Playing With Matches

playing

with

matches

Suri Rosen

ecw press

For the Wineberg sisters

Fay and Molly

chapter 1

Hope and Inspiration for the Single Soul

Here’s some advice if you plan on taking the Number 7 down Bathurst Street at 7:36 a.m. Do
not
sit downwind from the woman eating the industrial-grade tuna fish. And if The Groomer is on the bus, get ready to duck at the first sign of the nail clippers.

You really don’t want any more details. And neither did I. But by my third morning in Toronto, I could have taught a class in Number 7 Studies. Which is what happens when you vacuum-pack the population of Giants Stadium into a space the size of a hot tub. I grasped a slimy pole next to the bus driver (nametag: Ian), where the air was only slightly less gloopy. I was just learning about Ian’s path to driver-dom when he broke the unfortunate news.

“You’ll have to move to the back now.”

Ian was the closest thing that I had to a friend in Toronto.

O Leah, where art thou?

I glanced down at my cell phone but there was still no word from my sister. She was probably just boarding the bus in New York’s Port Authority with her wedding gown wrapped in layers of tissue paper and nestled safely in the garment box. I had sixteen hours until I could meet the gown in person.

I took a deep breath and squeezed myself through the maze of human heat machines to the rear of the bus. Craning my neck, I caught sight of the ginger-haired woman reading in a seat next to the sealed window. Two boys clinging to an overhead pole ogled her from above.

Her red hair was swept back in a half-bun today. Tiny ringlets spilled onto her shoulders. She wore a silky Marc Jacobs blouse that I recognized from Macy’s, a dark twill skirt that covered her knees, and pantyhose.

The elderly man sitting next to her struggled to his feet and pushed his way toward the exit. I squeezed past a child barking into a cell phone and plopped into the empty seat beside the woman.

Gingie-Locks’s eyes were trained on the book resting in her lap. I glanced over her shoulder and noticed the word “love” sprinkled across the page. The title was written in a tiny font at the top of the open book. I leaned over and pretended to adjust the bow on my right shoe so I could make out the name of the book.
Hope and Inspiration for the Single Soul.

I could use a little of that myself these days. I leaned back and peered past her, out the window
. How on earth was I going to survive this exile?

The bouncing rhythm of “Sweet Caroline”
hummed inside my handbag, offering a fleeting sense of the Red Sox. Unfortunately I wasn’t at Fenway Park in the middle of the eighth inning — I was on the Number 7 bus holding a new phone. And since only three people had the number and my parents had called last night, there was only one person left.

My aunt. Mira Bernstein.

“Are you at school yet?” she said. “I noticed you left a little later than I suggested.” Aunt Mira’s prying voice might as well have been piped in over the bus’s loudspeaker.

“I’m still on the bus,” I said in a whisper.

“Fine. I’ll call you later.” By later, of course, she meant within the next twenty minutes. At this rate, I had to assume I was going to wake up one morning and find a GPS tracker clamped to my leg. This was my life as a Prisoner of Bernstein. It was painfully obvious that this year was not going to be a piece of cake. And speaking of cake, I don’t mean to sound nasty but Aunt Mira’s food wasn’t exactly going to explode the ratings on RateMyMeatloaf.com, if you get what I’m saying.

If living with my mother’s alpha sister wasn’t bad enough, there was my sweet uncle Eli. Born and raised in Toronto, he had a tragic flaw. He was a Yankees fan. (Thank you Columbia Law School, class of ’83.) I’m sorry, I adore you, New York, but I was born in
Massachusetts
for crying out loud. Couldn’t he just root for something harmless like the Blue Jays?

I closed my eyes, but that only seemed to enhance the stink of body odour permeating the bus. It seemed so unfair that one un-showered person could hog all the clean air.

I dropped the phone back into my handbag. The only thing that was going to save me this year was my sister, Leah. Until November second she’d be all mine at Mira’s, and then?

The wedding!

It didn’t matter that I had been stuck in Hong Kong with Mom and Dad all summer while Leah was still in New York. Thanks to the internet, we swam the waters of bridal magazines, wedding gowns, and floral arrangements like pros — we were like the sockeye salmon of wedding planning. I hadn’t heard from her since she’d gone down to New York on Thursday and was dying for details. As for Ben, her groom-to-be, there was still time to get used to him, I guess.

With nothing else to do I peered down at
Hope and Inspiration for the Single Soul
. Gingie-Locks was completely engrossed in her book. I strained my neck to get a better view.

She was reading a story about thirty-eight-year-old “Rachel Schwartz,” who had given up hope of ever finding a mate after experiencing two broken engagements and a string of failed relationships. When it looked like things couldn’t possibly get any worse, she suffered a terrible car accident and was rushed to the emergency room with a smashed-up foot.

Her encounter with the on-call podiatrist changed her life forever. They were instantly drawn to each other, started dating, and eventually got married in a fairy tale wedding. Not a bad story at all.

I was jarred out of Rachel Schwartz’s honeymoon when Gingie-Locks turned in her seat. She took a sip from her travel coffee mug, looked at me with fern green eyes, and asked in an affable voice, “Am I reading too quickly for you?”

I gulped. “Um … no. It’s perfect.”

She smiled and nodded, then peered down at the book again.

I sighed. For the last two years in New York, I was free as the wind. And now? I couldn’t even steal a glance without getting busted.

chapter 2

To Share a House with a Yankees Fan

All dirty bricks and token windows, the Moriah Hebrew High School for Girls squatted sadly on a tract of exhausted shrubs. Winding through a bustle of girls I entered the building and managed to navigate my way to homeroom for English. It was my third day in eleventh grade at Moriah and I started class as I always did when I found myself at yet another new school: studying my new classmates. I peered around the room while Miss Weiss took attendance.

“Rebecca Abramson.”

Never let a set of great cheekbones go to waste. Some side-bangs and you’d be a stunner.

“Dahlia Engel.”

You seem nice enough, but I’m thinking that your soul might be part graphing calculator.

“Shira Wasser.”

Now we’re talking.

Shira’s strawberry blond hair fell in a loose crimp over her shoulders, cascading past tiny pearl earrings. Her starched white Oxford shirt rested perfectly on her navy pleated skirt. Somehow, on Shira, our school uniform looked like it was a Ralph Lauren.

Shira flipped her hair and pulled her shoulders back. “Here,” she said, her voice ringing across the room.

Every class has a Shira, and every school has a ruling one too, although there’s no question that a Toronto Shira isn’t going to be in the same league as a New York Shira. Shiras are the kind of girls that decide whether a teacher controls a class or not. Shiras possess the sort of look you’ll probably have within the year. Shiras are the standard by which all other girls view themselves.

I was a Shira during my glorious reign at the Maimonides High School for Girls in New York City. I sighed at the memory of two years of endless girlfriends, sleepovers, shopping trips, and pizza — pizza that was actually edible. It all started when I bumped into Maya and Danielle in Herald Square at a Macy’s sale at the start of ninth grade. They were identical twins with chocolate brown eyes and black hair that flowed down their backs; within one week I became known as the “third twin,” and the three of us spent endless hours together. For the first time in my life I finally had a best friend who wasn’t my sister. Which is one of the perks of living in a city for more than five minutes. (Sorry, Dad. I love you with all my heart. The constant moving — not so much.)

When I entered high school my life completely transformed — from dorkulous to, well, fabulous.

You see, way back when a dude called Giovanni da Verrazzano set foot in Manhattan, he encountered corn crops, beans, and forests. When
I
went to high school in the city, I discovered Stella, Ralph, and Calvin. It was crazy how it all came together. I finally chucked my membership card to the Order of the Invisible, and boy had I arrived!

But that was then and this was now. I couldn’t believe that I was starting all over again — but at least my sister, Leah, would be in Toronto in mere hours.

While Miss Weiss continued taking attendance, the door opened and a freshie poked her head in the classroom.

“Mrs. Levine would like to speak to Raina Resnick.”

The principal’s office already? What could she want from me now? My eyes met Shira Wasser’s. With her stare fixed on me she leaned over to the girl next to her and whispered. My cheeks burned as they both giggled.

I plodded down the hall with an uneasy feeling about Mrs. Levine. From our first meeting last June it was clear that I was less high school student, and more rehabilitation project. Her personal urban wetland, if you will.

I entered her office where she was ensconced behind her enormous fake-wood desk. Mrs. Levine sat ramrod straight, her falcon-like eyes trailing me as I lowered myself into the moulded plastic chair facing her.

A manila file folder with my name written in black marker lay on her desk next to a cluster of photos of her with her children and grandchildren. In one of them, Mrs. Levine was sitting on a park bench hugging her young grandson. There was something not quite right about the image — like someone had Photoshopped a smile onto her face.

“I trust that you’re having a positive adjustment to Toronto,” she said, her stare as animated as a frozen flounder. “I’m quite pleased that your sister will be living with your aunt until her wedding. I understand she’s a very studious young lady.”

Which was code for responsible, of course. With our matching black hair and turquoise eyes, Leah and I looked alike on the outside, but to be honest, she really
was
the good one. I mean, until she fell in love and disappeared into the Ben-o-verse last year, she was the one who had gotten me through my math and science classes. She was the one I could count on for friendship, no matter what city we were in. Which is pretty impressive for a sibling who’s seven years older.

“And you’re both living in such a lovely community,” Mrs. Levine was saying.

You kidding me? What’s
not
to love about Thornhill? It’s the suburb that never sleeps!

She placed her clasped hands on the table and trained her eyes on me.

And trained and trained.

I shifted in my seat and waited. The ticking of the industrial clock thumped the heavy air in the room. A picture of a rabbi in a black coat hung on the wall behind her.

“I’m not going to lie, Raina,” she finally said. “You
know
that I have concerns that our academic standards aren’t necessarily the best … match for you.”

Her eyes were like laser beams; it seemed dangerous to look at them directly.

“I do hope you’re settling in at Moriah,” she said. Talk about settling in, I stared at her hair. What was with women in their sixties sporting hairstyles so stiff they looked like they’d been sprayed with polyurethane?

“Raina?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m extremely settled.”