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  He finds himself accidentally keeping pace with a couple girls nearby, both fidgeting self-consciously. He makes discreet side glances at them when he thinks it’s safe, then realizes he should speed up to avoid walking too close.

  “He was checking those girls out,” I say after they pass by, but already I’m doubting myself.

  Bonnie shakes her head, making her sherbet-dyed hair sway. “Amateur.”

  Declan snorts into his food. “You know how many —” he manages, then gives up. He swallows, wincing, and takes a moment to compose himself and clear his throat. “Girls I looked at before I knew?”

  I catch Jade’s eyes on the way back. She looks down at her lasagna, but the contact lasts a fraction of a second too long.

  “You guys excited about tomorrow?” This from Delia, sitting next to Jade. I’ve known her since fifth grade, long enough to know she’s trying to bring everyone into the conversation. That is her instinct: to want everyone else to be heard as much as she wants it for herself. I wish I had that.

  “Does that mean you’re coming?” I ask slyly.

  Delia’s expression is somewhere between sheepish and amused, a resigned smirk. “You don’t really take no for an answer,” she says, but there’s no reproach there.

  “I know,” I say. I don’t mean it glibly. “So that just leaves you, Jade.”

  She holds my eyes for a couple seconds, considering me while I consider her. Tall with curly hair, light brown highlights to match her eyes, dark brown skin. She speaks like she moves: careful and controlled, elegant and precise. Of everyone, she’s the one I know the least. The only one I haven’t known for years, really. We’ve had classes together in the past but never really talked. She’s more Delia’s friend, brought into our group through Social Justice Club.

  But I see a spark of a chance in her hesitation.

  “Aren’t there bigger things we should be doing in SJC?” she asks finally, almost apologetically.

  The words are out as quickly as they cross my mind. “Yes, but doing this doesn’t mean we lose out on the chance to do something else. It just means we get to do more. Look,” I say, shifting gears. “Think of it this way: You know how everyone cares about the really big elections? The national ones. Everyone talks about the president. But really, it’s the local stuff that affects everyone’s lives the most.”

  “We can’t vote,” Bonnie says through a mouthful of rice.

  “I mean local issues.” I am unfazed, building speed and rhythm. “We can’t vote, but we can protest. We can draw attention to stuff that still affects us, to put pressure on others. Take this Constant Vigilance thing. Sure, I mean, at the end of the day who cares about thirty bucks more for a speeding ticket? Who cares about them pulling people over more? But the point is that the city’s just taking for granted that they can do this.” I’m leaning forward, balancing my chair on the front two legs and barely noticing. “No one’s asking them why, what the money’s for, why we should give them more power, what the alternatives are, how we got here, none of that. They’re just looking for easy money, and they assume they have the right to grab it whenever they want and through a police force at that. It’s sketchy at best and sleazy at worst, and we should just let them know, that’s all.”

  Jade’s eyes never leave mine, so mine don’t leave hers. My peripheral vision clouds from disuse, and it’s like looking into a tunnel, a deep corridor whose walls are made of words, and at the other end is a pair of light brown eyes, cool, unwavering, resolute.

  “What are we doing for signs?” she asks after a moment.

  I smile.

  Eema and I eat dinner silently, facing each other across a table too big for just the two of us.

  I don’t get this table, don’t get why we have it. It’s always just been us, Eema and me, since I was about two years old.

  Eema doesn’t talk about my dad much. I used to ask about him, more when I was younger and before I understood what the scowls and curt tones meant. I never got much out of her.

  I called him Abba once, when I was a kid. “Dad” in Hebrew, the complement to Eema. Even back then I was drawn to consistency and symmetry. It made sense.

  Eema was writing something for work. She stopped cold in the middle of a word. I watched her pen come to a sudden halt and felt my insides squirm. She placed it flat on the table, looked at me over the rim of her glasses. The chain swooped down from the frames and disappeared into her bushy hair.

  She held my eyes for ten seconds before speaking. “Having a child doesn’t make someone an abba. A man who stays to raise them, to watch them grow — that is an abba.” She looked back down, picked up her pen, went back to scribbling. “He was a mistake. You may call him that instead.”

  I left, walked outside to the greenbelt near our house, followed the path to the small bridge that goes over the creek. Climbed under the bridge onto a little dry concrete spot where I could sit and watch the turtles. A place I used to go to think, or hide. I tried to make sense of what Eema said. About the mistake. I was eight.

  I got used to the not knowing, or as used to it as I could get. There was a lot I would never know about him, and eventually my own curiosity faded, the way it does when a question has no hope of an answer. Eema never told me his name, didn’t know or care whether he was still alive.

  When he left, he took any connection to his family with him. Or maybe they were already dead, I don’t know. I only asked Eema once and got a crumb of information, more than I could’ve hoped for. “No family.”

  Eema’s own family is just her sister, living an isolated life in Tel Aviv. Her father died before I was born, her mother when I was five. Eema and my aunt Talya barely talk. I don’t think they hate each other — they’re just not close. I met her once; I don’t remember it.

  So it’s just Eema and me, sharing this table meant for more.

  Still, there are clues.

  My eyes, gray where hers and Aunt Talya’s are hazel.

  My skin, three shades darker than Eema’s. Too much for a tan, too much for a fluke of genetics. Enough to make people look twice when we’re together in public, searching for the resemblance.

  A rounder forehead, wider fingernails, fuller lips. Remnants of my father she couldn’t scrub away.

  I used to stare at her when she wasn’t looking, taking stock of the features I didn’t see. I would watch Eema, measuring her, and find my father in our differences.

  “How was school.” It comes out like a statement. Eema puts a small forkful of chicken and rice into her mouth, chewing it slowly while she scans the newspaper beside her plate.

  I’m not really paying attention. I’m thinking about the protest tomorrow, overwhelmed by equal parts excitement and dread. So I focus on why I’m doing this, what made me want to protest in the first place, silently working myself up to a lather.

  I’m getting angry to keep from being anxious.

  You should be careful.

  This could be dangerous.

  I know. But anger can be self-medicating, I’ve learned. A way to overpower my nerves.

  Sometimes the risk is worth it, is all I mean. Sometimes I need just a taste of it, enough to power me through.

  I watch Eema for a few moments as she eats and reads, head bent over the paper, just inches away. She looks up after noticing I haven’t answered.

  “It was fine,” I say.

  “Just fine?”

  “Yeah. Just fine.”

  She looks back at her paper. “How is the English teacher? The one you say will be so terrible.”

  I sigh, careful to make it too soft to hear.

  “That was Declan saying that, not me.”

  Eema nods once, not looking up. I stir the remnants of my chicken and rice, and finish it in three large scoops of my fork.

  “Careful. You will choke.”

  I ignore her and chug the rest of my water, listening to the gulps slide down my throat — one, two, three, four. The last one almost hurts.

>   I stand up with the glass still in my hand, grab my plate, and head to the kitchen.

  “Wait.”

  I stop at the threshold to the kitchen, turning back to face her. Eema takes a long sip of her tea. I listen to the slow slurping noise, imagining the hot liquid cascading down my throat, and feel a bead of sweat break out on my forehead.

  “I thought we could go to synagogue,” she says.

  My mouth is already open to say no before the last syllable is out of hers. She goes almost every Friday and Saturday, and sometimes I come along. We’re both basically atheists, but I don’t really mind it. It can be kind of nice. Calming. And Eema, I know, says it’s still important to remain connected to the cultural aspects of Judaism. That, and I think she likes meeting her friends there. She doesn’t have many.

  But tonight? When I’m too worked up to sit still, already half-crazy with worry and a brand of anticipation that leaves me a little queasy? I’ll pass.

  “I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate. I’ll probably keep fidgeting and annoy — wait,” I say, cutting myself off, a thought coming sharp out of the clear blue. I stare into space for two seconds. “One sec.”

  I turn abruptly toward the kitchen, putting my glass in the crook of my arm, and pull my phone out with my free hand.

  you going tonight?

  I hit Send and put my dishes in the sink. Zack texts back before I can turn the faucet on.

  Of course.

  “Yeah,” I call from the kitchen, tapping my fingers against the back of my phone. “I’ll come.”

  Eema and I drive in silence. She prefers it this way, and by this point, so do I.

  Our synagogue is a small square box, built in the seventies and not updated since. Cheap vinyl and wood paneling as far as the eye can see. It sits on land large enough for a bigger building, which is what they’re planning once they have the money. I dunno why. It’s tiny and old and thriving, the Ruth Bader Ginsburg of synagogues, and it is perfect.

  Zack finds me near the entrance, rummaging through the little basket of kippot.

  “They’re all the same,” he says after a moment.

  They are not. Under a maroon cap, I catch a glimpse of seafoam green and make a grab for it. I check the inside. The print is fading, but still readable: Bar Mitzvah of Eran Sharon. July 17 – 18, 2015.

  “This one’s got history.”

  Something about the way Rabbi Cassel tells us to turn to page twenty-five, to rise, to read responsively — there’s something about his deep voice settling on the refrains I’ve heard since I was six that works on me like a sedative. The familiarity is soothing.

  When we sing, the melodies pulse outward in waves. The words come out of me automatically, committed to memory over years and burned there for good during my bar mitzvah. I couldn’t tell you what they mean. Ask Eema.

  Everyone moves into the tiny social hall afterward. Zack and I take a thimble of wine and a chunk of challah as they pass it around, washing one down with the other once Rabbi Cassel says the blessings. Then it’s over, and the noise rises to the dull roar of four dozen people mingling.

  “Eran! I’m glad to see you back here!” Her singsongy voice covers a light tremble: an old-lady voice.

  “Hey, Mrs. Persky.”

  “Usually you make your mother come alone,” she goes on. I smile slowly. It’s a guarded smile but a real one. I know what she’s doing.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Mrs. Persky smiles back at my nonresponse, then gestures to Zack. “This one comes every week,” she says, prodding. “You could learn from him.”

  Zack looks at her noncommittally. He’s not interested in playing.

  “I know, Mrs. Persky,” I say. I reach around her to grab a handful of stale cookies from the table and nudge Zack. “Outside?”

  The stumpy sign for our synagogue sits in the corner of the lot, far from the building itself. CONGREGATION TIKVAT HADOROT, spelled out in both English and Hebrew letters, facing La Finca Boulevard. The sign is two feet deep with a flat top. We sit on this, eating sugar cookies, watching traffic go by.

  “Doing anything tomorrow?”

  Zack gives me a sideways glance, warned off by the tone of my voice or just because it’s me speaking. He’s regularly wary around me, something that makes me feel alternately proud or dejected, depending on the day and my mood.

  “The Lord our God commands me to rest on the Sabbath,” he says. My lip twitches. Zack’s sense of humor turns dry when he wants to stall. My best bet, I know, is just to jump in.

  “What do you think of this Constant Vigilance thing?” I ask. “’Cause I think it’s dumb as hell.”

  We’re both steeling ourselves, I realize. I try to ease my own tension by kicking my legs a little, shaking the anticipation out of me. Zack takes a contemplative bite of cookie.

  “I have no idea what that is,” he says.

  “Zack, you do. The police thing? Where they’re gonna pull people over for no reason and raise fines? We’re holding a protest tomorrow. You’re coming.”

  “Ah.” He examines the edge of a cookie. “Right.”

  Four cars pass by. I count them under my breath.

  “Yes, it’s stupid,” he says finally, finishing each word in full before moving on to the next. I tense again. Zack speaks slowly when he’s gearing up for something that I’m gonna disagree with. “It’s also not the end of the world.”

  I blink, but I’m only taken off my game for a second.

  “Is that the threshold for protest? The actual apocalypse? Or can we protest something before it gets to that point?” There’s an edge to my tone now I wasn’t intending, but I’ve gotten this answer maybe one too many times.

  “Don’t pretend you thought I meant that literally,” he says, getting into his own swing. “This kind of protest isn’t exactly my thing, if you really want to know.”

  “Why? I mean it. Why? We pay all this lip service to needing checks on powers so that authority figures don’t become authoritarians. Right? As a society, I mean? But it’s always in theory. Then when there’s an opportunity to actually put those ideas into practice, half the country wants to drag its feet.” I take a bite out of a sugar cookie I no longer want. “It’s like humans are just drawn to dictators and kings. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t think —”

  “It’s ’cause we’re lazy. We want everything done for us.” I point at him with half a cookie. A couple crumbs fall out of my mouth; I wipe them away with my free hand. “Think about it. There’s a terror attack: we want the president to protect us by any means necessary, even if we lose freedoms. There’s a drug epidemic: we want harsher drug laws. Jesus, even when the crime rate falls, we want more police.”

  I don’t like the silence the end of my little speech has created, so I swing my legs harder, letting my heels fall back against the sign while I wait for a response.

  Zack finishes his cookie and wipes his hands methodically. He takes a second to inspect his palms.

  “Why do you come here?”

  Zack does this sometimes. I narrow my eyes, fighting an instinct to course-correct. I know by now that what seems like an abrupt subject change with him isn’t always so.

  “To the synagogue?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a Jew, Zack. Surprise.”

  He gives me a small smile. “Yes. Technically.”

  I give him a look. “It’s like my mom. She’s even more of an atheist than I am, but she comes all the time. It’s a cultural thing for her. Or that’s what she says.” I look at my hand. There’s just a pile of crumbs in there now. I frown and toss them into the grass. “I mostly come because I’ve always come. It’s familiar but not stale, I guess. Also for social reasons. Also to talk to you about this protest.”

  “Ah.” Zack follows a minivan with his eyes. “Is that why you’re here? Just to recruit Jews to fight the establishment?”

  “No, don’t be —” My mind changes track. “O
r maybe? Wouldn’t that make sense? Isn’t that kind of what we’re supposed to do?” I let my right foot fall back too hard, and it knocks one of the letters loose. “Oh,” I mutter, and jump down.

  “What do you mean, ‘what we’re supposed to do’?” Zack asks.

  “Judaism is protest!” I say. “It’s like all about protest, not accepting what’s in front of you at face value, that sort of thing. Isn’t it?” The black H is solid and heavy in my hands, a surprise. I look at the space where it had been affixed to the sign. All the other letters stick out about an inch or so. “Remember in our confirmation class? Remember Rabbi Cassel telling us it was impossible to be a good Jew without questioning authority?” I try to get a good look at the tiny pegs that had been holding up the H.

  Zack doesn’t say anything for a moment. I start to wonder what it means just as he takes a slow breath. “You always sound angry when you talk about your mom.” He keeps his voice even, not dull or flat but not charged either.

  I stare at the H in my hand.

  “I am. Usually.” I’m startled by the definitiveness in my voice, but only for a second. Then I run with it. “You know how you’re super calm and methodical and sometimes a little boring, no offense? That’s your dad, right? And then your sense of humor, when it comes through, when you let it, is your mom’s. So you’re left with two pieces of yourself that both complement each other, that balance each other out, but that can work alone too.”

  Zack watches me, not sure yet where I’m going with this, but I can feel myself picking up steam, the path to my point clarifying, becoming more solid. I move from a walk to a jog, from a jog to a sprint.

  “I just have my mom. I’ve always just had her. So it feels like I get my entire personality from her. Like my intensity. I know I can get a little wound up and go off the rails, just like her. And I don’t think that’s always a bad thing either, so get that out of your mind right now,” I add, giving him a look. “I think it’s one of the best things about me, that I actually care about things instead of just going along with all the bullshit in the world, because going along is how we as humanity get stuck with some pretty awful things. It’s just . . .” I sigh. “That intensity gets out of hand sometimes. I get angry easily, just like her, and it’s a powerful, crazy, sharp anger, and in the moment the only thing in the world that matters is that feeling.”