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new story. inspired by my own dearly beloved nagging jewish mother. so yes, there is a little truth in Noa's tale. enjoy.
My life's about as uncliché as you can get. I don't have a nagging mother, an annoying younger brother, no overprotective friends and CERTAINLY don't have that annoying guy following me around all the time and then the other one who winds up beating random guys for me. Things get even weirder when an ex shows up, a stranger, and that protective boy confesses a few things and my mother decides to get a head start on those grandkids, trying to set me up with the dorkiest kid in temple, who winds up having a secret infatuation for a few weirder things... Can my life get any worse?
(also: if any of you don't understand the Yiddish, just give me a holler and I'll be happy to clear anything up for you)
I scooted out of bed after glaring at my clock that blinked the time at me innocently: 6:10, over and over again.
“Oh shut up, you stupid clock,” I hissed before prancing sleepily (can one prance when still half a sleep?) I’ll answer a “negative” to that query, seeing as I promptly tripped over my discarded pair of jeans from the previous day. Grumbling, I cracked open the door cautiously to see a dirty Nike sneaker lying in rebound in the middle of the door, presumably from being chucked at my door.
Yes, that’s right. My dear, darling mother throws shoes at me to get up. Really, all her life revolves around at the moment is getting me up for school, making sure I get straight As, making sure I find a nice Jewish boy to marry (preferably a banker, doctor or lawyer), keeping my bloodsucking grandmothers at bay, and making it through her premature menopause. But what else’s new?
“Genuk, Ima, I’m up, I’m up,” I called downstairs, throwing my pillow weakly over the side of the bed.
Yes, yes. We do speak Yiddish in my house, my mother’s insistence. She wants her two menches to grow up to be perfect Jewish adults so that she can kvel about us in the nursing home. Oh, joy.
So continuing with my average morning, including the normal outbursts of “Oy vey, Benjy, do you want to ashen porach your mother?” or “You schlemiel! All you do is give me this tzorress!”. I climbed into my shower, feeling the searing water stinging my back as I shampooed and conditioning my huge ball of wavy brown hair. Good Jewish genes, why couldn’t I be blonde, like Kaitlin?
Stepping out into the steam filled room, I swiped a clear path on the mirror so I could see my poo-brown eyes more clearly so as not to poke myself blind while inserting my contacts.
Strutting back into my room, I shed my yellow fuzzy towel and began to rummage through my drawers, searching for underwear and a suitable bra. In the midst of my search, I heard gasping and giggling before whirling around to face my eleven-year-old brother, bent over double in my doorway.
“Sissy’s-gasp-naked-gasp-and-“ Benjy shrieked, torn between being scarred by the sight of his sister in the nude and thinking it was hysterically funny to be seeing a butt. Eleven year olds.
“Benjy!” I screamed, scrambling around for my towel to cover up my, er, nakedness, my cheeks flushing at the fact that my brother had seen my naked body. “GET OUT NOW!”
Great, I’ve just given a preview to the next generation of pervs. I hissed inwardly, a rather usual occurrence for me when something particularly sucky’s happened.
Aw, sweetie, don’t be so down. He’s just your brother. You guys would swim in your grandparent’s pool naked all the time! Rory said soothingly.
Oh, did I not mention? I seem to have an alter-ego who enjoys narrating my life and it’s terrible happenings every so often. Rory loves to give me advice, but seeing as he’s really just my conscience, he’s basically telling me things I already know, therefore getting me in more trouble then I was already situated in. Moving on…
Yeah, but the last time we did that, I was, like, eight. And I didn’t have boobs. And he was two! Meaning, he doesn’t remember that, and still, he wasn’t even like, a boy then. So… NOT HELPING ROR!
Aw, Noa, what’sa matter? Mad that the first boy who’s seen you naked in your teenage years was your brother? Rory taunted, in my mind blowing me a raspberry before disappearing with a satisfactory pop.
Stupid sub-conscience, asshole,
Ah, yes. So you’ve discovered two more of my secrets, thanks to my very kind alter-ego… thing. Yes, my dear mother gave me a boy’s name (spelled very femininely, thank you very much), much to my chagrin, but of course says it suits me. But I don’t know why; it means movement. Sure, I was a rather hyperactive child, and I do love dancing, and sports… but that doesn’t mean I should have a boy’s name that means MOVEMENT, does it? But I guess at the end of the day, I really couldn’t see myself being anyone other than Noa.
Second secret? Oh woah, it’s a doozy, all right. In all my teenage years, and my years of being fully developed in the, erm, upper region of my body (as well as my hips, I’m very proud of them, thank you), a boy has never been granted access to view my body in its splendor. Until now. But I’m not counting this little incident, ‘cause I’ve still got time! I’ve got two years until graduation, and even if there’s no touching involved (oy, my mother would plotz and then have a very Jewish, very kosher cow), I am determined to willingly let a boy my age have viewing opportunities of at least my chest. Oh, and I need to have some harmonious feelings towards said boy. None of that stupid cliché “meet pervert, pervert secretly smitten with girl who despises them, pair gets somehow thrust upon each other by non-involved third party member, pervert annoys girl to no end, manages to catch her while undressing, girl detests him even more, pervert turns out not to be so bad and she slowly falls for him, they make out (in the rain), he ‘cheats’ on her with bitch of the high school, she won’t forgive him until he goes the extra mile, he goes a gazillion extra miles, she forgives him, they make out some more (in the rain) and they live happily ever after”. Nu-uh. No way, I have no clichés in my life, whatsoever (except for the overbearing protective parents, the bitch of the high school after me, being the smart yet strangely popular girl who still gets invited to parties and has weird guys hit on her).
Anyway, while I was in the middle of this ranting (and arguing with Rory) and then this pondering about the patheticness of my existence, nearly forty-five minutes had flown by, and I’m still sitting on my floor, in my towel, with nothing to wear, and my hair dried. And my hair was dry, dry, and I hadn’t done anything to it. Cue frizz and choked screams as Mr. Moviephone laughs maniacally in the background.
I leap up frantically from the floor (once again effectively losing my towel, but not really caring since Benjy should be downstairs pigging out on God-knows-what) and began pulling out clothing for the day. Finding a bra and a pair of underwear, I yanked both on, fumbling with the clasp that managed to scratch both hands and break the skin and going into the loosest two hooks before finally deciding to settle where I put it. Fudging piece of plastic.
I yanked on jeans and a black t-shirt, settling with my Georgetown hoodie as effective blockage from the howling November winds outside and whipped my hair up into a messy bun before sweeping my make up into my school bag and running down the stairs, grabbing the out held banana and bagged lunch my mother was thrusting grumpily in my direction as I darted out the door.
“Oy, bubbelah, you’ve got some schmutz on your face!” she called after me, succeeding in racking my nerves as I swiped quickly at my face as I ran in the direction the bus usually went to try to catch it before its next stops.
But of course, I missed the bus. At all of its stops after my house. I wound up walking to school and making it merely seconds before the late bell rang.
I sprinted through the hallways of Glen Ridge High School, my messenger bag slapping against the back of my knees, tripping me up as it fell harder against my legs with each pounding step. I managed to make it into Chemistry seconds before Mr. Sangh closed the door and locked it, making it impossible for anyone late to sneak in without him noticing.
I slid breathlessly into the only available seat that I saw, diagonally behind my longest friend, Katherine, more fondly known as Kit or Kiki (both names dubbed by yours truly, in the spirit of truly annoying the bestest friend one could ever ask for) which made it next to impossible for us to whisper during Mr. Sangh’s lecture and explanation of the lab we were going to be doing that. Note how I say “next to”. We’d find a way, we always do.
Mr. Sangh, quite a big football fan, signaled us to split up with our lab partners with an over-enthusiastic “BREAK!” which garnered glares from 99.5 of the students in the room (the other .5 were either still stoned from the weekend or passed out on their desks).
My lab partner and I began to set up the experiment when Kit decided to pinch my sides, making me nearly drop the beaker I was holding with a squeal, giving me an extra glare from Mr. Sangh who I swear was on that stupid fantasy sport site… either that or on a porn site, that’s just how engrossed he was in his stupid screen that he didn’t care a female student screamed. I mean, come on, Mr. Sangh! I could’ve been getting raped, or molested… or, or, mugged for the beaker and acid I was holding!
“Hey, Nos, why were you so late today? Oversleep again?” Kit asked me as she started fiddling around with her acid as her lab partner—whose name I completely spaced on; is it Danny? or Josh? or Mark? or maybe it’s Eric?—looked on angrily and flashed rude and annoyed hand gestures behind her back. Eh, no matter, mine was probably doing the same thing.
“I thought I asked you not to call me that. It sounds too much like ‘nose’… you know, the thing Danny DeVito is always picking in AP US History? And no, I didn’t oversleep again. Benjy walked in on me changing and I just kinda, fainted after that, and then, oh, uhm, then my mom just kept yelling at me to get downstairs, and I missed the bus. It just wasn’t good,” I rambled on, seemingly nonchalant as I almost revealed the “man behind the curtains’” identity—cough Rory. I shot my partner one more glare as I filled the beaker with distilled water and then dropped the acid in, taking notes on the rising level of acidity as he gaped at me while I continued to focus on Katherine and her partner.
“Wow. Benjy walked in on you changing? Couldn’t you find other ways to scar the boy?” Kit said sympathetically. Somehow, all my friends had decided early on that Benjy was simply precious and I was always too mean to him, and whenever I came in with horrifying stories of what the little demon had done most recently, they’d immediately get up in my face and defend the little runt. Good humouredly, of course.
“Haha, very funny. This time he’s crossed the line though. What can I do to that little nogoodnik that’ll really get him back?” I thought aloud, stroking an invisible beard and raising an eyebrow, finishing off the whole “evil villain” effect with a low maniacal chuckle.
You could wake him up by putting him the ice-cold bathtub and then take pictures of him naked and post it in his classroom? Rory chimed in, back and ready to wreak havoc on my mind after his hour-long hiatus.
No, idiot. What good does that do? It has to be something really humiliating, but nothing that deals with nakedness… I don’t want to see my little brother’s… you-know-what.
Fine then. Suit yourself. Rory huffed, slamming an invisible door in my head. Finally, peace and quiet. for now.
“Noa! Would you put more acid in already? We’ve only got fifteen minutes left of class, and I don’t know about you, but I want the good grade. Not everyone is gifted in the department of passing with flying colors when not paying attention or charming the teacher into raising a grade!” my lab partner was screaming at me, waving around a bunch of beakers as his face turned bright pink.
“Woah, cool it, Rocky. Don’t worry Abe, we’ll get it done on time.” I said soothingly, turning away from Kit with a roll of my eyes before putting in five more drops of acid.
“AND MY NAME’S NOT ABE! IT’S CABE!” Abe/Cabe/lab partner screamed again as he threw down the beakers (that wound up not breaking, duh, they’re plastic, good going Noa) and unlocking the door and slamming it as he raced out of the lab.
Okay, so I’m not exactly Einstein when it comes to names. Especially with people I haven’t known that long or I don’t see on a regular basis. Is that such a crime?
Uh, sweetie? Rory chimed in nervously.
Oh great, he’s back.
What now?
You’ve kind of known him since you were five. And you do see him on a regular basis; he’s in all of your classes and he sits next to you in AP US history and behind you in your Shakespeare class.
Oh. Well isn’t that dandy?
Mr. Sangh, of course, didn’t look up from his fantasy sport/porn site in the whole screaming fit Cabe threw, and didn’t even look up when he dismissed us ten minutes later. I handed in the lab, both Cabe’s and mine, figuring the least I could do was finish his work up for him. I grabbed both of our bags, before quickly saying goodbye to Kit to look for Cabe who seemed to be M.I.A.
Not seeing Cabe anywhere, I headed off to my Shakespeare class, hoping that I’d see him there, because his bag was really beginning to kill my back.
Damn. What’s that kid got in here, anyway? I complained to my now empty mind, Rory seemingly gone on yet another vacation.
I walked into the room, shivering as a draft of air hit me. For some reason, this school seriously wants to kill us. But only when we go to our English classes, because those rooms are always so cold, you could probably die of pneumonia, or hypothermia, or some other low body temperature-induced illness.
Moving on, however. I dropped Cabe’s bag in the desk behind mine, relieved to finally have his piece of junk out of my care. Kit soon walked into the classroom, giving an evident shiver that was, for some reason, accompanied by a high-pitched giggle. The reason soon became clear, as she was trailed closely by her lab partner (whose name I still can’t remember, damnit). I watched, an amused grin tugging on my lips, as she pushed his shoulder playfully, a flirtatious twinkle in her blue eyes. The moment, however, was ruined between the two as a glowering Cabe pushed through Kit and L.P (short for “lab partner”, thank you very much) and slumped into the desk behind me, kicking his bag under the table before throwing his head down onto his arms.
“Your welcome,” I muttered over my shoulder, staring down at my cuticles. I got only a grunt in response, and I pretty sure he flicked something into my hair. Whatever.
I pulled out my copy of Midsummer Night’s Dream as Kit giggled her way into the seat next to me, batting her mascaraed eyelashes at L.P.
SNAKE DEVILS! I forgot to put my makeup on after I got to school. I must look like the undead. Damn damn damn damn damn.
I swear I heard Rory chuckle in response. Remind me to get an exorcist later?
I pulled out my makeup and compact, and began furiously attacking my face with cosmetics. Normally, I’m not one for that whole ‘done up Barbie’ look, but I at least try to look remotely decent when I’m at school, and more than half alive. It keeps me from scaring the little freshmen.
I had just started attacking my other eye when I heard the door close and people scurry into their seats just as a rather oblong shadow obscured the good light from the public school’s fluorescent light bulbs, making it near impossible for me to finish applying my make up.
“Excuse me, Miss Goldstein, if I’m interrupting your gussying up. If you’re more interested in looking sexy, then you may leave my class.” my Shakespeare teacher, Ms. Dormer (emphasis on Ms.), hissed over my shoulder, her rolls of… extra padding, sticking out over her cordoroy black skirt and into my line of sight. Quite unappealing, really, Ms. Dormer is. She is a little on the pudgy side, but not in the attractive voluptuous way, no, in the “three chins, each with their own zip code”, way. Her first chin sports a rather large and hairy mole, and her upper lip looks like it could belong to a teenage boy in the throes of puberty. Her hair was auburn and frizzy, though I guess I can’t complain, what with my mildly contained ball of hair atop my head, but hers was always pulled up into a severe bun that was sprouting angry tendrils of fire. Her clothes were mismatched and either too tight or too baggy, making her appear much more obese than she really was, and she insisted on buying second hand junk in the worst maroons and fuchsia. It was as if she had skipped a whole chapter of her life, the one in your teenage years where you learn good fashion sense and where to get the best magazines that keep you up to date with the latest trends so that you don’t turn out looking like, well, Ms. Dormer.
“Sorry… Ms. Dormer,” I muttered, putting on the last of my mascara with thin lips and throwing it back into my bag before beaming up at her and gesturing for her to continue her waddle to her podium to begin the lesson.
Congratulations, you’ve effectively wiped away ten minutes of class, Rory said, mentally patting my back. Although that could’ve been Cabe putting a big “Kick Me” sign on my shirt.
Oh, so now you decide to show up? I growled mentally, thinking of all the possible ways to beat up a figment of your imagination as Ms. Dormer droned on about her personal opinion of the hilarity of Puck’s character and I began to doze off. I’d read A Midsummer Night’s Dream in like, the ninth grade. It was really no big deal. I’d been able to pick out the major themes and underlying plots and magical transformances of the character’s personalities and their interactions with one another and whatnot. Whatever Ms. Dormer was blabbing on about Puck and what a joy he was in the play was no big deal.
I managed to space out while successfully looking involved while Ms. Dormer wasted the remaining thirty minutes of class talking only about Puck. God woman, get a life. PUCK ISN’T THAT AMAZING!
The bell rang, releasing us from Ms. Dormer’s fat filled clutches, but gave her enough time to shout after us as we raced to the door.
“Remember class! You have a test on the first three scenes next week! Don’t forget to study!”
I hurried out of the classroom, not even bothering to say goodbye to Kit who was still busy chatting up L.P. and nearly ran to my locker. Of course, I was met by Kaitlin, my insanely perky and incredibly blonde best friend, accompanied by a smaller, mousier, yet still nice Brett, who, since freshman year, had clung to Kaitlin like her life depended on it. The three of us linked arms, walking through the hallway and making people separate for us to get through. Inwardly, I was cackling with power as I saw freshmen and sophomores go darting into lockers to avoid us.
Of course, our little procession was interrupted only by Kit and L.P. running down the hallway, Kit appearing to be holding something in her hand and taunting him with it, jerking it in front of his face before running away with girly giggles. Honestly, it made me sick.
So anyway. As we were yanked from each others arms with the force of Kit’s running, Kaitlin and I broke away from the other two, and went flying to the other side of the hallway, laughing. We all made our ways to our separate lockers, splitting up with overdone hugs and kisses, professing our love to one another, even though we would all be in the same Spanish V class the next period.
Still laughing, I rounded the corner to Locker 543, spinning my combination and jerking open the door, pushing my hand against the avalanche of books that was threatening to pour out and crush me. Putting my books away, I looked around the strangely empty halls, wondering where everyone was. Whipping out my cell phone, the time read 11:15, and my heart began to race as I dug through my locker for my Spanish textbook. I shoved it into my bag and took off at a sprint towards the language wing, trying to make it to class in the next thirty seconds. Impossible, I know, but can you blame me for trying?
Rounding the corner, I slammed into a pillar of muscle and really nice scented clothing, my forehead hitting something hard before I slammed backwards and toppled—quite gracefully—to the tile floor, my head making contact as the pillar and I groaned, our legs tangled together from their flailing as we both fell.
The Pillar stood up before I did and extended a big tanned hand towards me, which I accepted happily, ready to dart off to Spanish, but something made me want to stay behind and give this guy a piece of my mind.
Yiddish Dictionary
oy- oh!
shayna- pretty
genuk- enough
ima- mother (in Hebrew)
menches- decent people ('ch' like in church)
kvel- beam with pride
oy vey- oh woe is me!
ashen porach- trouble
schlemiel- inept nincompoop
tzorres- trouble
bubbelah- darling ('u' is like the 'oo' in book)
shmutz- dirt
nogoodnik- (this is a little bit of English as well) no good person
