That’s what Herschel says a few minutes later when I call him from my room. I have to keep my voice down because Mom hates for me to use the cell phone when I’m in the house. She hates for me to use it at all. She’s afraid the radiation will affect my brain. For similar reasons, she won’t buy me a laptop because she doesn’t want me to put it on my lap in case I want to have kids in the future. It’s crazy.
“I was hoping the teachers would be discreet,” I say.
“They were discreet. They discreetly announced to everyone that you were in the midst of a major family crisis and could use the support of the community.”
“That’s discretion?”
“Jewish discretion. Did you get a lot of calls after that?”
“Not as many as you would have gotten.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Come on, Herschel. The community loves you. What happened when you broke your foot?”
“People were very supportive, thank God.”
“You said you got two hundred calls.”
“More like a hundred. But this is not a competition.”
“Of course not.”
“How many did you get?” Herschel says.
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen.” Herschel pauses, searching for the right thing to say. “That’s not insignificant.”
“It’s not a hundred.”
“It’s only one night, and only the junior class knows. Wait until tomorrow.”
I think about the entire school hearing the story of my mother’s accident.
Herschel says, “Not that there will be a tomorrow. You’re going to set the record straight, aren’t you?”
“I can’t. Mom doesn’t know what happened.”
Silence on the line.
“I tried to tell her. It’s just … It’s complicated, Herschel.”
“The longer this goes on, the worse it will be.”
I pace in my room, run my finger over the collection of Talmud on my shelf. My finger comes away covered in dust.
“What am I going to do?” I say.
“Are you asking me for advice?” Herschel says.
“Yes.”
“Don’t play this game now. I can’t take it.”
“No game. It’s not my job to tell you what to do,” Herschel says. “I’ve made that mistake before and I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Then give me spiritual counseling,” I say.
When Herschel tries to counsel me, I usually slap him down, remind him he’s not a rabbi but a seventeen-year-old kid who started wearing payis two years ago. But right now I keep quiet.
“The Torah teaches us that if you tell a lie, you become a liar,” Herschel says. “It’s a matter of character.”
“But there are extenuating circumstances. I mean, one lie in and of itself does not make me a liar, right?”
“If you commit one murder, you are a murderer. Why would a lie be any different?”
“Because nobody died from my lie.”
“Your soul died a little.”
“Oh, please.”
“You don’t think so?” Herschel says. “What if I had lied to the Nazis?”
“There are no Nazis.”
“But there were. Follow my logic.”
“Lied about what?” he says.
“Let’s say I was in Poland during the war, and the Nazis asked where my family was hiding, and I lied to them.”
“It’s still a lie,” Herschel says. “But I think God might forgive a lie that’s intended to save a life.”
“This is similar.”
“How so?”
“It’s a lie to save my college career.”
“College is not equivalent to a human life.”
“Brandeis is.”
“Very funny.”
“So you want me to tell the professors the truth? What about Yitzhak?”
Yitzhak was a visiting Israeli student who broke the Code of Conduct last year. He got expelled for plagiarism.
“They sent him all the way back to Tel Aviv,” I say.
“Actions have consequences,” Herschel says. “I know better than most.”
“Please. When have you ever been in trouble?”
Herschel clears his throat. “Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you. And ethics.”
I groan. Where is the old Herschel who used to give advice? That’s what friends do for other friends. They tell you what you should do when you’re in a bind and can’t decide for yourself. But Herschel has become some sort of sage who speaks in abstractions and biblical verses. It’s frustrating.
“It’s late now,” Herschel says. “Sleep on it, pray on it, and you’ll know the right answer in the morning.”
Thanks for nothing, I think.
But I don’t say it. I express my gratitude, hang up, and turn off the phone.
Pray on it.
What does that really mean? I can say the Hebrew prayers they teach me in school, but they have no meaning to me. I can use the English translations, but those just sound like gibberish. They all begin the same way:
Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe …
I sit on my bed. I think about all the different prayers I know.
Dr. Prem, the chiropractor that Mom sends me to, calls out to the Divine.
“Repeat after me,” he says. “I am willing, ready, and able to experience the Divine.”
But I’m not willing, ready, and able.
Mom tells me to access the Great Spirit.
None of those works for me.
I should be praying to HaShem. That’s what they teach us.
I try it in my own words. I say, “I’m sorry, HaShem, for lying about Mom—”
I can’t even finish the prayer. I feel like an idiot, alone and talking to myself in an empty room.
Is this what prayer is supposed to feel like?
Instead of praying, I get practical. I need to buy myself some time. But how?
I open my door and slip into the hallway.
Mom and Sweet Caroline are in bed.
I make my way to the kitchen.
I navigate by moonlight shining through the kitchen window. I can see the black square of Mom’s phone still on the kitchen table where she tossed it. She often leaves it on the table and forgets to plug it in. Then she’s baffled when it’s not charged the next day. Usually I plug it in for her, but that has the unintended effect of making her believe there are power fairies who keep her battery at 100 percent.
I pick up the phone, slip it into my pocket—
“What are you doing?” Sweet Caroline says.
She’s standing in the kitchen doorway. I swear, the girl has elephant ears.
“Nothing,” I whisper.
“You’re taking Mom’s phone.”
“I’m plugging it in for her.”
“The plug is on the counter. You’re putting it in your pocket.”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“He’s not our Lord.”
“He’s someone’s Lord. You could have a little respect for that.”
“Not now, Caroline.”
She sucks in a quick breath. Her cheeks puff out, and she picks at the corner of her lip.
“Don’t pick,” I say. She picks until she bleeds. It’s as gross as it sounds.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” she says. She pulls on her lip even harder.
“Sweet Caroline,” I say quickly. “Very sweet.”
She relaxes a little and comes into the kitchen.
“Why are you stealing Mom’s phone?”
“I’m prepping it for her. For the morning. She asked me to.”
“So I can tell her you’re doing it?”
“Tell her whatever you want,” I say.
“I will. First thing in the morning.”
She starts to leave.
“Wait—”
“What?”
“I’m stealing Mom’s phone,” I say.
“Why?”
“I’m in trouble.”
That perks her up. Sweet Caroline loves trouble. Especially other people’s.
“What kind of trouble?” she says.
“The kind that gets you thrown out of school.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“Why not?”
“You hate school.”
“I can’t get expelled. I have to do college applications in a few months. How can I explain something like that?”
“You can always do a year in Israel. They’ll take anyone.”
“Very funny,” I say.
Sweet Caroline hops onto a chair at the kitchen counter.
“So, what happened?” she says.
“It’s a secret.”
“I love secrets.”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not,” she says. “But how can I keep a secret if I don’t know what the secret is?”
Before I open my mouth, I know it’s a mistake.
It’s always a mistake to tell secrets to Sweet Caroline. It’s like the Miranda warnings. Anything you say may be used against you. Only in Sweet Caroline’s case, it will be used against you. But how can I keep this secret without her help?
I know I shouldn’t say anything.
But I do.