Allen Zadoff - Since You Left Me

I try to look away from her, but I can’t. Or maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I like to suffer.

“Did you hear me?” Herschel says.

I manage to shift my eyes from The Initials to Herschel. It’s not a great trade-off. His head is covered with his favorite oversized black felt yarmulke, a billboard for the devout.

“We all have our loves,” I say. “I have girls. You have the Holy Land.”

“That’s apples and oranges,” Herschel says.

“Or grapefruits in her case,” I say.

Herschel scowls. He used to like talking about girls’ breasts. Now a little fruit metaphor sends him over the edge.

“The way you look at them. It’s not right.”

“How do I look at them?”

“Like you’re seeing HaShem .”

“They’re as close to HaShem as I get,” I say.

Herschel is accusing me of elevating girls to the level of God. This would be the ultimate in sacrilege, like worshipping golden idols or slaughtering the fatted calf.

“They’re people like us,” Herschel says. “They make mistakes, they struggle.”

“How would you know?” I say.

Herschel hasn’t had a single girlfriend in high school, and since getting back from Israel, he hasn’t wanted one.

“I’m reminding you that Judi is just a girl,” Herschel says.

“Please don’t use her name,” I say, interrupting him.

Because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even want to hear the syllables come together. Syllables form sounds, sounds create meaning, meaning coalesces into a name—

And this name has the power to destroy me.

A name should not have so much power. Herschel is right about that.

There are other girls in school, cute girls. I get mini crushes from time to time—an Israeli exchange student passes through or one of the hot girls suddenly gets rebellious and hikes her skirt up an extra inch—but the crushes never last.

Nobody is like The Initials.

That’s why I protect myself from the name. I don’t want to hear it, and I never say it.

Maybe then I won’t think of her so much.

Maybe then I can forget.

She bit her lip when she said it. Bit and then licked to soothe the bite, her fists balling up to challenge me.

This is The Initials in second grade. Back when she was just Judi Jacobs. JJ. An annoying girl in my second grade class.

She walked up and challenged me, and we’d barely ever spoken before.

“I’m the best speller in school,” I said. “Now and always.”

“Not anymore,” she said. “I’m going to win the spelling bee this week.”

I laughed in her face. Her ugly, freckled face.

We weren’t in Jewish school then. Zadie wanted my parents to enroll me, but they’d resisted. My mother in particular. She was playing along with being Jewish, but the façade was cracking. She was starting to push back on Zadie. So Judi and I were in public school in Brentwood, where we were fighting to be at the top of the class.

I looked Judi in the eye. I could still do that then. I was brave.

“You suck at spelling,” I said, which wasn’t technically true. “So I’m not worried.”

“You only got a ninety-six on the quiz last week,” she said.

“I blew one word. Big deal.”

I didn’t question how she knew my score or think about why she was paying attention to me. I took it for granted. How would I have behaved if I’d known it was the Golden Age, and Judi would spend the next eight years ignoring me? She would ignore me in public school, then ignore me even more when we ended up at B-Jew together.

She lifted her arms and flexed her muscles like a weight lifter. If she did that today, I would look at her chest. Pray for the cotton to stretch. Look for the curves beneath her oversized sweater.

But I didn’t look at chests then. I looked girls in the eye. And I hated them. Most of them.

Judi Jacobs in particular.

“We’ll see who’s best at the bee tomorrow,” she said. “Yes, we will,” I said. “JJ!” her friend called her.

I walked away, silently hating her, actively planning her demise. I wanted to see Judi Jacobs suffer. I wanted her to be ashamed in front of the entire class.

I went home and studied extra hard that night, memorizing every word, making sure I knew the pronunciation and the origin, paying special attention to silent letters that might trip me up.

I woke up the next morning feeling strong and happy, ready to crush her in the spelling bee.

How could I have known that was the beginning of the end?

That’s what the dean says after cornering Herschel and me in the hall. I tell him things have been touch and go with my mom. He stands there looking at me and shaking his head, and I have to pretend I’m really upset. I’m not good at acting, but luckily I’ve got plenty of real things to be upset about. Most of them female.

“I could barely sleep last night,” the dean says. “Your mother wasn’t answering her phone.”

Herschel gives me a look. It’s too much for me. The lying, the silent scorn from Herschel, everyone treating me so nicely.

“I have to tell you something, dean,” I say.

“Aaron,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been hard on you this year. The academic probation. The family contract with your mother. You think I’m out to get you, I know, but it’s not the truth. It’s because I believe in you. In your potential.”

I step back, subtly shrugging off his hand.

“I appreciate that, sir,” I say.

“Now this has happened,” the dean says. “I don’t want you to worry so much about school. Let us carry you for a while.”

Being carried. It sounds nice. I think of a prince being held aloft on a platform covered with soft pillows. Prince Sanskrit.

Herschel clears his throat.

“You wanted to tell me something?” the dean says.

“No. I mean, there’s nothing to tell yet. We’re still waiting to hear from the doctor,” I say.

“Is she at Cedars?” the dean says. “I’d like to come by and offer my support.”

It didn’t occur to me that people would want to visit her. I hadn’t thought that far in advance. Now I need a story that will keep them away.

“She was at a yoga conference in Orange County when it happened,” I say.

Orange County. The foreign land thirty miles south of us.

The dean whistles through his teeth. No way he wants to drive to Orange County. At least that’s what I’m hoping.

“How terrible,” the dean says. “When will she be back?”

“That’s the problem,” I say. “We’re trying to get her home, but she can’t be moved yet. I think they’re going to rehabilitate her down there.”

“That will be expensive,” the dean says.

I lower my head. I’m learning that if I don’t have a good answer, I can just look at the ground. This doesn’t work under normal circumstances—in class, for instance, when a teacher asks me a question—but during a tragedy, people don’t seem to mind it.

“It’s going to be okay,” the dean says.

“I know it will,” I say, my head still down.

“In the meantime, we’d like to send a basket. Something to let her know the community is thinking about her.”

“You could send it to the house. I’ll make sure she gets it,” I say. And then I add, “Mom loves chocolate.”

Which is an outright lie. Mom doesn’t eat sugar at all. But if we’re going to start getting gift baskets, why not go for something good?

“That’s what we’ll do,” the dean says. His voice turns hyperserious: “If you need anything. Absolutely anything. Do not hesitate.”