“Here, I’ve got the spreadsheet pulled up,” says Grandma.
“Sophie, are you listening?” says Mom. “Now, the other option for the buffet is this bonus room at the back of the venue. But is it weird having the food that close to the restrooms?”
I shrug. “At least it’s convenient.”
“Jamie! Don’t be gross,” Sophie says.
“Oh my God, for handwashing!”
Mom rubs her temples. “I’d like us to utilize the space, since we’ll be paying for it anyway, but—”
“Hey.” Sophie perks up. “What about a teen room?” Mom narrows her eyes, but Sophie raises a finger. “Hear me out. It’s a thing. You’ve got the adults, all of your friends, family—you all get the nice party in the ballroom, right? And then we get our own super chill smaller party in the other room. Nothing fancy.”
“That’s ridiculous,” says Mom. “Why wouldn’t you want to be with family?”
“I’m just concerned about some of the music being a bit much for the old people, you know? This way, y’all can play ‘Shout’ or whatever in here.” She pokes the middle of the ballroom on the floor plan. “And then we can have Travis Scott . . . and everyone’s happy.”
“Travis Scott. Now, isn’t that Stormi’s dad?” says Grandma.
“We’re not having two separate parties,” says Mom.
“Then why’d you ask my opinion?” says Sophie. “Why am I even here?”
“Why am I even here?” I mutter to Boomer, who gazes back at me solemnly.
I mean, let’s be real. Mom didn’t even want my input when it was my own bar mitzvah. I didn’t even get to pick my own theme. I wanted historical timelines. Mom made me do Around the World, with chocolate passports for favors.
I guess it ended up being sort of cool—in an ironic way, since I’ve only been to one other country. My dad’s been living for years as an expat in Utrecht, so Sophie and I spend a few weeks in the Netherlands each summer. Other than that, we don’t talk to him much. It’s hard to explain, but when he’s physically present, he’s present—he takes off work when we visit and everything. But he’s not really a phone guy or a text guy, and he’s barely an email guy. And he’s only been back to the States a handful of times since the divorce. I doubt he’ll come to Sophie’s bat mitzvah, especially with it scheduled so close to our summer trip. He skipped mine, though he did mail me a congratulatory box of authentic Dutch stroopwafels. I didn’t have the heart to tell him they sell the exact same brand at Kroger.
“—Jamie’s toast,” my mom says.
I jolt upright, startling Boomer. “My what?”
“You’re giving the pre-challah toast at the reception. And the hamotzi, of course.”
“No I’m not.” My stomach drops.
“Come on, it will be good for you.” Mom ruffles my hair. “Great speaking practice, and pretty stress-free, right? It’s just family and Sophie’s friends.”
“You want me to give a speech in front of a room full of middle schoolers.”
“Is that really so intimidating?” asks Mom. “You’re going to be a senior. They’re not even freshmen.”
“Um.” I shake my head. “That sounds like hell.”
“Jamie, don’t gateway cuss,” says Sophie.
Grandma smiles gently. “Why don’t you think about it, bubalah? It’s not all middle schoolers. Drew will be there, Felipe and his fellow will be there, your cousins will be there.”
“No.” Mom rests her hand on my shoulder. “We’re not doing the negotiation thing. Jamie can step out of his comfort zone for Sophie. She’s his sister!”
“Yeah, I’m your sister,” chimes Sophie.
“This isn’t a normal brother thing! Where are you even getting this? If anything, you should be giving the toast.”
“Andrea Jacobs’s sister gave a toast,” Sophie says. “And Michael Gerson’s brother, and Elsie Feinstein’s brother, though I guess he just said mazel tov and then belched into the microphone. Don’t do that. Hey, maybe you could do your toast in verse?”
I stand abruptly. “I’m leaving.”
“Jamie, don’t be dramatic,” says Mom. “This is a good opportunity for you.”
I don’t respond. I don’t even look back.
I can’t. I’m sorry. No offense to Sophie. Trust me, I’d love to be the awesome brother who can get up there and be just the right balance of sentimental and funny. I want to charm all her friends and say all the right things. Sophie probably deserves a brother like that. But the thought of standing in front of a packed ballroom, trying to form words and not choke or have a coughing fit or burn the whole banquet hall down . . . It’s impossible. It’s a job for some other Jamie, and unfortunately, I’m just me.
Chapter Two
Maya
Sara is on a mission. And since I’m her best friend, I am all in. But forty-five minutes into our treasure hunt we’ve come up empty. The object of our conquest? A trash can. And no, I do not mean this metaphorically. We are literally on a hunt for a receptacle for garbage.
“It’s got to be here somewhere . . . ,” Sara mutters. “They had three in stock when Jenna called to check this morning.”
I stifle a yawn as people dart past us, pushing red shopping carts.
“I thought you were going with the other stuff you texted me last week,” I tell her.
“Yeah, but then Jenna found a great theme here that goes with our dorm layout. This is the only thing we’re missing.”
“I still don’t get it.” I glance at her. “I mean, it’s a trash can.”
“Correction, it’s the perfect trash can, Maya.” Sara’s eyes sparkle. “It’s got a vintage feel. You’ll see!”
I smile and nod, but the truth is, even if we’ve combed over the storage section three times, I’m just happy I get to be here with her. Between her babysitting gigs, swim coaching at the Y, and working at Skeeter’s custard shop, she’s as busy this summer as she was all senior year. I haven’t even had a chance to tell her everything that’s been happening at home. Just thinking about it now makes my stomach knot up. Because right at this moment, my dad is packing his things into cardboard boxes.
I rummage in my purse for my phone; my fingers slide over my passport. It arrived yesterday. Pulling it out, a fresh burst of sadness washes over me. We were supposed to leave for Italy after Ramadan ended, two days after Eid. But right after I turned in my passport application, the trip was canceled and, along with it, it turned out, so was my parents’ marriage. I glance at my picture. I think there’s some kind of rule that photos in stamp-sized squares must come out terribly. As evidence, I would present: my driver’s license, my YMCA card, and now my new passport, where I look like a very stern woodpecker. But how I look in this photo feels like a silly thing to even think about, considering everything that’s happened.
“It’s not that bad,” Sara says, looking over my shoulder.