How to Find What You're Not Looking For: List 2

Today she’s wearing a paisley dress, so many colors swirling on her, it makes you dizzy.

You look around and see a shaft of light coming through the classroom window.

“I’m so sorry,” Ma says, looking flushed.

“So I have an idea. I’d like to bring in an electric typewriter so she can do much more of her work on that. Do you possibly have one at home, electric or not? I’d also like her to keep writing poetry. There have been some new studies that say that students with Ariel’s type of learning disability could benefit from both. Have you ever heard of the term dysgraphia? It’s not a common term. More people are familiar with dyslexia. It’s focused on writing abilities rather than reading.”

She said Daddy needed to stay late, restocking and doing inventory.

You look at your teacher and plead with your eyes: Don’t let him get away with it.

You picture sitting on your favorite wooden stool, a cola in one hand, a cookie in the other, watching Daddy braid a challah, twisting the fat yellow dough into a thing of golden beauty.

“Ariel, there are other ways to handle your feelings, even if someone provokes you first. Talking things out peacefully is best.”

Above it on the awning was your father’s name, Max, and that’s when he knew his life was about to change.

After, she fills the crust with lemon custard and starts whipping the meringue. The meringue grows bigger and fluffier. It’s one of your favorite things to watch, how slimy-looking egg whites become a heavenly cloud before your very eyes.

Sometimes it’s not so complicated. Work hard, be honest, don’t dwell.

But instead, she leans against the stool, a little hunched over, one hand on her hip, the other hand rubbing her forehead. She looks worried and sad. It scares you to see her suddenly so wilted.

At lunch, you hang back, pretending to rummage in your desk until everyone leaves.

Ma has an exasperated expression on her face that reminds you so much of Leah it hurts.

You get back into her bed and let Elvis’s velvety voice sing you to sleep.

“We have to hurry,” you say, your loafers slapping the ground hard as you pick up your pace.

There’s been nothing about the protests and riots, nothing about San Francisco and the hippies, or about Thurgood Marshall’s Supreme Court confirmation or the Six-Day War, and nothing about Loving v. Virginia, but that’s a good thing because Miss Field said you couldn’t choose the same topics.

“It’ll be okay,” Daddy says in a stern voice.

Each separate flavor—the raspberries, the vanilla, the butter, the lemon zest, the crushed almonds—stands out but also blends into something even better.

Then she reaches out and gently tousles your hair.

When she’s home, she wears dungarees that are often dotted with clay and glazes.

She takes her pieces to a friend’s kiln when they’re ready. Then she brings back her shiny bowls and vases, piles them up on shelves in her room, and tries to sell them at art studios and craft fairs.

Once when Jane had you over for dinner, she made cheese fondue.

“I solemnly swear,” she says and salutes.

My sister eloped, moved to the city, and now she’s going to have a baby.

Leah would have helped you get organized. She would have sat with you until you felt less overwhelmed. You remember her saying that you should do the harder things first, then the easier things.

You hear the shuffling of Daddy’s slippers, a glass being placed in the sink, more footsteps down the hall toward their bedroom, the door opening and closing, then nothing.

Homage sounds like you’re handing something to someone else, a gift.

Just hearing the word peevish makes you feel irritable, and you think of the way your face looks when Ma tells you to clean your room even though you already have.

But the dictionary says mirth means “gladness or gaiety as shown by or accompanied with laughter.”

You think of all the kids clamoring for a chance at the machine.

Mirth is such a
sad and grumpy word.
I’m not sure if
I believe that “mirth”
actually means
a happy feeling.

You didn’t like being dragged to synagogue, but you miss the routine, the dinner cooking when you got home from school, the glow of Temple Beth Torah’s sanctuary at night, the hushed rhythmic sound of the rabbi’s prayers.

She puts you on hold and you hear a bit of static.

Last year she read in some tabloid that Elizabeth Taylor was spotted at 21 Club, a restaurant in New York where all the stars went, according to Jane.