EIGHTEEN

I’M THREE DAYS INTO THE week at home without Kaylan and less than a week away from school starting, and I haven’t seen a single friend.

The camp girls and I have been emailing, but it doesn’t seem like a Camp Silver reunion sleepover will happen. Everyone’s busy with little trips and family visits and stuff. I keep thinking about getting the lunch table girls’ email addresses from Kaylan, but then I don’t really feel like it.

“I’m so glad you’ve been home so much,” Gemma says, buttering her bagel at the kitchen table. “It’s been really fun.”

“I know. Want to play Twister again later?” I ask her, pouring myself some orange juice.

“Of course!” She smiles. “And I can’t wait for you to show Kaylan your new and improved handstand. It’s amazing. I’m so glad you finally get that it’s all about your core.”

I crack up. I don’t think most nine-year-olds talk like this. “Thanks, Gem.”

She high-fives me.

I JHHed that one last night after Gemma watched me do three perfect handstands in a row.

And I’m planning on making the mac and cheese for dinner tonight.

“Girls.” My mom walks into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, still in her nightgown. “Dad and I have to talk to you.”

Gemma and I make eyes at each other and wait for her to continue.

A minute later, my dad comes in wearing his plaid pajama pants and his blue terry-cloth bathrobe. We call this his “sick robe” since he only wears it when he’s sick.

Uh-oh. Does he have cancer? Is that what they’ve been hush-talking about?

“What is it?” Gemma asks. “You’re both so weird. Just tell us. Come on!”

“Gem, chill.” I put a hand on her hand. “It’s okay.”

They sit down at the table with us, look at each other, sort of like they’re waiting to see who will talk first. The clock above the sink sounds louder than it usually does. Tick. Tick. Tick. Whose idea was it to make clocks tick and make them tick so loud? No one wants to hear the seconds of their life literally ticking by.

My dad clears his throat, neatening up the napkins in the napkin holder. “Um, this is hard to say, and I don’t want you guys to worry.” He looks up at the ceiling. “But I lost my job yesterday.”

We stare at him and then glance toward my mom, who’s holding her head in her hands. Ironic that he says we shouldn’t worry when my mom is literally the human embodiment of worry, especially right now.

“So sorry, Dad.” I look down at my bagel. “What happened?”

He hesitates and then says, “Well, they had to downsize. And I was the one hired most recently, and it’s really nobody’s fault. I’ll find something else. I just wanted you guys to know. So you weren’t confused about why I was home all the time all of a sudden.”

We nod, and Gemma takes a bite out of her bagel. I scan my brain for something to say to make this whole situation feel a little bit better.

“Well, we can spend more time together until you find another job!” I smile, hoping to add some positivity to this conversation. “So that’s good, right?”

A corner of my dad’s lips turns up, but it’s not a real smile.

“Does Bubbie know?” I ask.

My parents look at each other, conversing with their eyeballs as they often do. And then my mom says, “Not yet. And please don’t tell her. We don’t want to worry them.”

I nod. When someone tells you not to tell someone something, you almost feel like you’re definitely going to tell them, even though you don’t want to.

“Gem, go have your bagel in the den, okay?” my mom says, all soft and exhausted sounding.

“I thought you don’t want us eating in there,” she replies.

“Just go. Thank you.”

“Why am I always being kicked out?” Gemma’s chair screeches against the floor, and she huffs out of the room. “The injustice!”

It’s always so funny to me that they kick Gemma out of these “adult” conversations, but I get to stay. I mean, I’m only three years older than she is.

My mom sniffles. “Ari, I am so sorry to do this, but I think we’re going to need to make some adjustments to your bat mitzvah.”

“What kind of adjustments?” I force myself not to laugh when the Mr. Wainscott meeting pops into my head.

My parents look at each other again and then down at the table.

“Hello?” I ask, when it feels like three centuries have passed.

“We can’t do the big party at the golf club,” my dad says. “It just wouldn’t be wise. Money will be tight until I find a new job, and we need to conserve.”

“Okay . . .” My voice trails off. I look away for a second. Their faces are so sad that I almost feel little tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

It feels like I’ve been sitting in the freezing cold, covered by one of those superpowered thermal camping blankets, feeling cozy and protected but then the thermal blanket was just yanked off of me, and now I’m frigid.

“I’m disappointed, too,” my mom says. “We had all the plans. And I made all the arrangements and it was going to be so beautiful.” She starts crying, resting her head on her arms.

“Uh, it’ll be okay, Mom,” I say, forcing out the words. Shouldn’t it be her comforting me? I mean, we’re all disappointed here. But I’m trying to hold it together so I don’t make my dad feel worse about the whole thing.

She sits up finally, nodding fast. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. We’ll still have a small luncheon at the synagogue.”

It occurs to me that they never even really asked me what I wanted at my bat mitzvah party. If they had, I would’ve said a beach theme with super-plush personalized turquoise towels as the giveaway. We’d have mini hot dogs, of course, but also all of my other favorite foods—french fries with mozzarella cheese, a make-your-own omelet station, spicy tuna rolls, and brownie sundaes for dessert.

I wish they had asked me, and it never occurred to me to really make a request. I mean, except for the mini hot dogs because duh—they’re a requirement.

I stay at the table with them for a couple more minutes, but then after a few minutes of my ideal bat mitzvah daydreaming, I feel an overwhelming need to leave the room. I walk upstairs and find my phone sitting on my bed.

Well, at least I have my phone back.

I debate who to text first—Kaylan and tell her what happened, but she’s away with her dad and dealing with her own stress. The camp girls? Well, we’ve been emailing and they’re all busy this week, so no. I have to tell Alice, though. She’ll know what to do. And I think we’re at a closeness level that makes it okay for us to interrupt family time.

Ari: AlKal, u free? Need 2 talk 2 u.

She writes back less than a minute later

Alice: out w/ fam now. Can we have a phone date 2night? R u ok? Ilysm

Ari: 2night is ok. ILY2

I want to text Golfy, too, but I know he’s away and I know he’s screen-free this week. So there’s no point to texting him.

I decide to group text the lunch table girls since they’re all here, and I kind of do want to get out of the house and away from this drama for a little bit.

Ari: Hi. Any1 around to hang 2day?

I wait for a response.

M.W.: Hiiii, Ari. I’m going back 2 school shopping w/ my mom 2day. Maybe tomw or l8r?

June: I’m at my grandparents’ house in MA, back 2night.

Cami: I may b free 2 night 2.

Marie: Same. We r going to that new water park out east 2day with my cousins.

Amirah: my cousins r visiting 2day 2 E

Kira: So sorry I got this text so late. Can’t hang 2day.

Sydney: Me neither. ☹

Even though they all have good reasons, it still stings a little that no one is free to hang out. I charge my phone across the room and lie back on my bed.

I try to fall back asleep, but my mind is racing. I practice the mindfulness stuff I learned at camp, but it’s not working. I pick up my bat mitzvah stuff again, but I’m too distracted to focus on it. I finally decide to look through the honors track packet that arrived over the summer, but my heart starts pounding on the first page.

School stress, bat mitzvah stress, home stress; Kaylan away, friends are busy.

My heart pounds, and I feel sweat beads forming on the top of my forehead. The more I lie here, the more stressed I feel.

I decide to call the one person who always makes me feel better, no matter what is happening.

“Hi, Bub,” I say as soon as she answers. Don’t say anything about Dad. Don’t say anything about Dad, I repeat in my head over and over again.

“Hello, my darling!” Whenever I call, she greets me on the phone like I’m the Queen of England. “How are you, my girl?”

“Good,” I say. “Well, kind of bored. Kaylan’s away this week.”

“Oh. With who?”

“Her dad. And brother.”

“That’s nice that she’s getting along with her dad again,” Bubbie replies.

“Yeah. That’s true.”

“You okay, Ar?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “Getting ready for the big day?”

I sigh. “Yeah, I guess. I dunno. It’s kind of a lot to do.”

“My money’s on you,” Bubbie tells me. She says this every time I doubt myself, no matter what. And when she says it, I kind of believe her—that I can do whatever I need to do and make it happen.

“Thanks, Bub.” I pause, feeling tears crinkling in the corners of my eyes. I better get off the phone before I slip about anything I shouldn’t slip about. “Gem wants to play Twister so I better go.”

“Okay; you’re such a good sister.”

“Thanks, Bub. Love you.”

“Love you more.” She laughs.

I hang up the phone and walk over to my window to see if Jason’s outside. He’s not. Then I walk back to my closet and scan the hangers for a first-day outfit. Nothing looks good, and I can’t even ask my mom to go shopping.

I focus on my breathing. In. And out. In. And out.

It’s okay. I can handle all of this.

Nothing in the world feels easy right now, but that doesn’t mean I need to freak out.

I can stay calm.

It’s totally possible.