I say, “It’s
San
like
sand
. And
skrit
rhymes with
Brit
. Emphasis on the first syllable.
San
-skrit.”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot, that special look Israelis have that makes you feel stupid because you’re soft, and American, and haven’t fired an UZI.
“Sanskrit,” she says.
Heads turn. God, this woman is loud.
Most of these people know me, but even so, what’s a Jew doing with a name like Sanskrit? It’s the unspoken question everywhere I go.
The woman says, “We’re ready for your parents.”
“Parent. Singular,” I say. “For your information, my mom is stuck in traffic. She’ll be here shortly.”
She wrinkles her nose.
“What about your father?”
“My parents are divorced.”
The foundation of Jewish education is parent involvement
.
That’s what it says in our school brochure. It’s also written on the wall outside the main office. It’s on the letterhead of all the school newsletters.
Parent involvement
.
“Even divorced parents come for conferences,” the office lady says.
“If you look at my paperwork,” I say.
She lifts the clipboard to chest level, and we both look at it. Actually, she’s looking at the clipboard. I’m looking elsewhere.
She says, “Your father is listed as an alternate parent?
Mah zeh?
What is this?”
Alternate
. That’s code for, “Don’t expect that parent to show up.”
“My father is not expected to come to school events,” I say.
“That’s strange,” she says.
“It’s not so strange,” I say.
“No? Maybe my English is not good with this word?”
I glance around the room. Half the parents are looking at me, and the other half are looking away. Which just means they’re listening.
“Whatever,” I say. “Could you let someone else go ahead of me?”
“You are the
Z
. There isn’t anyone else.”
I see Herschel’s parents walking towards me.
“Give me two minutes,” I tell the office lady, and I run towards the Weingartens.
Herschel’s parents used to consider me a good influence on their son. We were close, we studied together, I got him out of the house. But now that he’s their religious pride and joy, I am no longer considered
a good influence. I am considered a dangerous, subversive influence. As such, I am no longer welcome around the Weingarten household with the exception of a few major holidays. It’s not like they lock the doors and turn out the lights when they see me coming, but let’s just say the Shabbat invitations are infrequent.
“Hello, Sanskrit,” Mrs. Weingarten says. “Is everything all right?”
“Perfect,” I say.
I glance behind me. The office lady has been temporarily swallowed up by the crowd.
“I wanted to say shalom to your mother.”
“She hasn’t arrived just yet,” I say.
“I see,” Mrs. Weingarten says. “I hope there’s no problem.”
“Maybe she left the country without telling me,” I say.
“God forbid!” Mrs. Weingarten says.
“It was a joke,” I say.
“Sanskrit is funny. Remember, Mom?” Herschel says.
He’s swooped in from the side to spare me any more embarrassment. Very decent of him.
“Of course I remember,” Mrs. Weingarten says. She nudges her husband. “You remember Sanskrit, don’t you, Stanley?”
Stanley Weingarten nods his head. That’s their entire relationship. Mrs. Weingarten talks and Mr.
Weingarten nods. Maybe that’s the secret to staying married. If my father had nodded more, things would have worked out.
“Sanskrit, will we see you at Pesach this year?” Mrs. Weingarten says.
“Of course,” I say. Usually, we’d be scarce on a big holiday like Passover, but the Family Education Contract means we need to make a show of it. I still haven’t told Mom she’s going to the Weingartens’ seder next week. It’s their once-yearly attempt to bring us back into the fold. I’ve learned you don’t bring Mom bad news during a juice fast.
“We’ll look forward to seeing you,” Mrs. Weingarten says.
I reach for my pocket like my phone is vibrating. “I think that’s my mom now. Will you excuse me?” I say.
I walk away, checking my phone for the twenty-seventh time.
Not even a text.
I dial Mom again, and it goes directly to voice mail. Which means her phone still isn’t on.
I start to feel angry. My mother knows how important this is. I’ve reminded her enough times.
Somehow she never misses a yoga class, either taking one or teaching one. But all other appointments are considered optional. Including mine. Which means I’m as forgettable as everyone else in Mom’s life.
I check the time and see that Mom is now an hour and a half late.
Time for emergency action.
I call my little sister, Sweet Caroline. That’s actually her name. Our parents had a deal that Mom got to name the first child, Dad the second. They each named us after their favorite things—Mom an ancient language and Dad an ancient Neil Diamond song.
Sanskrit and Sweet Caroline Zuckerman
.
The seeds of divorce were planted early in our family.
“What do you want?” Sweet Caroline says when she answers the phone.
She doesn’t even bother to say
hello
. That’s how sweet she is.
“Where’s Mom?” I say.
“How the hell should I know?”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Right. Like you never swear.”
“Caroline, please.”
“Sweet,” she says.
She hates it when I don’t say her whole name. Unlike me, she’s taken ownership of her name. She says it’s cool to have a weird name in Los Angeles. It makes her feel like the daughter of famous actors.
“Caroline,” I say again, because I’m angry, and maybe I want to take it out on her a little. That’s what sisters are for.
“My name is
Sweet
Caroline,” she says, “not
just
Caroline.”
“It’s not like you went to Sweet School and earned the title,” I say.
“My father gave me this name and it’s the name I will be called,” she demands.
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine,” she says.
And she hangs up.
Jesus.
I dial her number again.
“What?” she says as if we didn’t just talk.
“Hi, Sweet Caroline.”
A pause.
“How can I help you?”
“Do you by any chance know where our mother is?” I say.
“Yoga center meeting,” she says.
“How do you know?”
“Because I got home from gymnastics, and she texted me that there was curry tofu for dinner in the fridge. If she asks, we ate it and loved it.”
“Could you look at her calendar?”
She moans.
“It’s important,” I say.
“What’s so important?”
“Excuse me,” a professor says as she walks through the gymnasium. “No cell phones.”
B-Jew has a strict no-cell-phone policy. Strict is an understatement.
“I’m just calling my mother,” I say to her. “It’s an emergency.”
“No. A bomb on a bus in Tel Aviv is an emergency. Your cell phone is a nuisance.” She points to the door.
I run outside.
“Look at Mom’s calendar, Sweet Caroline,” I say. “Please. I’m in a bind here.”
“What kind of bind?”
“A bad one.”
“Details. I need details.”
“Why?”
“Because I like to hear you suffering.”
I think of a few choice things I’d like to say to her, but I keep them to myself.
“We’ve got parent-professor conferences tonight,” I say.
“Ohhhh,” Sweet Caroline says, like she understands without me saying another word.
I hear her walking into the kitchen. It sounds crazy, but I’m sort of hoping there’s nothing on the calendar. Maybe Mom didn’t forget. Maybe it’s my fault because I forgot to remind her.
“The calendar says
juice fast,”
Sweet Caroline says.
“That’s it?”
“Wait. There’s a big arrow pointing from today to a card on the refrigerator.
Parent-professor conference for Sanskrit. 5:30 p.m
. There are about fifteen exclamation marks.”
“I know. I wrote it.”
So Mom outright forgot. Or she remembered and didn’t care enough to show up. Either way, I’m screwed.
“No Mom?” Sweet Caroline says.
“No Mom,” I say.
“Did you call Dad?”
“Are you crazy?”
“He might come.”
“Yeah, if I was in the emergency room.”
“You’re right. You are screwed,” she says.
You’d expect a tiny bit of understanding from your own sister. It’s not like I’m the only one who’s ever been screwed over by Mom in our family. On her last birthday, Mom surprised Sweet Caroline with a vegan cake that said
Happy Eleventh!
Slight problem: Sweet Caroline was twelve.
Despite it all, Sweet Caroline walks around like she doesn’t have a problem in the world, like she’s got a loving family that shows up for her no matter what. But she’s got the same family I have. The one that has her picking at herself so much she got sent to a psychologist.
“Sanskrit?” she says.
“What?”
“Better you than me.”
She hangs up.
I look back towards school. Herschel is coming out the front door, his suit panels flapping in the wind.
“What’s happening here?” he says.
“I’m taking a cigarette break.”
“Very funny. Where’s your mom?”
“Two guesses. Both involve tights and a gong.”
“Did you call her?”
“Forty-seven times.”
“Your father?”
“Jesus, Herschel.”
“Language,” he says.
“I’m sorry. Jesus H. Christ, Esquire.”
He looks at me deadpan.
That would have made him laugh in the old days. You’re not supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain, so when we swore, we’d add an honorific. Like instead of saying, “Oh, God!” we’d say, “Oh,
Doctor
God!” Or “God,
Master of the Universe
, damn it!”
In the old days it was funny. Herschel used to hate Jewish school as much as I did. That was before he went to Israel and got flipped. That’s what we call it when kids visit Israel and find God. One look at the Western Wall, and they think they’re Maimonides.
These days Herschel’s sense of humor has been overwhelmed by the study of Torah. Not a lot of laughs in Torah class.
“Call your father,” Herschel says.
“No.”
“This is serious. You’re on thin ice with the administration.”
“Maybe this is my ticket out.”
“We’re all out after next year.
Think about college,” Herschel says. “Think about Brandeis.”
A cramp seizes my stomach. Brandeis. A Jewish university without much Judaism, all the way on the other side of the country. My ticket to freedom. But I need the grades to get there.
“Do you want me to call your dad for you?” Herschel says.
“I’m a big boy,” I say.
Just then Barry Goldwasser pokes his head out the back door.
“Sanskrit!” he shouts. “They’re looking for you.”
Here’s Barry to save the day again. I swear, the guy thinks he’s Jewish Superman. What’s worse is that he knows I can’t stand him, but he doesn’t care. He’s one of those guys who likes you even when you don’t like him. Such is the incredible generosity of spirit by which he lives. It’s nauseating.
“Could you tell them I’ll be there in a minute?” I say.
Barry says, “Your family is in turmoil. You have to confront it sooner or later.”
I flip Barry the bird.
“Look where your finger is pointing,” he says.
I look up.
“God can handle your family problems, Sanskrit. Not me.”
“Screw you, Barry. And screw God.”
He shakes his head like I’m a lost cause.
I take a big step towards the door like I’m ready to fight Barry for my family’s honor. But he’s already gone.
“Can you believe that?” I say to Herschel.
“Your dad,” he says, completely unfazed by Barry or anything else.
I stare at Dad’s number on my phone. I imagine me asking—and Dad turning me down with a lame excuse like he usually does. It’s too much for me right now.
I turn off the phone.
“What are you going to do?” Herschel says.
“Take the hit. Like I always do.”
I walk back into the gym through the crowd of parents and students. They’ve all had their conferences now, but it’s tradition to stick around and socialize until everyone’s parents have had their turn. That means they’re all waiting for me.
I glance at the snacks table. It’s looking pretty scarce over there. Once the snacks run out, there will be a riot.
The Israeli office lady sees me and gestures for me to hurry.
I glance to my left, and I see a girl. Not just any girl.
The Initials.
In God’s case, we don’t say his name as a sign of respect. In her case, it’s because it’s too painful.
The Initials is standing with her parents. She looks gorgeous. Her mom looks gorgeous.
I catch myself staring, and I look away. It’s like looking into the sun. If you become distracted by the majesty, you’ll burn out your retinas.
“Sanskri—” the office lady starts to say.
“Coming,” I say.
“Your mother?”
I shake my head.
Can breasts look disappointed? Maybe I’m imagining it.
“Follow me,” she says, and we walk in silence down the hall.
She stops in front of the large conference room. She opens the door and holds it for me.
I step into the room.
All my professors are sitting there. They look past me to the door, expecting an adult to walk in behind me.
But it’s just me.
“Aaron,” the dean says. He always calls me by my middle name. The Jewish-sounding one. Sometimes he even pronounces it in Hebrew, like
Ah-roan
.
“You’re not wearing your
kippah
,” he says.
“Sorry,” I say.
Kippot
are required to be on our heads at all times in school. Some kids wear them out of school as well, but I don’t like to wear mine at all, so I usually stuff it in my pocket.