On Monday morning I shower, moisturize, blow-dry my hair and then discover my straightener doesn’t work. I push the on-off switch a dozen times, but the little red light won’t come on. This is a disaster of the highest order. My hair is a giant poof of poodle frizz. I swear and smack the straightener down on the counter.
Dad knocks on the door. “What’s up?”
“Hair issues.”
“Make a ponytail and call it a day.”
“It doesn’t work that way!” I try French braids, but my hair looks lumpy, and frizz starts to erupt through the braids almost instantly. I try adding a hair band, then rip it out and throw it against the door. I need the straightener.
Zach bangs on the bathroom door. “Hey, I need to pee.”
“Fine.” I yank my hair free of the braids, get back into bed and pull the covers over my head.
Mom knocks on the door. “Aren’t you getting up?”
“I can’t. The straightener died.”
“Oh, how bad is it?” I pop my head out; hair is springing around it. “Oh. Not so bad.”
I pull the covers back over my head. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I see. Well, how about a hat?”
“You have to take a hat off inside school.”
“I see.”
I think I might kick her if she says that again. “Could I please get it chemically straightened?”
Mom sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.” She leaves the room and I hear her making breakfast for Zach, and then the car pulls out of the driveway. The house is quiet.
Okay, so it’s not just my hair. It’s Jesse the Nazi. And Brooke the traitor. What the hell am I supposed to do? Ignore the game and hope the boys don’t play again? Rat them out and hope they get in trouble?
Mom comes back twenty minutes later with a straightener in a plastic bag.
“Where did you get it?”
“I borrowed it from Shayna Shuster. Rebecca doesn’t use it much.”
I make a face. She raises her eyebrows. “Shayna says it gets really hot, so don’t burn yourself.” She checks her watch. “If you hurry, I’ll drop you off at school.”
“Don’t you have to be at work?”
“I cancelled my nine fifteen.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“I understand hair. Do you want me to take you to get a new straightener after school?”
“No, that’s okay. I can walk up to London Drugs myself.”
“Fine. Put it on your debit card, and I’ll pay you back.” Mom gets up to leave. “Do you want a bagel to eat in the car?”
“Yes, please, with cream cheese.”
Sometimes Mom is all right.
It’s a raw, wet day, the kind where the rain seems to fall sideways and the dampness gets into your skin. Mom wears one of those plastic old-lady rain kerchiefs over her hair to walk from the house to the car. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.
“I wouldn’t say a word about frizz, if I were you.”
I close my mouth and get in the car.
I’m late for biology. Mr. Saunders takes my late slip and nods for me to sit down. I don’t dare look at Jesse or Brooke. As soon as the bell rings at the end of the period, I hustle out of class. Even so, Jesse catches up to me in the hallway.
“Hey, what’s the rush?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I’m going to English.”
Jesse grabs my shoulder. “Hey, c’mon, I apologized.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I stop a moment and look at him. He looks genuinely sorry, and I don’t know what to say. “I have to go.” I pull away, holding the shoulder he touched.
At lunchtime Chloe, Em and I walk to the convenience store for chips. When we get back to our lockers, Brooke is chatting with Jesse. She’s leaning against her locker with her arms crossed under her boobs to make them look bigger.
Chloe grabs my arm. “What’s up with that?”
“Nothing.” I focus on getting my shorts and T-shirt out of my locker.
“That is so not nothing.”
I head for the bathroom and lock myself in a stall so no one can see the tears forming in my eyes. Em and Chloe follow me and stand outside the stall. “What does Brooke think she’s doing?” Chloe asks.
“It’s complicated,” I say from inside the stall.
“It’s not complicated. She’s a man stealer,” Em spits out.
“Complicated how?” Chloe asks.
“I can’t tell you now.”
“Can we talk after school?” Em asks.
I open the stall and daub my eyelashes to stop the flow of mascara. “That would be good.” Chloe and Em both hug me, and we stand in the bathroom ignoring other girls until the bell rings. I stay in the bathroom until I’m sure Brooke and Jesse are gone. I’m late for phys ed and have to run laps, but I don’t care.
Chloe and Em are waiting for me by the lockers after school.
“We feel bad. We’ve been so busy, we didn’t even know something was going on with Brooke,” Chloe says.
“Man stealer,” Em whispers.
Chloe elbows Em in the ribs. “Wanna come over?” she says to me.
I nod, and we head out into the drizzling afternoon. At Chloe’s house we settle in the TV room with popcorn and cranberry juice. I feel like doing something mindless—watching TV or even playing video games—but Chloe and Em want the dirt.
“So, what happened?”
“Well, Brooke says she’s in love with Jesse.”
“But he’s yours,” Em wails. “He even writes you poetry.”
“We’re just friends.”
Em stuffs her face with popcorn. “Could you please stop saying that? We’re writing a musical about you two.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, want to hear?”
Em and Chloe look at each other and then sing, “Oh he’s a goy and she’s a Jew and they don’t know what to do. Teen lo-o-o-ve.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Chloe flops back on the couch. “Okay, we just made that up after school, but c’mon, what happened?”
I sigh. “I guess you didn’t see, but when we were at the park the other night, the guys, including Jesse, were dressed up as Nazis. And I totally freaked out at him about it.”
Chloe sits up. “Wow, that’s really bad.”
Em crinkles her brow. “Nazis? As in the guys who killed all the Jews?”
“And lots of other people too. Anyway, I guess Brooke can laugh it off, but I can’t. And she’s ‘deeply in love’ with him.”
“Did you say ‘deeply’?” Chloe asks.
“Yep.”
“I think I’m going to barf.” Chloe holds her hand over her mouth.
“You could write it into your musical instead.”
“Ooh.” Em rubs her hands together. “Now we’ve got conflict. A Smoker girl is trying to break up the young cross-cultural lovers. What will Lauren do?”
“I don’t think anything rhymes with cross-cultural,”
Chloe says.
“How about interracial?” Em suggests.
Chloe cocks her head to the side. “They’re not technically interracial or even mixed ethnicities.”
“Guys, please.”
“Sorry,” Em says.
“Anyway, I want to—I don’t know—disappear for a while. I can’t watch them at school. And I sit between them in biology. But I can’t be there.”
“That’s so crazy,” Chloe says.
“What would you do?” I ask.
Chloe and Em look at each for a moment and then Em says, “Well, I would pray about it.”
My eyes open wider. “Look, guys, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t think that’s my thing.”
“No, you should try it,” Chloe says. Both of them are looking at me earnestly.
I take a deep breath. “C’mon, it’s not like if I pray for Brooke not to like Jesse she’ll stop. The world doesn’t work that way.”
“No,” Chloe says, “but it might make you feel better.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
We sit quietly for a moment, eating the last of the popcorn. “I’m going to pray for you tomorrow at Bible study anyway,” Em says. “If that’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Me too,” Chloe says.
“You go to Bible study too?”
“Yep. Every Tuesday morning at seven thirty.”
“Wow. That’s early. What exactly do you do there?”
“Well, we usually read a section of the Bible and talk about it, and then we have a short prayer session and maybe a talk from Cathy.”
“Who’s Cathy?”
“She’s our group leader.”
“Hey, you should come tomorrow morning.” Em grips my hand. “It’s at my house, and my mom’s making pancakes for everyone.”
“I’d feel awkward.”
“We’ll have a special prayer for you, except we won’t say your name or anything.”
“Well…”
“Think of it as a learning experience.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I leave soon after to walk home. It’s pouring now, and the rain runs off my jacket, soaking my jeans. I’ve never thought much about prayer. To me, it’s the chanting you have to do at Hebrew school while your teacher makes sure you’re not daydreaming. And if I did pray, what would I ask for? For Jesse not to have dressed up as a Nazi? No, I’d pray not to be Jewish; then I wouldn’t care what Jesse wore.
When I get home, my parents are pacing the kitchen. “What’s going on?” I say. “Don’t you guys work anymore?”
Mom taps her long burgundy fingernails on the counter. “No one can find your brother.”
“Oh.”
Dad leans on the counter, brow furrowed. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”
I shake my head. “Did he go to school?”
“I dropped him off this morning,” Mom says, “but he left at lunch and no one knows where he is.”
I listen to the rain drumming on the skylight. “Well, I’m sure he’ll show up when’s he ready.” I quickly head down to the basement, in case Mom and Dad start fighting. They used to argue a lot when Zach was still at Hebrew school and hiding all the time. Zach would hide if his phys ed class was too loud or if his schedule changed unexpectedly. He hated fire and earthquake drills. Even a class party would throw him out of whack. Every time Zach hid or, worse, ran away from school, I’d end up sitting with him or looking for him until Mom left work to get him. I’d hate how Zach looked when I’d find him hiding in the equipment closet with his hands over his ears, or under the librarian’s desk with his eyes closed. I’d always want to hug him, but I knew that that would be too much contact for him when he was feeling overwhelmed. Instead I’d sit quietly beside him until he was ready to come out of hiding. Zach’s been much happier since he transferred to a special private school a couple of years ago.
In the basement, I sit on the stool at the workbench. I’ve decided to make a star lantern. It’s got a lot of straight lines, so it shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve made some sketches, and now I’m trying to cut the wood, but the saw keeps slipping. Maybe I’ll figure out how to suspend a candle in a cheese grater instead. I saw a few people with lanterns like that last summer, and they looked pretty cool too, but not as cool as the dragons, cupcakes and aliens.
I think the real reason I’m having so much trouble making a lantern is that when I close my eyes and imagine myself at the festival next summer, I’m not walking around with a lantern, I’m spinning a burning hula hoop around my waist, around my arms. I’m surrounded by flames, yet not burning.
This will definitely not happen. I’m not the performing type. Not even with an unlit hula hoop.
I pick up the saw to try again, and then I hear a tapping sound. At first I think it’s the furnace, or maybe the water heater, but then I hear it again, coming from the laundry room. I think of mice and yank my feet up onto the stool, but it’s not really a scurrying sound. I have a moment of panic, and then it occurs to me: Zach. “Who’s there?” No response. “Hey, Zach,” I whisper, “is that you?”
I get a cough in response.
“Cough twice if it’s really you.”
Zach coughs twice. I breathe a sigh of relief and stick my head into the laundry room. “Where are you?” The closet door slides open a bit, and I see two eyes peeking out from behind the ski suits.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Zach’s eyes blink in the darkness. I hear his toes tapping on the linoleum.
“Oh. Wanna come out?”
“No, thanks.”
I cross my arms and tap my toes back at him. Then Zach asks me, “What are you doing down here?”
“Trying to make something.”
“What?”
“Just this art project.”
Zach steps out of the closet, his hair full of static. “Can I see?”
“Well, sure.”
He follows me to the workbench and stares at the mess of wood and sawdust.
“I’m trying to make a lantern.”
“A what?”
“A lantern—you know, something you put a candle in. It’s made out of tissue paper, wire and wood.”
“Oh. So what’s the problem?”
I hold up the two uneven pieces of wood. “I can’t saw straight.”
“Did you use a vise grip?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s this thing that holds the wood steady.”
“I don’t think Dad has one. How do you know about that?”
“Shop class. I actually like shop class. Did you know the lathe in the shop at school can turn a block of wood into a baseball bat in less than five minutes?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Can I make a lantern too?”
“Sure.”
Zach looks at my drawing. “I think you need a better design first. Like, draw it out and do the measurements.”
“Oh, good idea.”
Zach pulls some paper across the table and hands me a piece. He starts sketching a biplane.
“So, why were you hiding?” I ask.
Zach doesn’t say anything, so I focus on my drawing. Then, just when I think he’s not going to answer, he says, “Bar mitzvah lessons.”
“Not going well?”
He shakes his head.
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t want to do it.”
“The practicing? I’m sure you’d learn it superquick, if you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“’Cause then you have to do it in front of all those people.”
“You mean the guests.”
“Yep. Do you know how many people were at your bat mitzvah?”
“How many?”
“Two hundred and thirty-seven.”
“You counted?”
“Yep. I can also tell you how many lights are in the sanctuary.”
“I bet you can. So what are you going to do?”
“Hide. Refuse to go anywhere.”
“Refusing to eat works well.”
“Really?”
“Worked for me.”
“What if I did all three?”
“That might work. Plan your snacks in advance.”
“Oh, okay.” Zack puts down his pencil and points to my picture. “Lauren?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I draw that for you?”
“Sure.”
“Your design kinda sucks.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Zach shrugs, sketches out the star and then adds the measurements. “Why a star?”
“I don’t know. I just like them.”
“That’s weird.”
“I wouldn’t talk.”
Zack pretends to look offended.
I stay in the basement until I get hungry, and then I go upstairs and let my parents know I’ve found Zach.
“I thought you looked down there,” Mom says to Dad.
“I did.”
“Well, obviously not very well.”
“Please don’t start,” he says.
“Hey, before you guys get going, do you want to know why Zach is hiding in the basement?”
“Let me guess.” Mom runs her hands through her hair, tugging on the blond strands. “He didn’t want to go to his bar mitzvah lesson?”
“You got it.”
Mom rubs her temples. “I was worried this would happen.”
Dad sighs. “Maybe we should find him a different tutor.”
I lift my hand as if I’m at school. “I don’t think Rabbi Birenbaum is the problem. Zach doesn’t want to have a bar mitzvah because he hates being the center of attention.”
Mom sits down at the counter and holds her head in her hands. “But it’s a special occasion, and I really want him to have the same opportunity as the other kids.”
I hold up my hands in defeat. “Is there anything for dinner?”
“Don’t look at me,” Mom says. “I’ve spent all afternoon looking for Zach.”
Dad sighs and opens the freezer. “How about hamburgers?”
“Sounds good,” I say.
Dad defrosts the burgers and grills them on the barbecue on the back deck, under a golf umbrella, while I cut up lettuce and tomato. Zach comes upstairs once he realizes it’s too late to go to his bar mitzvah lesson. He’s all smiles as he eats voraciously, smearing mayonnaise across his face. Although Zach is a better eater than he used to be, he still avoids brightly colored foods like ketchup and mustard.
“Are you going to hide next week too?” Dad asks wearily.
Zach shrugs and shows Dad his biplane drawing. I can see it’s a big effort for Dad to show any interest.
After dinner I spend a few minutes working on my history essay. Mr. Whiteman approved my thesis and outline ages ago, but I haven’t opened the books I checked out of the library yet. I’ve done some research on the word genocide, since that’s what most websites call the massacres in Armenia. Basically, it means the intentional killing of a whole group of people because of race or religion. I’ve heard about genocide in Africa, in places like Darfur and Rwanda, but when I do a Google search, lots of places I didn’t know about come up, including Cambodia and Indonesia and Bosnia. It freaks me out, reading about all that killing. I’m finding more and more holocausts all the time.
I lean back in my chair. It isn’t only the killing that’s getting me. At every Holocaust memorial and ceremony I’ve been to, Jews have said, Forgive but never forget. The other thing they’ve said is, Never again.
And yet it is still happening, over and over again. How many millions of people have died as a result of genocide since the Holocaust? It makes me feel sick to my stomach. When Jews said Never again, did they only mean to them?
I find something else that is disturbing. When I key in Jews + genocide in Google, not only do I get articles about atrocities committed against Jews, I also get articles about atrocities committed by Jews. One of the articles is about the Israeli army oppressing Palestinians. I don’t know much about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but just reading this makes me feel crazy. Is this the end result of the Holocaust? Jews got a homeland in Israel and the Palestinians lost theirs? I’m not sure, but it makes my head ache to think about it.
I put away the books on Armenia without opening them.
Before I get into bed, I check my phone.
Alexis has written: Did u tell?
I don’t reply. Next there’s a message from Brooke.
U still mad?
I text back No.
Brooke writes back U pissed?
Yes.
Don’t be.
OK.
U lying?
Maybe.
My place aft school?
Busy.
I wait to see if she texts back, but the phone is silent. I get my biology textbook out of my bag and try to read the assigned chapters, but then my phone beeps again. It’s Em. Pancakes and prayer @ 7 am. U in?
Not sure.
C’mon, it’ll be interesting.
Yay God?
Yep, yay God.
I think about it for a minute. Then I write, OK, curious. Will b there.
Yay! Go in side door. Don’t knock. Peeps sleeping.
I type back g-nite and put the phone down.
This is weird. I’m going to Bible study, to pray about Jesse. No, I’m going to observe a cultural experience. It’ll be interesting.
I set my alarm for 6:00 am, turn off my light and roll over. I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply, but I’m not sleepy, so I look on my night table for something to read.
I’ve finished The Color Purple. Then I remember that the Mengele book is still under my bed. I’d meant to put it back on Dad’s desk, but I forgot. I get it, put it back, then pick it up again. I shouldn’t, but I want to read to the end of the book so I can learn how Mengele was eventually tried and punished. Surely he must have died a horrible death after all the misery he caused. Instead I learn that Mengele escaped through Italy and went on to South America. Anger rises like heat on my skin when I read how the killer lived out the rest of his life without any punishment while the twins who survived had all kinds of physical and psychological problems. How could they not? Almost all Mengele’s survivors were the only people in their families alive at the end of the war.
I slam the book shut and shove it under the bed again after I read that Mengele believed he was doing real scientific research. Science, my ass. I clench my teeth and feel tension building in my neck. And the guys at school, they thought it was funny to pretend to be Nazis. Calm down, I tell myself. It’s just ignorance. If they knew about Mengele, they wouldn’t have done it.
Maybe Dad is right. Maybe the world still needs more Holocaust education. I flop over in bed. This is so complicated. I’m sick of hearing about the Holocaust, yet there are still people who don’t know about it or make light of it. Where’s the balance? Should I tell someone about the armbands and hope the guys get some sensitivity training? Is the Holocaust so big and terrible that absolutely everyone has to know about it?
I close my eyes and try to think about playing basketball with Jesse, or being at the lantern festival. It doesn’t work. I can’t stop thinking about the book, and the more I think about Mengele cutting people up, the more I feel panic rising in me, like bile seeping up into my throat. My fists tighten, and I press my toes against the footboard of my bed. The book feels like a hot coal burning under my bed. I try to do the five senses exercise: I can see the damn book; I can hear the voices of the boys laughing in the park; I can taste anxiety boiling in my throat as I imagine killing Mengele. How would I do it? Would I let him starve, or would I shoot him? Maybe I’d gas and burn him. I sit bolt upright and throw off the covers. The Nazis are turning me into a killer. I can’t distract myself—not with the book in my room. I have to get it out of here.
I creep quietly down the stairs to Dad’s office. Dad is at his desk, leaning back in his chair, reading. I think about casually walking in and putting the book on the shelf, but he’s sure to ask me what I’m doing. I could wait until tomorrow, but I want that book away from me now. Just looking at it makes me feel panicky. What kind of idiot was I to think I could read it? I stand there in the hallway outside his office and suddenly realize that I want the book out of the house altogether. At the back door, I pull on my raincoat and boots and slip into the yard. It’s a cold, clear night, and the stars are pinpricks of light in the sky. I inhale a few times and watch my breath cloud into the air. What if I dumped the book in someone’s garbage? If I head out the back lane, though, I’ll trigger the motion-sensor light by the back gate. Instead I slip into the darkened garage and shove the book on a shelf under the sun umbrella. There, I think. Rot in the garage, killer.