How to Ruin Series Part 11

A star is just a star.

Or is it?

It's nine o'clock the next morning and I'm bored, as usual. I eat breakfast, alone again, as I watch Safta sit in her chair.

Snotty came home late last night, her friends all laughing and making noise at two o'clock in the morning. I hate to admit it, but I'm sorry I stayed home. With the exception of Snotty and Avi, hanging with the group is kind of fun.

" Yo ur aba wants you to go to the sheeps. He's waiting for you," Safta says.

"I don't want to."

I know I sound like a little kid, but why go into detail and hurt the ol' woman.

"He misses you."

What? He wouldn't miss me even if I disappeared from this earth.

"I don't think so," I say as I stuff hummus into a pita and take a bite.

"He loves his homeland and wants to share it with you."

I have a mouth full of hummus as I blurt out, "Why doesn't he move back here if he loves it so much?"

"I bet you know the answer to that question, Amy. He stays away because of you. You're his family. His future. His blood. Wherever you are is his home now."

I kneel beside her while I listen to her voice. It's soothing, and when she talks it almost sounds like a lullaby. I'm loud. My mom is loud. I talk loud. I walk loud. I'm just a loud person. But this old lady is like cotton, everything about her is soft and quiet. She leans over and takes something out of her pocket.

"Hold out your hand," she says.

I hold my hand out. She drops something into it and gently closes my fingers over my palm.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Look at it."

I open my fist and look at a small gold and diamond Jewish star glittering in the center of my palm. It's attached to a thin gold necklace. The star is smaller than a nickel, just big enough to know what it is, but small enough to be almost . . . private.

I don't know what to say to her. Being Jewish isn't a part of me. Mom doesn't believe in religion so I've never been to church except for my cousin's wedding.

I've never been to a synagogue, either, except for Jessica's bat mitzvah.

"I'd like you to have it," Safta says.

"It's called the Magen David, the star of David."

Man, I want it. I don't know why I want it, but I do. I'm not Jewish and would feel like a huge faker if I did take it. I mean, I could never wear it or anything. It's just so s.h.i.+ny and glittery and it actually means something important to Safta.

"I can't take this," I say. When I note the disappointment in the eyes that are an exact replica of mine I add, "It's too beautiful."

"You have something else to say, don't you?"

How does she know?

I stand up and say, "I'm not Jewish."

I can't look at her. If I do, I might see she's upset because a non-Jewish girl is her granddaughter. I don't know how Israelis feel about non-Jews. For some reason I don't want to know if she resents me. 'Cause I like Safta. A lot.

"Look at me, my sweet Amy."

Me? Sweet? I raise my eyes and look straight at her.

She's smiling, the wrinkles around her eyes making deep creases as she takes my hand in hers, the one still holding the necklace with the small Jewish star pendant.

"Being Jewish is more in your heart than in your mind. For some, being Jewish is strictly following the laws and customs of our ancestors. For others, it's being part of a community. Religion is very personal. It will always be there for you if you want or need it. You can choose to embrace it or decide your life doesn't need it. n.o.body can force religion on you or it's not real."

Looking down at the necklace in my hand, I say, "Can I keep it? Just for a little while. I'll give it back, I promise."

She pats the top of my head. "I used to wonder why my son stayed away from Israel for so long, but I see the way he looks at you. He wants to protect you, keep you from hurt or harm while trying to respect that inner fire you possess. It is genuine and pure. Take the necklace," she says, then hesitates before adding, "for as long as you want it."

Staring at this woman, who has eyes that mirror mine and who says words that turn my world upside down, disturbs my inner being. I clutch the necklace in my hand.

Then I turn around and head for the refrigerator, looking for some water. Even though it's right in front of my face as I open the door, my limbs feel paralyzed.

I close the fridge and turn to Safta as I walk toward the door.

"I think I'll take a walk," I say.

I take one more look at the necklace before gently placing it in my back pocket.

I find myself walking toward the sheep.

When I get close to the pens, the Ferragamo-stealing mutt bounds toward me. Its filthy tail is wagging furiously, fanning his behind. Remembering my toes filled with snake-guts, I walk right past the dog and ignore its pathetic attempts at making up with me.

"Arg!"

I look down at the thing. "Arg, yourself.

Where's my sandal?"

"Arg!" Wag. "Arg!" Wag.

He trots off toward a hilly area beyond the pens and I think of how lucky that dog is to be free to do as he pleases. Even steal other people's shoes without repercussions.

I walk farther into the pens, the sound of baying sheep and electric razors leading me in the right direction. Spotting Ron, I head toward him. I convince myself that as long as I just hang out here, there's no reason Ron will think I'm incompetent and regret I'm his daughter.

"Amy, honey, over here!"

My eyes wander to the direction of Ron's voice. He's never called me honey before and it kind of startles me. What does that mean, anyway? Honey. It's sweet, but it's also sticky and doesn't come off your hands easily. Annoyingly sweet. Is that me? Not on your life.

He's leaning down, and his knees are locking a sheep down while he's shearing its wooly hair off. The sheep doesn't seem to mind, but I do.

"Ron, that's inhumane," I say.

He finishes running the razor through the sheep's fur while the fluff falls beside him.

He finally releases the poor, naked animal and looks up at me.

"You have a better way?" he asks.

It's then I realize Ron isn't the only one shearing the sheep. O'dead is next to Ron, Doo-Doo is next to O'dead, Uncle Chime is next to Doo-Doo, and Avi is next to my uncle. They're all exhausted, I can tell by the way they're breathing heavily and their s.h.i.+rts are wet with sweat. Not just their armpits and chests, their entire s.h.i.+rts are soaked through.

And they're all staring at me. Except O'dead. He's staring at Snotty, across in another pen. Hmmm.

The razor sounds stop and I feel like the world has, too. I think of something quick to say.

It comes to me like lightning and I blurt out, "Why don't you just leave the fur on?"

Duh. It sounds so simple I give a short laugh.

Chuckles from my right side alert me to my cousin and Ofra. Snotty's wearing a tight black s.h.i.+rt and her dark makeup is running down her cheeks while feeding a lamb with a bottle. Hasn't she ever heard of waterproof mascara? Or the term less is more?

"They'll be too hot during summer months," Ron explains.

I sit down on one of the metal railings and watch. There are dogs in the middle of the pens, eating something red and gooey on the ground. My lips curl.

"What are the dogs eating?" I ask.

Maybe I don't want to know, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

"One of the female sheep had a baby this morning."

"They're eating a lamb?"

"No, the placenta. It's very nutritious."

I gag. "Eww!" I say.

I shouldn't have asked. If I hadn't asked, I wouldn't know. GROSS! Baby sheep placenta. Blech! Stop thinking about it.

Stop thinking about it.

But the more I will myself to stop thinking about it the more I can't look away. Kind of like those b.l.o.o.d.y crime scenes they show on television. You don't want to watch, but can't help it.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Mutt coming into the enclosure. He's small enough to go under the metal railings.

When he looks at me, I squint at him.

"Do NOT eat sheep placenta," I tell him.

He nods at me, as if he understands what I just said. Then he tromps over to the placenta, starts to lick it, takes a part of the gooey, b.l.o.o.d.y thing in his mouth and tugs at it. I can't look any more.

If only Jessica were here, we could have a huge laugh at the whole grody situation. But she's not.

I walk over to where the newborn sheep are. A baby lamb stumbles over to me and I pet it with my hand.

"Hey sweetheart," I say.

"Baa," it whines back, which makes me smile.

I think it's the first time I've smiled since Matan put the flowers in my hair.

"Don't get too attached, he's going to be killed soon."

My heart sinks and my smile fades as quickly as it appeared. I turn to Snotty while I pick up the baby lamb.

"What?" I say.

"We have them slaughtered at three months old. That one's a boy so he'll be one of the first to go."

I look into the eyes of the small, helpless newborn and pull it closer to me protectively.

I'm a carnivore. Although meeting the animal I'm going to eat up close and personal makes me sick to my stomach.

He's so cute. How can I even think about the poor guy being slaughtered? Maybe I won't cut out carbs after all.

Matan comes trotting up the lane with Doda Yucky behind him. He's naked, as usual. What's funny is I'm getting so used to seeing the kid naked that it doesn't even faze me.

He comes into the pen and runs around with the lambs. He's screeching in delight as he runs and tries to catch them.

After a minute the lambs start running after him. But it's not to play, I realize they think his little pee-wee is another baby bottle nipple. He's laughing and running away from the lambs that are trying to get milk out of his thingy like it's a game.

Looking around, I notice Doda Yucky is laughing, as well as the rest of the people who have now stopped shearing the sheep.

I run over to Matan and pick his naked little body up to protect him from the perverted lambs.

After I carry him back to safety, I say very loudly to anyone who can hear me, "That. Is. Not. Okay."

Matan isn't fazed, neither is anyone else.

They're still laughing. Doda Yucky talks to Uncle Chime before she and Matan trot happily back to the house, thank goodness.

The razors start up again, all the men except for Ron bending over the poor sheep. He says something to Uncle Chime in Hebrew before coming over to me.

"I have a job for you," he says.