I speak only because no one else does. “Um, Naftoli? What do you mean, you’re ‘not going’?"

It was one of those awkward moments where I know the situation at hand has nothing to do with me, yet I also know that if I get up and leave, it would just make things worse.

I look at Naftoli, whose entire face is the color of beets.

I look at Mommy, who is clenching a dish towel between white fingers.

I’m not sure what color I am right now, but I’m leaning more toward Mommy.

I speak only because no one else does. “Um, Naftoli? What do you mean, you’re ‘not going’? Haven’t you been waiting and waiting to be asked to return to yeshivah? Remember? You said you wouldn’t rat on your friend, even though he’s a cheater, and you wouldn’t take the blame yourself? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Naftoli whirls on me. “Bella Rena! Yes, I wanted to be asked back. But only if they agreed that I had done what I had to, if the hanhalah was maskim that I deserved to return. Not because Daddy called in a favor. I didn’t want,” Naftoli spit out, “a pity invite.”

I understand him, I really do. Who wants to go to a party they’re not really wanted at? But if it’s the only way to get in the door…

“Tuls, you’re right. One hundred percent. But isn’t there a concept of just, like, sitting in the beis medrash, no matter how you get there? Like Hillel Hazakein?” I ask, knowing my points don’t really add up, but hoping to appeal to his spiritual side anyway.

Naftoli smirks but doesn’t say anything.

Mommy finally speaks, and when she does, her voice shakes.

“Naftoli. Please. Sweetheart. It’s too much for me to see you sitting at home, okay? I can’t anymore. It’s too much waste; waste of potential, waste of a zeman. For kibbud av v’eim, zeeskeit, please just go back.”

I’m suddenly completely absorbed in the thread hanging off of my sweater, but as the silence grows, I sneak a glance at my older brother. His face is frozen as if carved from stone. Mommy is gazing at him quietly. At last he gives a nod, and Mommy hugs him. I grin broadly, I can’t help it: Naftoli’s going back to yeshivah!

***

I stumble down the stairs off balance, my walking boot only dragging a little. I look at the suitcase, hat box, suit bag, and backpack lined up by the door, and I feel just the tiniest bit sad. I’ll miss Naftoli, he’s definitely made my recovery more interesting. He comes out of the kitchen laden with tzeidah laderech, Mommy bustling around nearby. A beep from outside startles them both. Naftoli swings his backpack on, lifts his garment bag, and is reaching for his suitcase when Mommy takes it and begins to wheel it outside.

“Okay, then.” Naftoli shrugs at me.

I laugh shakily and then lift my hand. “Well, good luck back with… everything. I’ll miss you.” I blush at my openness.

Naftoli winks. “Thanks, Bella. You sure made my jail time more interesting.”

“I know.”

We both laugh.

“Refuah sheleimah,” he says, nodding at my boot. And then he’s gone.