I’m not regular Libby anymore, just some strange kid who flits in and out of school with the same tired excuses

As told to Rochel Samet

If there’s nothing wrong with me, there’s no reason for me to miss my cousin’s bar mitzvah kiddush. Five of my aunts pounce when I walk in.

“Libbbyyyyy! We haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Your mother said you haven’t been feeling well or something?” Aunt Breindy asks, pushing a cup of water into my hand. “You look a bit pale, doesn’t she, Esti?”

Aunt Esti surveys me critically. “Totally. Here, sit down.” She pulls over a chair.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to inch away.

“Oh, you’re feeling better?”

“Did they ever figure out what was wrong?”

“Beet juice, it’s literally a miracle drink, you need to try it.”

Ma appears. “Here you are, Libby. Are you okay?”

Aunt Shoshi shakes her head. “Devora, I’m telling you, BEET JUICE, you’ll see, it cures everything...”

“Beet juice, shmeet juice.” Bubby joins the debate. “Plain water, that’s what teenagers nowadays need. Not those sugary drinks full of caffeine and who-knows-what.”

“And plenty of sleep, healthy food, and exercise,” Great-Aunt Hinda adds, nodding sagely. “How many times have I told my grandchildren, if you keep eating narishkeit and stay up till all hours, it will make you ill, chalilah?”

It’s stifling and if I faint now, they’ll probably revive me with beet juice.

“I’m going outside,” I mutter to Ma, and stumble to the door.

Behind me, Aunt Esti clucks, “Oy, nebach. You should see this doctor in Cornell, my baby had crazy reflux and he was the only one who could figure out...”

I duck outside. Beautiful silence.