Figures. Batsheva hates books and doesn’t bother encouraging her children to read. It drives me nuts. When I was a kid, my book club was my life. My mother signed me up, and I convinced my friends to join. We read hundreds of books. Reading made girls popular in my days, and I picked up some of my best friends in that club.

And then… a light bulb moment. Reading is a love that can be learned, and reading makes kids smart. Smart kids are popular, they have friends. I summon a smile. “Ever heard of a book club?”

“No.” It sounds like dough, but I ignore and plow on. “Girls form groups and they have all sorts of reading challenges, contests, prizes. It’s loads of fun. Books are really interesting, you know?”

Frumet shrugs. “I hate reading.”

At last, it’s time to call it a night. I usher them upstairs, to the playroom I’d converted into a huge bedroom for the occasion, so they could all sleep in one room as they’d insisted. I distribute pillows and thick blankets and a million kisses, and then head back downstairs to straighten the dining room.

The room is dim now, just a beam from the hallway light and the last flickering Shabbos licht casting shadows all over. I want to sweep up, somewhat, at least, so the dirt doesn’t scatter around the house. The spirit of youth lingers thick in the air, and I hum as I move about.

At Frumet’s seat, I pause. Popcorn debris litters the floor where she sat.

Just sweep it up and move on. Let the kid live.

I tell myself it’s because I love her that I care so much, that I want her to be like Riva and all the others. But it’s hard to buy my claim when her stupid grin and perpetually limp lower lip make me cringe. I can’t blame the kids for brushing her off. Her grating voice doesn’t win her the popularity award. If only Batsheva would teach her some cues, educate her in the art of voice modulation. Then again, Batsheva’s demeanor doesn’t quite resonate brilliance, so what can I expect?

Oh, wicked thoughts. I want to talk to Eli about it, but I’m embarrassed. My husband would never play favorites. He’d think I’m petty, and he’d be right.

The next day is crammed with laughter and soda, and everyone’s dismayed that it’s over so soon. When my children show up to collect their charges, the girls gripe. “It’s not fair! We just came!”

Eli raises V fingers. “Ooh, Chava, mastered bubby-hood with aplomb.” I flash him a smile, but his words scrape in my ears.

Everyone sits down for pizza, and I relay nachas reports to all the mommies. Frumet trudges by and I squirm. I need to tell Batsheva something about her daughter. What should I say? That she licked every plate clean, and then some?

Something snaps in my brain. This is ridiculous. I love her like I love all my grandchildren, and it’s time to quit this absurdity.

I grab Frumet and march her up to her mother. “Frumet was a tzadeikes!” I thump her back, studiously ignoring the dandruff on her shoulders. “She was my right hand in the kitchen. You’re so lucky, Batsheva! You have such a great helper at home!”

My conscience sneers. Lip service. And although Frumet smiles, I know I blew it.

***

On my way to the gym, Mendy calls.

“How’s your tooth?”

“Definitely better, but you know, it’s there. Teeth aren’t meant to be felt.”

I commiserate. Root canals are as much a part of the Fleischer genes as our slender figures and musical talent. It’s a package deal, I always tell my kids.

Mendy’s planning his next trip to France. I’m proud of him. He’s built his window treatment business from the ground up and travels all the time now. “I’m thinking of taking Batsheva along this time. She’s really the maven in my business. I mean, I know what’s hot today, but she somehow has a finger on what’s going to be in tomorrow.”

It’s admirable, how Mendy respects Batsheva, always finding the good in her.

“We’re looking at the last week of February. Two weeks from tomorrow.”

Hint, hint. My bubby popularity wasn’t born by chance. I don’t miss a beat. “Send me Yehuda.”

The relief in his breath tickles my ear. Very few grandmothers offer to take toddlers.

I’m just arriving to the gym when Batsheva calls to thank me. I brush her off. “It’s my privilege! Yehuda is such a cutie. This keeps me young.”

It’s true, Yehuda is so endearing. I try not to think of the Nefesh Chai party I committed to hosting that week. And the Monday morning coffee date with my friends, a monthly engagement we rarely break. Family comes first.

“You’re one of a kind,” Batsheva gushes. “Listen, I’ll send Frumet along. She’s amazing with Yehuda. She bathes him every night and keeps him entertained for hours. It’ll be easier on you.”

The tingle in my veins dulls. “Good, that’s good,” I stammer. “Sounds like a plan.”

I spy Michal across the room. She beckons to me and gestures at the empty elliptical at her side. I shake my head, waving her off. My legs feel stiff. I don’t feel up to the workout anymore.

Bubby-hood, right.

***

The night before the kids come, I ask myself: If this would’ve been Riva, how would you act?

I know the answer. Duly, I call Batsheva. “What nosh does Frumet like?”

Armed with a list, I buy Twizzlers and caramel popcorn and a case of Dr. Pepper, and I stock up on pancake syrup and hot dogs. On my way home, I run into the drug store for a box of lens solution. Passing the hair care aisle, I halt. It’s going to be a week of uniform sweaters, and all that dandruff… I shudder. Surely Frumet feels uncomfortable around her friends. Poor kid.

The shampoos and oils all market the same promise, so I solicit the help of a sales rep, and she advises me about the store’s best-selling product. The bottle is the size of a lipstick and costs $35, but I’m so happy to do this.

You don’t like her.

Ouch. I don’t know where that thought came from, but it’s not true. Of course I like her. And I’m going to help her, so everyone will like her.

***

Yehuda really is the most adorable thing in the world. I feel like a young mommy again, wheeling his stroller as I do my shopping. Later, Michal and I meet in a café.

“Frumet tells me your Raizy’s Miriam is in her class. Beeeest friends, she says.”

“Friendships that span generations.” Michal winks and takes a sip of Frappuccino. “She’s one of my favorites, that Miriam. Didn’t land in this world yet, but you know, they all grow up eventually. So what if she isn’t Madame Maturity?”

Aha. So that’s the secret. Michal’s granddaughter is hardly a friend to brag about. I should have guessed. Lips pressed tightly, I stir my drink. One of her favorites, Michal said?

“Raizy gets mad and says Miriam acts like a baby, but I tell her to get a life and cut the kid some slack. She was nothing better at that age. I hate when she compares Miriam with Ahuva, her next one. Ahuva’s this little lady, all polite and sweet with beautiful hair and a broader vocabulary than me. So what? They’re all cute in their own way. Oh, but there I go again, rhapsodizing…”

I wrest up a chuckle. My head is a cauldron of questions. Her nonchalance, her effortless acceptance — how does she do it? “B-but… it’s hard to feel it, come on! Some kids are so much more loveable than others.”

“Oh, please. We love ‘em all. Maybe it’s harder to like someone, sometimes. Take your Shmueli. Remember how he screamed his kishkes out for the first year of his life? I was sure you’d give him up for adoption. Nu, so tell me, did you love him any less than your other kids?”

She’s a million percent right.

But Frumet’s table manners still gross me out. Frumet comes home from school “staaarved.” She’s thrilled when I serve homemade pizza. “Do you have sour cream?”

Sour cream? Ketchup, I hear, but where does sour cream come into the picture?

I learn soon enough. Frumet douses her pizza in sour cream until her slice is a yucky pink mess. I gag. It blows my mind that Batsheva tolerates this.

Honestly, why tolerate it? It occurs to me that Frumet probably doesn’t see anything wrong.

“Frumet?”

She looks up mid-chew.

“Pizza with sour cream — it’s not something most people eat together, right?”

Puzzled eyes. “Um?”

“Most people don’t. It’s usually better not do things other people don’t do. At least, not in public. It could make others uncomfortable.”

Frumet blinks, then shifts her eyes away.

So much for my course in table manners. Guilt rattles in my throat.

Later, I sit down to help her with her homework. She shrugs out of her sweater, and I sigh. Turns out that $35 miracle bottles don’t exhibit results within three days, as guaranteed.

It’s not her fault.

It isn’t, I know it isn’t. If only I could help her, guide her somehow.

And maybe I could.

“Do you want to call over a friend to study? Maybe invite that Deutch girl, from down the block. She’s your classmate, right?”

“No way. Fraidy’s a genius. She never studies for tests.”

“Oh, I’m sure she studies. It’s always more fun to study with a friend.”

“She’s not my friend.”

Frumet’s huff draws the conversation short. Sighing, I turn back to the map on the table.

***

“Where were you yesterday, Chava?”

I plop my canteen down on the floor next to the abdominal bench and look up at Michal. “Cruising on the Caribbean, of course. Did I forget to tell you?”

“Very funny. I was sure I’d meet you in school, especially with Batsheva away.”

My brows knot. “School?”

“For the choir. It was so nice! It’s amazing what fourth graders can pull off.”

I have no clue what she’s talking about, and something tells me not to ask. I display incredible enthusiasm in my workout and by the time we’re changing our clothes, Michal is seven topics ahead. I ignore her the entire way home.

Frumet is still in her coat when I accost her. “Your class had a choir yesterday?”

Her eyes widen and my heart crumbles as I confirm that she deliberately hasn’t told me. “How do you know?” she asks.

“Miriam’s grandmother told me.”

She grimaces. I wait, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve loved to come. What kind of choir was it?”

“A Rosh Chodesh choir.” She fidgets, toying with the zipper of her coat. I don’t mean to interrogate her like this, but I must know, I must understand.

“Why didn’t you tell me, sweetheart?”

The “sweetheart” comes out artificial, a line from a script. I feel awful.

Frumet shrugs. Her eyes are dull, although I can’t see them clearly since she won’t look in my face. “It was just a dumb choir. It’s not like I had a solo like Miriam or anything.”

Her voice is a fragile leaf in the wind.

“You should’ve told me. I would’ve loved to come.”

She looks at me wearily, like, who are we kidding? I don’t hold it against her. She probably stood in the back row in a corner, wearing an ill-fitting costume and mouthing words soundlessly. Not like her charming cousin Riva who snagged the solo in every performance, not even like Miriam, her very best friend.

The house is still, only the radiator hissing. Frumet would’ve told her mother, but she didn’t tell me. She didn’t want me to come. She knew. She knew I’d subconsciously measure her against Riva.

I picture her standing on stage, with nobody waving to her from the audience. Her pain attacks me in a chokehold. It’s a pain I inflicted, with my own unrealistic, selfish expectations, with my shameful intolerance.

And I have no idea how to make it go away.

***

The snow on Thursday is worse — or better, depending whom you ask — than forecasted. Yehuda shrieks with terror and won’t go outside with Frumet to play. I settle him down with Magna Tiles and make a chocolate Bundt for Shabbos. Soon the cake is in the oven and I head to the window to watch the children outside playing.

The kids are having a snowball fight. White balls whiz through the air, exploding like fireworks on the coats and hats of giggling neighbors. I spy Frumet, clumsily trying to aim one ball and dodge another at the same time. She fails at both and I bite my lip. Can’t she get a simple snowball fight right? This isn’t the World Cup.

Oh, me again. Why can’t I leave this poor child alone? The image of a lonely girl on the corner of the stage claws at my heart. And with startling clarity, it dawns on me: I don’t want to see her hurt. Her pain is my pain, and it’s my pain because I love her, no matter how awkward or unlikeable she is just now.

Suddenly, a cantaloupe-size ball rips through the air and slams into Frumet’s face. I lower my mug and gape. Frumet crumbles to the ground, feebly batting her face with a gloved hand. I hold my breath, waiting for her to stand up. She extends her hands, gripping the pump next to her and pulls herself up, when another ball, another — what? Balls and more balls bolt at her from every direction, and I gasp as I watch the gang of children laughing hysterically. Frumet tries ducking, but the children are having a blast, hailing bullets of snow at her. Frumet gives up and drops into the mound of snow on the ground.

My entire body shakes as I tumble down the stairs and yank the door open. “KIDS!” I scream.

The children turn. I stomp outside, wade my way through the knee-deep snow, and stop before the pink-cheeked group. “HOW DARE YOU?!” Wind slaps my face, digging through my skin, but I’m sweating. “How dare you hurt my Frumet? YOU! You’re Gottesfeld, right? I saw you! You threw that snowball in her face. You were first!”

The girl’s lips quiver, green eyes circling madly to avoid the sparks my eyes shoot.

“And you! And you, and you, and you!” I’m a madwoman, pointing at each kid with blazing fury. They shrink back, the whole lot of them, until they’re all running away, tripping through the snow to escape my startling wrath.

“Wait till your mothers hear about this!” I holler after them. I grab Frumet’s hands and lift her up. She’s quaking, her body a lump of jelly, and drenched. I peel her sopping glove off and hold her hand tightly as we trudge back to the house. Only when the door closes do I realize that I’m not wearing a coat or boots. I’m soaked through and dripping, yet I don’t leave go of Frumet’s hand. I squeeze hard, the way I’ve squeezed the hands of my children when they were young and hurt. I squeeze it the way I would’ve squeezed Riva’s.

“I can’t believe it,” I whisper.

Frumet sniffles.

“I saw. I saw everything, from the window. I’m going to tell their mothers. That was — that was horrible.”

There’s slush all over the floor, and the cold reaches my bones at last. “You’re freezing,” I remark.

She nods.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and get changed, and I’ll make some hot cocoa.”

My fingers are putty as I boil water and measure cocoa. Save for Magna Tiles clicking, the house is quiet; eerily, tangibly quiet. I put the boiling mug on a tray, along with a fresh slice of cake, and head upstairs. When I reach Frumet’s room, the door is closed. I hesitate. “Frumet?”

Muffled groan.

“Can I come in?”

She grunts and I nudge the door open. Frumet is in bed, a crumpled sack of heartbreak.

“Here.” I place steaming chocolate cake and a mug of hot cocoa on the night table. She doesn’t stir. I sit down at the edge of her bed, and tentatively, my fingers tread over her hair. “That was so, so horrible.”

Slowly, her head turns. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?! How dare they? Why in the world did they start up with you?”

She shrugs. “Cuz I’m fat and stupid and nobody likes me. Who cares?”

What?!

“You—” I sputter. “Never, ever say that! That’s — that’s so not true!”

Her lips twist.

I wish she would cry, but her eyes are clear. Large. Mysterious. The smell of chocolate cake is overwhelming, choking.

“Frumet…” I reach for her shoulder. My throat burns.

“Frumet.”

She looks at me, blinks. I inch closer and wrap my hand around her. Her back is stiff, as though she’s afraid to breathe. And suddenly, more than anything, I want her to gobble up the cake, slurp the cocoa, maybe even dunk the cake into the drink, and shrill in her too-loud voice, “Bubby, the cake is delicious.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 529)