The next morning, I roll out of bed at the crack of dawn and am just putting the finishing touches on my makeup when I hear the other girls starting to move around outside the tent. Patting my curls once more, I straighten my dress and slide out. Tamara’s heading up the stairs, she gives me a small wave. “Just asking Anya to get breakfast ready, then we’ll head to school.” I nod and turn to face the other girls. Tiffy is still in pajamas, but Rikki and Bina are both wearing T-shirt dresses of their own and I feel a deep sense of relief that I’d dressed appropriately. We are having a Yom Iyun in school and therefore allowed to wear our own clothing. “Morning, RaRa,” Bina says, and I smile. Rikki and Tiffy just nod and I have the feeling they don’t like me very much, though I’m not sure why. I pull out the pink leather siddur Mommy had brought me back from her trip to Eretz Yisrael last winter and perch on a leather stool.

May as well start to daven while I wait. I catch Rikki mutter something to Tiffy and they both smirk. Whatever. As Mommy always says, jealousy is an ugly color. I’m just wrapping up Shemoneh Esreh when Tamara saunters down the stairs, apparently not the least bit bothered that she’d kept us all waiting. Her dress blows all of ours out of the water, of course, but I don’t mind. “Breakfast is served,” she says, winking, and we all follow her upstairs, chattering tiredly. We have to be at school by 12, and it is just about ten-thirty. Enough time for a leisurely breakfast. We follow her into a massive dining room, and then I just stop, because, well, I feel like I’m in a book from the Victorian era or something. The table is a giant wooden structure, and it’s set with china. And cloth napkins. But like, really. I picture Sari’s face when I tell her and quickly decide that she will never hear about this. Ever.

I slide into a seat across from Tamara; she smiles. I grin back and turn to the head of the table where an elegant blonde woman is tapping away at a phone.

“Coffee?”

I turn to my right; Anya is offering me coffee in a china cup. “Um, sure, thanks, Anya,” I say cheerily. The chef blinks and then her face relaxes in a smile. “You’re welcome,” she says. The blonde woman puts down her phone and turns to us, smiling. The resemblance between her and Tamara is uncanny. “Good morning, girls,” she says. Her voice is very soft and calm, which is somewhat of a surprise. “You must be Rachel Ahuva,” she says to me. “Welcome to our home, I hope you enjoyed the night.”

“That’s me,” I trill. “And I really did, thanks a million, Mrs. F.”

Mrs. Fine’s mouth opens and closes, but she says nothing.

I feel my face flush a deep red. I’d forgotten, girls aren’t friendly with their friends’ parents here. Oops.

(Excerpted from Mishpacha Jr., Issue 731)