Chapter One
I’m ahead of schedule and this is a problem.
I know there are bigger issues. Climate change is making the oceans rise. People are cutting down trees, endangering entire forests, along with thousands of animal species. But Dr. Talia says problems like those are “out of scope.” I’m supposed to think of my life as an entire world of its own, to focus on the stuff within my control.
Stuff like:
- My breath
- My attitude
- The words I use
A short list, but manageable, according to Dr. Talia.
It’s totally manageable. Except right now, my world’s tipped on its axis because I packed too fast but not fast enough to do anything else before my best-and-only friend, Laurel, is supposed to call.
I grab a piece of paper off my desk and head over to the suitcase lying open on my bed. I’ve already double- and triple-checked this packing list—I even left suitcase space for souvenirs, plus changed into clothes for tonight’s Shabbat service—but it’s still only 4:45.
What am I going to do for the next ten minutes?
Dropping onto my bed, I pull out my phone.
El(len) Katz
I finished packing early. You can call now.
Laurel usually responds fast. But today, my phone doesn’t ring. Downstairs, Mom’s voice drifts up to me. It rises then falls with each musical scale. Upstairs, it’s just me and my tense shoulders, a silent phone, and the whoosh-rattle of the rickety ceiling fan.
My eyes drift closed, fingers curling over the edge of my mattress.
I rock in time with the fan.
Forward on the whoosh.
Back on the rattle.
Over and over.
I tell myself it’s a good thing I’m ahead of schedule. It means I can do more than I thought in the time I planned out. I imagine Dr. Talia nodding, her silvery hair swaying as she takes notes on a pad of paper:
Ellen’s progress—Positive attitude: Check
I look at my phone again.
4:50 p.m.
More rocking. Another silent pep talk. Everything’s fine. I’ve got it all under control.
Eventually my shoulders relax. I feel calm again as I head over to my desk. The surface is bare except for my dot diary, a notebook filled with schedules and lists that keep my life completely organized. It’s the total opposite of Abba’s messy desk, with stacks of doodles and half-finished graphic novel sketches.
I stare at the sticky note on my dot diary’s cover that lists my flight confirmation number, then flip to the page with today’s schedule.
Laurel’s entry is under my Events column, but it doesn’t say who’s supposed to call who, just that our check-in is at 4:55 p.m., twenty-four hours before our flight departs.
It’s exactly 4:55 p.m. now. I’m already feeling anxious as I unlock my phone and call Laurel.
Four rings, and then…
“Hi and hello!” her voice chirps. “You’ve reached Laurel’s voice mail, so…”
Stomach churning, I hang up. Laurel was supposed to get home from her visit with her older sister this morning, but maybe her phone’s dead after the long drive. I’ve never understood how Laurel can go to bed without plugging it in to charge.
I switch to her home number.
“McKinley residence.”
Laurel’s mom has a voice that sounds like sugar, all syrupy syllables and molasses vowels.
“Hi, Mrs. McKinley.”
“Ellen! How’re you doing, darlin’?”
“Good.” This is a lie—the truth is I’m starting to feel sick. But according to Dr. Talia, people don’t know what to say if you go off-script, and I’m the same way with schedules, so I guess I get it. “Is Laurel back from Florida?”
“Yes, indeed. She and Dahlia got in a little before lunch. It was perfect timing, really, since I’d just finished making a fresh peach cobbler and…”
As Mrs. McKinley describes each course of their meal, I pull the phone away from my ear to check the time.
5:01.
What if everyone already checked in and Laurel and I don’t get seats together because peaches delayed us?
The floorboards outside my room creak with the weight of approaching feet.
“Incoming, Ellen!” Abba calls from the hall.
He swings my door open and enters my room, while Mrs. McKinley keeps talking. “It’s a lovely farm, just south of Atlanta. We should take you and Laurel on a day trip.” A knot forms in my stomach and travels up into my chest, making its way toward my throat. “… been in their family for at least—”
“Can I talk to Laurel?” My voice rises over hers.
Abba crosses his arms. I’m not the greatest at reading body language, but this one’s easy.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Mrs. McKinley, swallowing hard. “It’s just, we were supposed to check in for our flight seven minutes ago.”
Maybe eight now.
“Well.” She pauses like she’s puzzled. “I’m afraid Laurel’s not here right this moment, dear. She headed over to the Taylors’ after lunch. Have you tried her cell phone?”
Yes, but I can’t tell her that, because my throat has closed up. I also can’t tell her how things were supposed to return to normal once Laurel got back from Florida. No more messed-up schedules or canceled sleepovers. No missed calls or unanswered texts, either. Just two weeks in Spain with our Spanish class, the two of us doing everything together. She promised.
Suddenly, there’s too much to focus on.
Whoosh-rattle
the fan’s too loud
Scritch-scritch-scritch
cypress branches scrape against my window
Lekhah dodi
Mom sings downstairs
Hebrew words swirl in my head
Too much, too much. My temples throb.
“All my girls have been such little social butterflies,” Mrs. McKinley continues, totally oblivious. “First Lily on student council, then Dahlia with all those honor societies, and now Laurel and her gymnastics…”
I meet Abba’s gaze for a split second. He steps forward and holds his hand out.
“Hi, Susannah? It’s Natan. Seems the girls had a miscommunication.”
I don’t remember handing Abba my phone. He walks a slow circle around my room, his messy bun of curly brown hair bobbing. It’s longer than my red-brown hair when it’s loose.
He pauses at my desk, eyes drifting to the sticky note on my dot diary. “If you have Laurel’s confirmation number, I can check us all in together.”
I thrum my fingers against my leg, focusing on Mom’s song downstairs.
Lekhah dodi, liqrat kallah, p’ne Shabbat—short tap, tap, tap with my index finger.
Neqabelah—finger fan. First index finger, then middle, ring, and pinkie against my leg.
The rhythm helps me focus and keeps me calm.
“All right, Elle-bell. You and Laurel officially have seats together tomorrow,” Abba says as he hands my phone back to me. “Hakol beseder?”
I breathe in. Abba’s words are clearer. Even though I was ahead of schedule and Laurel forgot about our call, things still worked out. The fan is still rattling and the tree branches still scritch, but they’re just background sounds now. I breathe out.
“Beseder gamur.” Totally fine. I tell myself it is, even if things didn’t go exactly as planned.
Still, I can’t help checking my notifications to see if Laurel’s texted me back.
She hasn’t.
“Metzuyan. I’m glad.” The corners of Abba’s mouth lift and the stubble on his cheeks rise with it. His voice is a mix between Mrs. McKinley’s warm Southern accent and Mom’s New York–brisk that never quite went away after we moved to Georgia. Israeli airy: That’s what Mom calls it. “I see you’re already packed for our trip. Any chance you could help me organize my suitcase before we head to temple?”
The knot in my throat finally dissolves now that I have something else to focus on. I get up to consult my dot diary. Sunset isn’t until 9:01 p.m. tonight, according to my notes, but Shabbat services start earlier. I do some quick math. “We have to leave in thirty-three minutes.”
“That’s doable, right?”
“Yes.” I grab a pen from my desk drawer and add an entry to my Tasks list. “All right, let’s go.”
I weave us around the creakiest hallway floorboards. “Barcelona’s humid in June, just like Georgia, so you’ll mostly need T-shirts and shorts. You should have lots of space left over for souvenirs.”
“And my art supplies?”
I glance back at him. “You are very predictable.”
“True.” Abba grins. “But I bet you’re already coming up with a packing plan, nachon?”
“Yes.” I smile a little.
He’s right. Predictable might be a bad thing for some people—too boring—but not for me. And since we’ll be flying halfway around the world by this time tomorrow, it’s best to focus on what I can control now—like helping Abba pack his art supplies before my family leaves for temple.