Miriam once again looked like she couldn’t tell if ZeeZee was joking. “It said so in the rulebook we all got when we were accepted. Unless you get special permission from your parents.”

ZeeZee considered this. If she asked, Mommy and Tatty would probably give permission. Unless they actually checked where Elon Moreh was located. She wondered if it was risky bringing it up.

She tilted her head. “And how will the school find out?”

“We have to sign out and say where we’re going,” another girl said.

ZeeZee looked at her for a second, then smiled. “But I’m going with you to your aunt and uncle in Ramat Beit Shemesh.”

Chava’s old, scuffed dining room table was covered with five open seforim, but something wasn’t working with the lesson she was trying to put together. She frowned, feeling vaguely depressed.

“Hi, Ma!”

Chava swiveled. Was Elisheva home from school already? Where did the hours go?

“How was school?” she asked. And then, guiltily, “Sorry, I haven’t even started dinner.” It was so easy to forget dinner when it was just one child at home.

Elisheva dropped her book bag on the couch. “No problem, I’ll make myself something. You keep on with your lesson prep.” She winked. “Isn’t it funny that you’re still preparing lessons after 30 years of teaching? Can’t you, like, give these classes in your sleep?”

Chava got this question occasionally from her married daughters as well; since they were teachers too, it always gave her a twinge of disappointment. A teacher who walked into a classroom and simply repeated the same lesson she’d given to the past 30 classes of girls wasn’t teaching. She might as well place a tape recorder on the desk, press “play,” and leave.

(Not a tape recorder. She could see her girls rolling their eyes. Ma, you’re dating yourself.)

She looked at Elisheva. “But every year the girls are different. I have to teach a lesson that they’ll understand.”

Her eyes roamed over the open Ein Yaakov on the table, the Gur Aryeh, the familiar seforim whose depth and clarity had inspired generations of seminary girls — starting with herself.

Suddenly, that vague feeling of depression took on a name.

“Shev,” she said slowly. But then she stopped. No, she couldn’t bring herself to ask if they had any books of Hashgachah pratis stories at home.

The phone rang, and Elisheva ran to pick it up. A second later, she handed the phone to Chava.

“Mrs. Edelman? This is Gitty Levy calling, from Lakewood. It’s been a while; I don’t know if you remember me. I was Gitty Keller, and I was at Shvilei 20 years ago.”

Chava’s eyes widened. She remembered most of her students, especially those from her early years of teaching. And especially when they had five sisters following after them. Six now, she reminded herself. “Gitty Keller! My goodness, what a zechus to hear from you! How are you?”

“Baruch Hashem, everything’s wonderful. I have seven kids, and…” Chava listened as she gave a quick rundown, trying to figure out what had made her student suddenly call after two decades.

Gitty was still speaking. “My daughter is in seminary this year. Not Shvilei, unfortunately; she chose Bnos Hinde.”

There was a small pause of motherly pride; Bnos Hinde was the top of the seminary pyramid, and Chava complimented her accordingly.

“But even though she’s not your student, I’d be thrilled if my Chana Malka could get to know you. She’s heard so much about you; I’ve often mentioned how you were such a strong influence on my life. Would you be willing to host her for a Shabbos?”

Chava felt her throat constricting. “It would be my pleasure,” she said.

“And maybe she could come together with…” Gitty’s tone suddenly shifted. “Um, I don’t know if you’ve met her yet, but my sister is in Shvilei this year. Zahava — ZeeZee.”

“Of course!” Chava tried to keep her voice as warm as before. “I’m actually ZeeZee’s mechaneches. She’s… uh, such a lively girl. So full of life.”

Apparently, Gitty read between the lines, because she gave a sardonic laugh. “Yes, ZeeZee’s certainly unique. Very different from the rest of us. She’s… I hope you understand, I’m telling you this l’toeles, but she’s the baby of our family, and my parents have been a bit overly indulgent with her, if you know what I mean. She needs some straightening out.”

“I see.” Chava couldn’t help but agree with this assessment. She pictured the girl with the bright red hair, and how she’d unabashedly interrupted Chava in the middle of her Chumash lesson yesterday with a completely off-topic question about Israeli politics. A few girls had giggled, though ZeeZee had looked at her with wide-eyed sincerity, as if she’d done nothing wrong.

Gitty cleared her throat. “Actually, that’s why I’m calling now. My daughter just informed me that ZeeZee has plans to go to some yishuv near Shechem for Shabbos. If it was anyone else, I’d assume she was pulling my daughter’s leg, but ZeeZee’s just the sort of headstrong, impulsive girl to do something that crazy.”

Chava sucked in her breath. “Doesn’t she know it’s against the rules?”

“Oh, rules don’t mean anything to my sister,” Gitty said. “I wanted to let you know, so you could stop her from doing something dangerous. And to ask if you’d mind keeping an extra eye on her in general this year. I’m so glad to hear you’re her mechaneches, because I think you’re exactly what she needs.”

This was the third time this week that Shani had asked to come over after dinner. Tammy made sure that she left before Yehuda came home from night seder, so everything was good. Shimmy had even reached the point where he allowed Shani to hold him.

Tammy smiled to herself as she washed the dishes while Shani sat at the kitchen table, playing with Shimmy. She’d dreamed of this scene for so many years.

“So, how’s it going?”

Tammy had learned that chilled and casual worked for Shani. Eventually, she’d talk.

“Good,” Shani said automatically. And then she pursed her lips. “No, not good, actually.”

Tammy twisted her head away from the sink to raise an eyebrow at Shani.

“I had a bad conversation with my mom just now,” Shani said. She picked up a napkin and began to twist it. “Talking to her always messes me up.”

“Was it something about the divorce?” Tammy asked sympathetically.

Shani’s lips twisted in sync with the napkin. Finally, after a moment, she unraveled them.

“No,” she said finally. “It was about… um…” Her face darkened. “My eating.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 722)