“Zeydeh!” I screamed.
A sob caught in my throat, choking me as I rushed forward. Mom was already there, already reaching for his hand.
“Zeydeh!”
His eyelids fluttered, then opened. I nearly dropped to the tile, sweaty and light-headed with relief. Thank you, God.
“You didn’t!” Mom said.
I blinked, wondering why Mom sounded almost … angry? Dad helped Zeydeh to his feet. I looked more closely, and realized his eyes weren’t confused and unfocused like someone coming out of a faint. They were sharp and knowing.
“You were pretending?” Mom had her hands pressed to her cheeks. “I’m going to kill you, Dad. If you ever do that again, I’m going to hit you with one of your gourmet pans and kill you.”
I gaped, fear heating into anger. “You were faking?”
“What?” he said, reaching for the questionnaire and waving it in my face. “It’s okay for you to pretend you’re Christian, but not okay for me to pretend to faint?”
“It’s not the same thing,” I snapped.
“Why isn’t it?” he snapped back. “We’re both pretending to be something we’re not.”
“What is going on?” Mom cried.
Dad scratched at his head, looking bewildered. “Okay,” he said. “Enough drama. Family discussion. In the living room.”
Dad led the way, then Mom, then Zeydeh. He had a little bounce in his step now. I wanted to kick him.
“That’s not arguing fair,” I muttered.
“You call yourself a Christian and you’re surprised if it kills me?”
“You faked it.”
“The pain is real, believe me.” He smacked the sheet of paper on the coffee table.
“Would both of you just sit?” Mom ordered.
But Zeydeh wouldn’t sit. He took up a spot by the far armchair. He held on to the back of the chair with one hand, a tiny tremor running down his arm. So I stood behind the other armchair. It felt like a staged debate: Zeydeh vs. Ellie. Mom and Dad sat between us, stationed on each end of the couch like judges.
“So what is going on?” Dad asked.
“Why don’t you start with the questionnaire, Ellie,” Mom added. She pulled the paper closer and tapped her fingers on the edge.
“It’s from Mrs. Yeats,” I said. “I told you about it at dinner. It’s for the scholarship, and I’m supposed to fill it out and hand it in.”
“You forgot to mention question number seven,” Zeydeh retorted.
I glared at him. “Because I knew you’d blow it all out of proportion.” I looked from Mom to Dad. “Number seven asks about religious affiliation.”
Mom flipped over the paper. Her eyes widened. “You wrote ‘Christian’?”
Dad frowned. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the girl who had a Bat Mitzvah last year and proclaimed herself a Jew in front of everyone she knew?”
“I only wrote it because of something Devon said—about his grandmother.”
“His grandmother?” Zeydeh planted a hand on one bony hip. “The woman is anti-Semitic, isn’t she? A Jew hater?”
“She is not,” I half shouted. “Why does she have to be anti-Semitic? Why is that always your first thought?”
He shouted back, wagging his finger, “Besser fri’er bevorent aider shpeter bevaint. Better caution at first than tears afterward.”
Dad held up his hands. “All right, both of you. Let’s try to get through this without raising our voices.” He looked at me. “Ellie?”
“Devon just said she’s really into her religion.”
“And from that you decided to lie?” Zeydeh’s eyes narrowed into a laser squint.
“Technically, it’s not a lie.”
“So now you’re a religious technician?”
I swallowed a scream of frustration. Arguing with Zeydeh was impossible, but somehow I had to make him understand. “Dad is Lutheran.”
“So they think you’re Lutheran?” Mom asked.
“No,” I said. “They don’t think anything. The only reason it came up was because Devon saw Bubbe’s necklace. He asked me about it, and then asked about the name Taylor because it doesn’t sound Jewish.”
“Did he ask why you don’t have a big nose?” Zeydeh said, sarcasm as thick as an accent. “Jews always have big noses.”
“He’s not like that, Zeydeh. He was just asking.”
“It’s because of that camp. I said it was no place for a Jewish girl. No place for you.”
“It’s a great place for me.”
“Then why are you lying?”
“I’m not lying! I’m telling half the truth.”
Zeydeh wagged a finger at me. “A half truth is a whole lie!”
I looked pleadingly at Mom and Dad. “It’s just a stupid questionnaire. What’s the big deal?”
Mom gave me her teacher expression: pursed lips and wrinkled forehead. “You’re using religion for your own convenience. Does that seem right to you?”
“It’s just for the scholarship.”
“But you’re misrepresenting yourself,” Mom said.
“Please!” I sputtered. “You told me to lie when I set up a page on Facebook. Remember? I lied about my age and my address.”
“That was for your safety,” Dad said.
“And this is for my future!”
“You shouldn’t have to lie to get into a school,” Mom said.
“I also shouldn’t have to answer questions about religion,” I shot back. “But it’s on the form, and I don’t have any choice because it’s a private scholarship offered by a private donor. Do you want my religion to be the reason I don’t get in?”
Mom glanced at Dad. They both looked uncomfortable. Point for Ellie.
I turned to Zeydeh, pressing my advantage. “I thought you wanted me to follow my dreams?”
“What do dreams matter if you lose yourself along the way?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to forget who I am. I’m not going to forget Bubbe’s family who died in the Holocaust. Mrs. Yeats isn’t a Nazi. She’s just a little weird about the speech team. You should have heard her talk. She thinks of the team as her extended family. Megan thinks she wants everyone to be a miniature version of herself. It’s not that crazy. I’m sure plenty of Jewish families give scholarships just to Jewish applicants.”
“Then you should apply for one of those.”
“There aren’t any for Benedict’s,” I said, punching the chair with my fist. “And last time I asked, no one in this family could afford the tuition. In fact, as I recall, you said if I wanted to go to Benedict’s, I’d have to find a way to pay for it. So”—I crossed my arms in front of my chest—“I’ve found a way.” I looked from Mom to Dad, daring either of them to deny it. But they couldn’t. “It’s just on this one form,” I added, going for the big finish. “I filled out all the other paperwork for Benedict’s and it never came up. Once I turn this in, that’ll be the end of it.”
“What if it comes up during the interview next week?” Mom asked.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Yeats the truth. I’ll even show her pictures from my Bat Mitzvah and chant the opening to my haftarah.” I gave Mom a long, pleading look. “I know it’s nothing bad. And just to be sure, I’ll ask Devon about it first thing on Monday. It’s not like I want to take money from someone who’s anti-Semitic, either.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Zeydeh muttered.
I clasped my hands together, begging for a yes. “Please, Mom.”
Mom paused a long moment, then reached for the pen in Dad’s front pocket. I held my breath until she’d finished signing.
“And if his grandmother is prejudiced?” Zeydeh asked.
“I’ll call her a szhlob and spit in her eye.”
“That’s my Ellie,” he said. But there was a flatness in his voice. And in his eyes. I’d make it okay with him again, I promised myself. No way could Doris Yeats secretly hate Jews. She wasn’t like that. If only Zeydeh could have seen how nice she’d been. On Monday, I’d ask Devon, and Devon would explain, and Zeydeh would be cool.
And I’d be in at Benedict’s.