Rose says, sounding exactly like our mother.

“Really?” I ask. “You’ve never,
ever
even thought about anyone outside?”

“Not in that way, no.”

“And if you could choose from all the men in the world you would still pick Jacob as your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting back, giving up. “Then I’m glad you’re happy.”

We sit in silence for a moment as we pass through the thick block of tollbooths that lead out onto the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey.

“Why aren’t you happy?” Rose asks quietly.

“I’ve been trying to figure that out,” I say.

“You have so much to look forward to in life, Devorah,” she says, leaning back in her seat and lolling her head toward mine. “You’re beautiful, smart, and kind.” She pauses, and cocks an eyebrow. “
Most
of the time, anyway. Everyone adores you, and you make good grades on top of it. I don’t know why you think you have no options.”

“Because I don’t want to be a housewife,” I say.

“Then work,” she suggests. “You could get a job any number of places.”

“Sure, as a cashier. Not exactly my dream.”

“Well, you can help run your husband’s business, then,” she says brightly. “Look at Mama. The store would collapse without her.”

“She doesn’t like it, though.”

“How do you know? You can learn to like things; it’s not always right away.”

I think of my childhood distrust of the pale blobs of gefilte fish my mother would cook in a huge cast-iron pot for our Passover seders, and how now the cold, boiled white fish and matzo meal tastes like love incarnate. How high and scary the temple ceilings always seemed, until I noticed the stained-glass treasures hidden between the beams. The first time I saw Jaxon and how I hardly noticed he was even there.

“I guess I believe in the trust-your-gut method,” I say. “Like how you knew Liya was going to be a girl.”

Rose smiles faintly. “I know it sounds silly, but even with all of the exhaustion and hormonal changes, being a mother is the best job I can think of having,” she says. “Ever since Liya was born I feel spiritually fulfilled in this way that’s hard to describe. Like, I’m raising a person. I’m teaching someone how to be a decent human being. That’s my job.”

“Pretty impressive,” I say, without a trace of sarcasm.

“It’ll surprise you, Dev. You don’t think you’re ready, but then it happens, and you are.”

I shake my head. “I know I’m not ready. Not now and not anytime soon.”

“Well,” she says, “maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

Rose laughs and makes a motion like she wants to throttle me. “Since when do you question
everything
?” she groans.

I’ve been asking myself the same thing countless times over the past few weeks. What really caused this avalanche of an identity crisis? Was it as simple as meeting Jaxon in the elevator? Or has it been more insidious, something that took seed years ago and was just waiting for the right time to bloom?

“I don’t know,” I say as I gaze out at the lush, late-summer trees whizzing past us on the Palisades Parkway. I can only hope that wherever I’m headed, I’ll have time to figure it out.

J
axon

S
EPTEMBER
16, 7:30
AM

“U
p and at ’em, Cassius Clay,” my mother yells through the door, rapping on it with her knuckles. My eyes flutter open and I try to sit up, but my body screams in protest. My shoulder is stiff and throbbing, my legs seize when I try to move them, and my back feels like I slept on a bed made out of broken bowling balls. Last night filters down through my consciousness in flashes, pieces of a dream I can’t quite make sense of. My synapses have been firing for all of ten seconds and already I’m a physical and emotional wreck; I can’t
believe
my mom expects me to go to school today.

“I feel like crap,” I moan from my bed.

“That’s what happens when you try to live out
West Side Story
east of Flatbush,” mom quips. “Be downstairs in fifteen minutes, or you’ll be late for your first class.” A second later, my preset iPod alarm goes off, ironically set to play yet another Shirelles classic that fits in perfectly with today’s theme.

“Mama said there’ll be days like this, there’ll be days like this, Mama said . . .”

I drag myself out of bed and hobble to the bathroom, where my mother has left a bottle of ibuprofen and the tub of Vaseline on the lip of the sink along with a note that reads, “Apply on all cuts, DO NOT skimp!!” I manage to turn on the shower water with my left hand. It’s too hot, but I’m too sore to bend and adjust the cold-water knob once I’m in there, so instead I just grit my teeth and let the scalding water knead my muscles to ropy shreds, which hurts, but in a good way. I know the Marines have that hard-core mantra “Pain is weakness leaving the body,” and it’s never felt more true than right now. As the boiling water beats down on my back and the gathering steam heals my aching lungs, I start to feel stronger, braver, and clearer in purpose. I have to find Devorah and make sure she’s okay. And this time, I’m not going to try to smuggle her out under cover of darkness. I’m not going to hide behind sunglasses and a hat or stand under her window tying kites to trees to make visual metaphors that only she will understand. Nope, this time I’m going to stand up like a man and tell her I don’t care who knows I love her and that she shouldn’t care, either. We don’t have to hop a train to some upscale beach enclave to be free; freedom is a state of mind. (I read that last quote in my Intro Philosophy textbook, but I still think it applies.)

When I get downstairs after painstakingly pulling on some jeans and a striped polo shirt, my mother is waiting for me.

“Dad took the girls to school,” she says, setting out a plate of eggs that I immediately wolf down standing up, both because I’m in a hurry and because it hurts to sit down. “And I am personally escorting your butt to the subway this morning to make sure you get on it.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m going to school, Mom. You can relax.”

“Actually I can’t,” she says. “Not until you prove to me that I can trust you again.” She checks her watch and motions at me to speed up my chewing. “Also, every single day that you don’t have work—the work at which I will be checking in to make sure you show up,” she continues, “I expect you home at four
PM
on the nose, okay? And please believe that if you’re even ten seconds late I
will
be alerting the authorities.”

“Yes ma’am,” I say, taking a swig of orange juice and mentally calculating the fastest route to Devorah’s house from school. My last class gets out at 2:15, which should leave me just enough time to duck over there and see what’s going on before I’m due at Wonder Wings. Unless something happens, I’ll make it to work on time. And if something happens, well . . . I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.

• • •

My mother wasn’t kidding; she literally walked me all the way to the Kingston Avenue subway station, escorted me down the stairs, and waited on the platform with me until the train came. Normally she takes the C to work, but since she had already gone so far out of her way she got on the 3 with me and took it two stops to Franklin to switch to the 5. The train car was sardine-packed as usual when it arrived, and I nearly died when she elbowed her way in and cut a swath through the rush hour crowds with her purse, yelling, “My son is injured, give him room!” I kept my eyes down, but I noticed a lot of Chabad men file on after us. I hope Mom didn’t give them the stink-eye.

I relax a little once she’s off the train, and lean back against the door with my heavy backpack wedged between my feet. I should probably be doing the homework I’ve completely ignored since last Friday, but it’s next to impossible to get my mind turned to school. I promised my parents I’d bring my physical body into the building, but that’s about all I can guarantee, seeing as how that body is currently the flesh-and-bone equivalent of a pile of junkyard scraps. And seeing as how I have no idea what’s going on in any of my classes, I’ll just have to sit in the back today and count on my battle scars to get me a pass from being called on. So I close my eyes and focus on the one thing I’ve managed to study lately: her face, thick eyebrows setting off those striking eyes and dark lashes, freckle-spattered nose sliding seamlessly into those wide, creamy cheeks that look like cherry syrup poured over shaved ice when she blushes. Rosebud lips parted in a nerdy, adorably crooked smile. Wild, dark curls that smell like lavender honey.

But as the train hurtles through the darkness between Eastern Parkway and Grand Army Plaza, I all of a sudden get this prickly feeling like I’m being watched.

I open my eyes just enough so that I can see the grimy subway floor (but so my lids still look closed to other people) and try to pick up where the stalker vibe is coming from. After a few seconds I’m pretty sure it’s across the car to the right; in my peripheral vision I can see there’s a guy sitting by the door who’s holding a newspaper but not turning any pages. I know I’m probably being paranoid, and it’s some old dude who just fell asleep sitting up, but after yesterday I don’t feel that safe in a sea of black fedoras, even if we’re on a commuter train in broad daylight.

I open my eyes and lift my head in one swift motion, and sure enough, there is someone staring at me from across the car. His face is partially hidden by the paper he’s strategically raised for cover, but I don’t need to see his nose and mouth to recognize those dark, calculating eyes.

It’s Jacob.

The instant he sees me see him, he looks down, but for a split second his shoulders jerk in surprise, and I know I’ve got the upper hand now. He’s by himself, without his wannabe cop sidekicks to protect him. And I’m not about to start a brawl or anything, but I’ll be damned if I let that scrawny little narc off the train without telling me what he did with Devorah.

I lift my bag from the ground, trying to keep my facial muscles calm and steady even though deadlifting twenty-five pounds feels like being stretched on a medieval rack. I sling it over my left shoulder and then, turning the stare-down tables on him, start to snake my way through the car to where Jacob sits.

He folds his paper primly and stands up, even though we’re still in between stops so standing just makes everybody squish against one another even more and get annoyed because he’s blocking a perfectly good empty seat. Without looking back at me, Jacob starts to push his way toward the far end of the car, causing people to suck their teeth and mutter expletives in his wake. I, on the other hand, break out my best dimples and say, “Excuse me, so sorry,” as I nudge past the familiar early bird crowd of nurses, students, and Wall Streeters. Everyone winces when they see my face and lets me pass without comment. At least I’ve got pity on my side.

The train pulls into Grand Army Plaza, and a huge herd of Park Slope/Prospect Heights yuppies gets on board. I can still see Jacob’s hat bobbing slowly through the straphangers about fifteen feet away, but I’ll never get to him in a straight chase. So I make a split-second decision and squeeze out the middle doors, hit the platform running, and throw myself back in the doors at the end of the car just as they’re straining to shut against the crush of bodies. My legs kill me, but it’s worth it, because now I’m almost close enough to touch him.

“Hey,” I say, loud enough for him to hear me but hopefully not loud enough to command the attention of the entire train. “I just need to know she’s okay.” But Jacob just launches himself through a trio of nerdy Asian kids and slides open the exit between the cars, his black coat disappearing as the train rounds a corner and the silver door slams shut. At the next stop I hop cars again, but he’s gone, swallowed by the sea of sleepy travelers streaming in from Atlantic Avenue who force me back against the doors again, trapping me inside.

• • •

The school day passes by like I’m watching it in fast motion. Everyone, even people I don’t know, stops me to ask how I’m doing, and somehow I manage to convince the entire student body that I got jumped by a gang in Prospect Park (thanks for the inspiration, Mom!). Ryan loses his mind when I show up in our AP bio lab; he thought I was in the Hamptons. But then he acts really sympathetic about my shoulder, and I decide I’m not going to tell him I lost the keys to his parents’ place until I’ve healed more fully. I make a mental note to call the car service company when I get home, and see if our lead-footed driver still has my duffel.

Polly finds us during lunch in Fort Greene Park and plays nurse, bringing me some Ayurvedic ointment for my face. It’s weird how now that I don’t obsess about her anymore she’s suddenly interested in hanging out with me again, but I’m trying not to read too much into it. She tells me that J-Riv is spreading a rumor that
he’s
the one who jumped me, and we crack ourselves up planning a police report to call his bluff.

As the end of the day closes in, I think about asking Ryan to come back to Chabadland with me, but (A) I’m pretty sure he’d balk, and (B) just in case I actually get the chance to talk to Devorah I don’t want to do it in front of a wingman. Plus, after Jacob ran away from me this morning I’m actually feeling pretty badass. When I find myself alone in the third-floor boys’ bathroom between fifth and sixth periods, I even do a little Travis Bickle routine in the mirror. “How you like me now?” I whisper at my reflection, jutting out my gnarled chin. “I thought so.”

I leave my books at school, emptying my backpack into my locker before my last period, which is my weight-lifting gym elective, so I get an easy excuse note from the nurse and am breathing in the fresh air on DeKalb at 2:05, ahead of schedule. I won’t be able to do homework without the books, but the heavy bag would weigh me down, and now more than ever I have a need for speed.

Kingston Avenue is much more crowded than it was last Friday just before sundown, and in the bright glare of punishing three o’clock light I can see every Hasid as they react to me in their own personal way. Most flat-out ignore me, but some peer after me like I’m an animal on exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. (
Please don’t feed the black boy
, I think, punch-drunk from exhaustion.) A minority change course to avoid me, but from what I understand they’ve always been taught that strangers are bad news, so I try not to take it personally. The way I look right now I’d probably avoid me, too.

As I approach the intersection of Kingston and Crown, I feel a little hesitation creep in through the bravado that I’ve been wearing like a Halloween costume since this morning—
What if I can’t find her? What if she freaks when she sees me? What if she told her parents some cover story I know nothing about and am about to ruin? Why didn’t I just go home and write her a letter like a normal person, with my e-mail address and phone number, and let her reach out in her own time? Why am I acting like some action movie star and trying to be a hero when I’m so obviously not that guy?
—but I try to shake it off. If I give up now, I might never see her again. And I’m willing to risk one last humiliation, or even another beat-down, to keep that from happening.

I take a deep breath as I reach her house and climb the nine steps to the front door, which is inset into a little brick entryway that thankfully hides me from passersby. Alongside the mahogany door is a little gold rectangle engraved with Hebrew letters and a Star of David, set at an angle like an askew photograph; underneath it is a buzzer. I’ve been coaching myself up to this moment since I got off the train, and just like I planned, I reach out and press down on it before I can convince myself not to.

I shift my weight and listen for movement in the house, but apart from cars on Kingston and the far-off ambient noise of some construction crew drilling into the sidewalk, I can’t hear any. It’s only two thirty, so it’s conceivable that no one could be home yet, but didn’t Devorah say she had a grandfather living with her? Where would he have to go on a Tuesday afternoon? I ring the buzzer again, then a third time, and loiter for five minutes before I give up and turn back to the street. I know I could wait here, catch them coming home, but then I’m trespassing, setting myself up in case they panic and call the real cops. I wish there was a way I could confront them in public, someplace I’m legally allowed to be. And then I remember the store.

The door of Blum’s Quality Goods is propped open when I reach the corner, letting the perfect seventy-two-degree air drift in off the street into the neat, narrow aisles piled with boxes of note cards and plates wrapped in cellophane. There’s a standing fan oscillating lazily inside, ruffling the tattered trim of the fading striped awning, and as I step across the threshold a digital doorbell rings out. So much for stealth.

“One second!” a familiar female voice calls, and my heart leaps into my throat. There’s no one at the register, the store is empty, and by some stroke of amazing luck, Devorah is right here. I can’t help myself; I drop my bag in the doorway and run down the closest aisle, back toward the voice, and come face-to-face with a startled-looking Hanna. She’s bent over a box of blue streamers, her red hair falling in a limp curtain over one shoulder, and gasps when she sees me.