How to Ruin Series Part 38

Mitch: At a movie w/friends. Can't talk.

Me: Call your gf tomorrow. Or else.

Mitch: U don't scare me, Amy.

Me: Y not?

Mitch: Bark worse than bite.

Me: I don't bite.

Mitch: I dated U. U bite.

I turn off the phone and look up at Jess.

"He said he'll call you tomorrow."

"Really?" she asks, looking hopeful.

"Where is he?"

"At a movie with friends."

"I talked to him earlier. He didn't say anything about a movie. Since when can't I go with him and his friends to a movie?"

I shrug. I can't figure out my own boyfriend. How am I supposed to figure out hers?

I lie in bed later thinking about all the promises I forgot to get from Avi. Maybe I'm delirious thinking he's waiting for me to come back to Israel. If he's not thinking of me, why am I so obsessed with him?

11.

"When a woman at childbirth bears a male, she shall be unclean seven days ...

If she bears a female, she shall be unclean two weeks." (Leviticus 12:2-5) Umm ... does this mean boys are viewed as cleaner than females? Has G.o.d seen the boys'

restroom at Chicago Academy lately?

"Do you know if it's a boy or girl?"

It's Sunday and I'm in the 'burbs with my mom. We're sitting in her car, heading to a maternity-clothes shop. She looked so excited about this little excursion; I couldn't say no.

My mom rubs the b.u.mp in her stomach, like a prego person in the movies would.

"We want it to be a surprise."

"What if it's twins?" I ask her.

When she smiles at me, the corners of her light blue eyes crinkle. Isn't she too old to have a baby? "There was only one heartbeat. No twins."

The baby is due in six months and already my mom's stomach looks like a small bowling ball. I can't believe I haven't noticed it before. Maybe she's been trying to hide it with those ponchos she's overly fond of lately.

When we drive up to a place called Modern Maternity I feel stupid. I'm seventeen years old. I could seriously be a mother myself.

"Marc and I both want you to be involved in this pregnancy," she says. "It's important to us."

My mom's not Jewish, but she definitely has the Jewish guilt thing down pat.

I put on a huge, toothy smile. I'm probably overdoing it, but the reality is I want my mom to be happy. "I'm so happy for you," I gush. "And I want to be a part of this new family, too!"

"Amy, I'm your mom. I can see right through you."

We're still sitting in the car. I watch her face turn from elation to unhappiness in a matter of seconds. Oh, no. I gotta talk to her before she starts crying. "Mom, I am happy for you and Marc. It's just weird for me. First the wedding, now the baby. I just need time to get used to it, okay?"

I remember back to when my mom took me to my first ballet lesson. I'd begged for her to sign me up and practically dragged her to Miss Gertie's Dance Studio where Jessica was already taking lessons. My mom paid the hefty tuition, bought me ballet slippers and a cute leotard, and off we went to the first cla.s.s. Only there was one problem: I refused to go inside the studio. For some unknown reason (even to me) I cried in the car until my mom dragged me kicking and screaming into that studio.

She forced me to go.

In retaliation, I sat in the corner of the studio and refused to move even one pink ballet-slippered foot the entire time. This routine continued lesson after lesson until the costumes came in for the recital. My cla.s.s danced to a song called "The Buzy Bees." We were little bees with black and yellow sparkly sequined leotards and black springy sparkly antennas. What can I say, all those sparkles would turn any reluctant kid into an instant ballerina just waiting to go on stage. The day those costumes came in, I stood up from my usual spot and danced and buzzed around as if I was making up for lost time.

Those ballet lessons made me learn one thing: My mom is a patient parent beyond belief. And she'll wait anything out until I cave.

"Amy, I know it's not easy for you. Too many changes in such a short time." She looks up at the sign to Modern Maternity.

"Should we just go back home? Or go bra shopping for you? I can do this another day."

"No, we're already here. You might as well get some clothes that won't strangle the baby." Besides, I don't want to go bra shopping with my mom. She'll probably pick out those big hefty white ones that resemble tablecloths with straps.

Mom needs no further encouragement.

She's out of the car as if someone was pus.h.i.+ng her enlarged b.u.t.t forward. I swear, my mom used to have a body an aerobics instructor would be jealous of. Now ...

well, let's just say she's changed a lot.

I follow her into the store, silently hoping the salesperson doesn't mistake me for the customer.

"Can I help you ladies?" the short and perky salesperson asks, looking from my mom to me and back.

My mom touches her stomach again.

"Well, I'm about three months along now and am outgrowing my clothes already."

The lady claps her hands together. "Are we looking for casual or business attire ...

or do you need something for a specific occasion?"

I'd like to cut the word "we" from the woman's vocabulary.

"Casual. And business."

While the lady shows my mom around the store, I follow in silence. To be honest, though, some of the clothes aren't too bad.

And before long my mom is trying the stuff on, making me go with her into the dressing room.

On the bench I catch sight of something weird. It's like a cream-colored pouch with strings coming out of it. "I think someone left something in here," I tell the saleslady, pointing to the strange object.

"No, there's one in every dressing room.

It's to strap to your stomach to make you look five to six months pregnant."

I can't help the giggle that escapes my mouth. My mom shushes me, then closes the dressing room door.

"Can I try it on?" I ask.

Before my mom can stop me, I pick up my s.h.i.+rt, tie the pouch around my waist, and pull my s.h.i.+rt back down.

"That's not really the image I want of my seventeen-year-old daughter," Mom says, eyeing me rub my tummy like she does.

I wonder what it would be like to be pregnant. A baby growing inside your body until it can survive on its own. Turning sideways, I check myself out in the mirror.

Do I want kids? I mean, I feel sorry for my parents that they have to deal with me.

Sometimes I think I'm not normal, that I'm long overdue for a psychotherapist to straighten me out. Then at other times I feel like everyone else is a mashed-potato nutcase and I'm the only sane one.

Maybe Mom's banking on this new kid to be the normal one, the one who's freak- out resistant.

I stare at my mom's stomach as she tries on a black and white suit with a stretchy panel in the front of the pants. It makes me realize what a big deal this must be for her.

She's not just getting big; she's creating another human being, one she'll be responsible for forever.

"You can touch my stomach if you want," she says.

I do, but I don't. I remember I used to lay my head on her stomach and laugh as I heard gurgling noises coming from it. Now there's a baby growing inside there ...

I guess she senses my hesitation, because she takes my hand and places it on her bulging tummy. "Can you feel it moving?" I ask.

"Not yet."

I gaze at my hand on her belly, close to my half brother or sister. As much as I know it's weird for my mom to have a kid, I'm feeling unusually protective of it right now. I pull my hand away; this is getting a little too weird for me.

She tries on a big white s.h.i.+rt with an arrow pointing down saying Future Physician. "What do you think?" she asks, holding her arms out wide to give me the full view.

"I think it's weak sauce."

"Weak sauce?" she says, scrunching up her face in confusion. "New slang I don't know about?"

"You know ... same as lame. It's all about the sauce. If it's bad sauce, n.o.body likes it."

"Is this one lame sauce?"

I don't correct her and tell her it's weak sauce, not lame sauce.

Now she's holding out one that says Almost done.

"You can get it, but I'm not going out with you in public if you're wearing it.

Don't they have one saying I'm a Dorky Mom? "

"I didn't see that one on the racks," she says, teasing me.

In the end, she picks out a pants suit for work, one dress, two pairs of jeans, and three T-s.h.i.+rts that don't have writing on them. I swear, before my mom was married and actually had a job, she dressed like she was a Vogue model. She knew everything about fas.h.i.+on and taught me so much. Now, my mom got married, quit her job, and seriously does not know what's in. I hope after the baby is born she'll change back into the same mom I had before.

"Are you staying over for dinner?" she asks when we're on the way back to her house.

"Sorry, can't. I'm going to some Jewish teen group thing with Jessica."

"You sure about this Jewish route, Amy? Marc and I were discussing it the other day, and we just don't understand this sudden interest in conversion."

Mom doesn't understand that during my trip to Israel last summer I changed. It's like I found a missing piece of myself. It's a small piece, but sometimes I feel like when I find the missing pieces of myself I get closer to being whole. "It's not sudden, Mom."

"What does your father say? From what I know, he's not all that religious himself."

I look out the window, fighting the urge to argue with her. Converting to Judaism is something I feel strongly about. It has nothing to do with my dad or my mom. It has everything to do with me. To argue and try to make her see my side is pointless.

My mom has her own opinions about organized religion and I don't share her view.

W h e n Safta gave me a Jewish star pendant, I felt something I'd never felt before. A connection to people I had previously not acknowledged. And when I climbed Masada, it really hit me. My dad is Jewish, so half of me is Jewish. To ignore it suddenly felt like it would be dissing a part of who I am. I admit, learning about Judaism and reading the Tanakh (that would be the Torah and learning about the numerous Prophets) isn't easy. And, to be honest, I don't totally agree with or understand the Torah.

Rabbi Gla.s.sman encourages discussion, even disagreements. Which is great, because I'm disagreeable by nature. I question everything, like why Abraham really was going to kill his son. And it's obvious men wrote the Bible (it's a bit male-centered if I do say so myself.) But did the stories actually happen or were they made up?

"Dad supports me."

"But can't they consider you Jewish because your father is? It's seems silly to have you go through months of cla.s.ses-"

"They're not making me do it, Mom."

She just doesn't get it. Or maybe she doesn't want to get it. "I don't have to convert. I want to convert. Just ... leave it alone, okay?"

Mom shrugs. "Okay, okay. I just want you to be happy."

"Then stop nagging me about religion.

Nag me about something else instead."