OyMG (11 page)

CHAPTER 21

The theater lobby had been turned into something out of a fairy tale. There were thousands of tiny white lights glittering from every direction. They draped the walls and fell in strands from the ceiling, like falling snow. The people wandering around were just as glittery as the lights—lots of women in sequins and men with shiny, bald heads.

I'd borrowed a designer black dress from Megan, one that cost more than I made in a year of babysitting. It gathered at the shoulders with thick straps, and then fell in a straight line to my ankle on one side and my knee on the other. The material was so soft and sheer I felt like I was wearing pajamas. I'd clipped back the hair on either side of my face to show off a pair of diamond studs I'd borrowed from Mom. The finishing touch was a pair of black heels that hurt my feet but made my legs look hot, according to Megan.

Megan wore black silk pants and a long red cami with fake fur around the neck and lace around the hem. She'd timed her visit to the orthodontist so she could get red bands to match her outfit.

Her parents had gone off to schmooze, and we'd found a semiquiet corner of the lobby to people-watch. I hadn't seen Devon and his family yet. I wasn't sure I wanted to. I still felt edgy and nervous after this afternoon, and I could tell Megan was worried about me. She kept shooting me looks and picking at the red skeleton charm on her bracelet.

“I'm not going to make a scene and embarrass you, if that's what you're worried about,” I finally said.

“As if you could embarrass
me
.” She twirled around the skeleton head. It had an evil grin outlined in rhinestones that twinkled every time it caught the light. “I'm just worried about you.”

“I should have said something.”

“Like what?” Megan asked. We'd been through this once, after camp, but we'd only had a few minutes until my dad showed. Then Megan had to go get her nails done with her mom, and there hadn't been any time to talk.

“I should have asked her what she meant.”

“And admit you were eavesdropping? Nice way to start an interview.”

“I couldn't concentrate the whole time. I don't even know what I said.”

“But she was nice, right?”

I nodded. “She worried I was feeling sick, so she did most of the talking.”

“See? That's nice.”

“Yeah, but what she said on the phone wasn't nice.”

“Which is why you and Devon need to have a serious heart-to-heart.” She jabbed the air with a French-manicured nail tipped in scarlet red. “Just not tonight.” She breathed in through her nose, like she was sniffing a batch of cookies. “Smell the air.”

I sniffed. “It smells like air.”

“It does not,” she retorted. “It smells like a garden. You know the theme for tonight? ‘Love is in the Air.' How's that for a romantic setting?”

“Megan—”

“Seriously,” she interrupted. “You like this guy. I know you do. And he likes you. And here you are, in this amazing place, and music is playing, and you look totally hot. How can you let his grandmother wreck that? This is your chance.”

“For what?”

“For romance. For love. For planting one right on his lips.”

“I don't want to plant one,” I said.

“Liar.”

I sighed. I
was
lying. That was the worst part of it. “Why did she have to say those things?”

“People say stupid stuff all the time. I never told you this before, but my great-aunt Hilda used to say, ‘If you want a good deal, you've got to Jew them down.' ”

“That's gross, Megan.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I'd tell her so, but she's dead now.” She reached across me to a waiter with a tray of drinks. She grabbed two martini-style glasses and handed one to me.

Tiny bubbles rose to the top of the creamy drink. “What is it?”

“Peach juice with a splash of ginger ale.”

I took a taste. The bubbles tickled my nose. It tasted like peach nectar from a can.

“Seriously,” she continued. “Most of the time old people don't even realize they're saying something bad.”

“Mrs. Yeats is not an idiot. She manages millions of dollars.”

“That's not what I mean.” She waved her drink at me, sloshing a little over the side. “It's like your saying you crossed your legs Indian-style.”

“That's not meant to be an insult.”

“Maybe it would be if you were Native American.”

I rolled my eyes.

She rolled hers back. “Come on, Ellie. You've done it, too. Called someone an Indian giver. Or said you were gypped—how do you think Gypsies feel about that?”

“What about her saying ‘those people'?”

“I know it sounds bad, but it could mean a million different things.”

My fingers tightened around the smooth stem. “It was the way she said it. It was such a put down. And I just sat there through the whole interview. I never said anything.”

“You're trying to impress Mrs. Yeats, not give her a lesson in political correctness.”

“Devon told me it was no big deal. He said it was because of his dad being religious. Now what am I supposed to think?” My stomach started churning the way it had this afternoon. Acid burned halfway up my throat. I felt sick. Sick and mad. “Devon should have said something. It's
his
grandmother. Then she could have apologized, and I wouldn't have to feel like this.”

“Feel like what?”

I turned at the sound of his voice. He'd come up right behind me. He wore a dark suit and a light blue shirt. His eyes seemed to reflect back every light in the place.

“You look great,” he said.

If only you didn't look so great
. “Thanks.” I kept my hands tight around the glass. I wasn't sure what I'd do if they were free—slug him or hug him.

“Hey, Megan.”

“Hey.” She flashed her red bands at him. “So, uh, I should go check in with my mom and dad.” She squeezed my arm. “I'll come find you later.”

I nodded and watched until her red shirt disappeared in the crowd.

Devon slid a step closer. His teeth gleamed white against his tanned skin as he smiled. “How you doing?”

“Fine.” I tilted back the glass and finished my drink.

“How's the drink?”

“Fine.”

He rocked back on his heels, and I could see him trying to figure out what was going on. “You mad about something?”

“What do you think?” I countered, glaring straight into his eyes.

He ran a hand through his hair, spiking up the edges. He tilted his head toward the door. “Let's go outside.”

“Maybe I don't want to go outside.”

“Okay.” He crossed his arms, his eyes challenging. “Let's fight in here.”

“No.” I set my glass on a glittered tray. “Let's go outside.”

“Great idea,” he said sarcastically.

I pushed toward the lobby doors. The room had gotten really crowded in the last few minutes and it took about fifty “excuse me”s before I finally made it outside.

The moon hung low, a yellowish crescent in a blue black sky. The air was warm, but there was a tiny breeze that felt good on the bare skin of my arms. More people were standing around sipping drinks. I walked down some steps to a big round fountain circled by a wide cement bench.

I sat down. Then he sat down, leaving plenty of space between us.

The silence stretched out for a long minute.

“You going to tell me what's going on?” he finally asked. “Did something happen during the interview?”

“Yeah, something happened,” I said, swiveling to face him. “And you were standing there with me. She said a totally crappy thing and you knew it. I could see it in your eyes.” I searched his face. “Why didn't you say something?”

“Say what?” His eyes held mine as frustration rippled through his voice. “Was I supposed to tell her you're Jewish? You already told her you're Christian.”

“I only said that because you told me it was no big deal.”

“It doesn't have to be,” he said.

“She was slamming Jewish people, Devon, and I'm Jewish.”

“Half Jewish.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I said with a gasp. “I should only be half offended?”

His tanned throat worked above the pale collar of his shirt. “What do you want me to say?”

That was easy. I wanted him to say religion didn't matter. I even opened my mouth, but I couldn't make the words come out. After today, I knew religion did matter. What scared me was wondering how much.

I dipped my hand in the shallow pool of the fountain, skimming my fingers over the water. Tiny ripples spread in semicircles, chasing each other to the edge of the pool. “I know people say stuff like that without thinking, but it was the way she said it.” I glanced up, wanting to catch his eyes, but he looked away.

I flicked my fingers at the water, widening the circle of ripples—making waves where there had been none. Was that what I was doing with Devon? I took a shaky breath. “I need to know, Devon. I need to understand what's going on with your grandmother.”

He glanced back toward the theater. There was one other couple still on the patio with us, the man taking a last puff on his cigarette. Everyone else had gone inside. “I think the play is starting,” he said.

I didn't move.

He sighed and turned back, his face in profile as he spoke to the night. “Look, I don't know what to tell you. We've never really talked about it. It's not the kind of thing that comes up at the dinner table. But she's made comments about Jewish people before … about business stuff mostly.”

“So it's just business?” I asked hopefully.

He paused as if he wasn't sure what to say, or maybe he didn't want to say anything. But then he shrugged. “It's not just that. She gets an expression on her face. I can't describe it, but it's like she's pissed about something.”

“What?”

“I don't know,” he repeated. “I figured it was something bad that happened once with my grandfather's business.”

“And now she hates Jews?”

“No. It's not like that.” He shifted a little closer. “It's nothing against you personally.”

A car's horn honked in the distance. Across the street, jazz played on the outdoor speakers of a pizza place.

“Maybe I should talk to her, explain things,” I said. “I know she likes me. Maybe if I tell her I'm Jewish, she'll understand.”

He shook his head. “It wouldn't do any good. She's not going to award the scholarship to a Jew. It's just the way she is.”

“My grandpa would say good riddance, then.”

“What would you say?”

I stared into the dark blue of the fountain, twirling a new pattern with my fingers. “I don't know.” I could hear the confusion in my own voice. “I don't want to lose my chance for the scholarship, but then I think of him shaking his finger and telling me to spit in her eye.” I sighed. “I guess it sounds lame, caring what my grandpa thinks. I get mad sometimes because he's so bossy and opinionated, but I don't want to disappoint him, either. It's hard to explain.”

“You kidding? You don't have to explain it to me—I've got it times two.”

I pushed back a piece of hair the breeze had worked loose. “What do you mean?”

“My mom and my grandmother both have this plan for me. Basically, I follow in my dad's footsteps, whether I want to or not.” His lips twisted into a sad smile. “Even oratory—it's my event because it was my dad's event.”

“But you're so good at it.”

“I don't hate it, but it wouldn't be my first choice.”

“What would be?”

He flicked his fingers through the fountain. A waterfall of drops spattered the cement, then evaporated in the heat. “Last year, my high school had a radio station. Nothing big. I think the signal reached all of five miles. Mostly, it was for school announcements. But a few of us put together a radio show for Saturday nights. We did whatever we wanted. One night, we'd rant on the lame blogs we found; the next night, we'd do a show on a kid who got jumped for being poor. It was cool.” He caught my eyes and smiled. “Like oratory, without having to write a paper or quote sources.”

“You know, radio is an event at a lot of speech tournaments.”

“It's not an option for me. My grandmother doesn't think it's a serious event.”

“But if you love to do it …” I let my words trail off. “What about your mom?”

“She likes my doing oratory.” He stretched out his legs. “It was really hard when my dad died. It took a long time for my mom to be okay again. This thing with oratory … it's hard to explain. But it's like I'm becoming him all over again. She's really happy about it, and I don't want to mess that up.”

“But it's not what you want.”

“It's just how it is.”

“What if you said something?” I asked.

“I've tried. It doesn't do any good. It's like swimming against the tide. Wears you down.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, loosening the tight muscles. “We're supposed to be looking ahead, you know? We're the next generation, the future. But it's like our parents and grandparents want us to live in the past. My grandpa and I argue about it all the time.”

“Who wins?”

I smiled. “No one wins against my grandpa. Besides the fact that he's crazy, he brings up the Holocaust. How can you argue against that? My grandmother had relatives who died in concentration camps. It always comes back to the past.”

“Maybe that's what happens when you get older.”

“So what do you do,” I asked, “when you want to live for the future?”

His eyes were smoky blue in the dark. “You do what you're doing. You go after what you want.”