I slide down in the booth, until my elbows on the bench are the only things keeping me from falling to the floor.

“Rachel Ahuva.” Tamara’s voice is amused, thankfully. Just last night she’d told me that topping fro-yo with gummy bears was “bourgeois” and “embarrassing.”

“All I can see is your hair. It’s like sitting across from a cartoon character.”

I slide back up, scowling. “Ha, ha.”

Two perfect eyebrows go shooting upwards. “Everything alright there, hon?”

I sigh and smile at the waitress who deposits the latte in front of me.

“Not really. Big sister fight this morning.”

I take a second for a reality check. I’m out for coffee with Tamara Fine. By myself. Sharing my problems with her.

Tamara looks relieved. “Oh, is that all? Sisters are the worst. You should have heard me and Shalva.”

I raise my own eyebrows questioningly.

“My older sister. She’s in seminary. Bnos Malka.”

Obviously, best seminary in Israel. I nod.

“Anyway, we used to fight like cats and dogs. Gosh, I love not having her around. She is seriously the worst. Like a real snob.”

I just manage not to spit my coffee across the table, but like, hello pot, this is kettle.

I arrange my features into a neutral expression and nod again. “That’s tough,” I say as sympathetically as I can, trying to ignore my discomfort over this blatant loshan hara. I lift my knife and check my lip gloss in it before continuing. “But Tzippy’s not like that. We’re usually BFFs. But I think she’s, like, jealous or something of my new life here.”

Tamara puts her mug down with a thud and sits up straight, like she’s about to share something of the utmost importance.

“Rachel Ahuva. Take it from me, people will always be jealous. Especially of people like us.” She tilts her head, but I’m not clear what she means by “us.” Flattered, yeah; clear, not at all. What do we have in common? We’re both high schoolers? Bais Yaakov students? Healthy, baruch Hashem?

She seems to grasp that I’m not getting it, because she leans forward.

“You know, of the way that we look,” she whispers, and for some reason, I feel very hot and cold at the same time.

That can’t be it, can it? That can’t be all that Tamara sees in me. A nice face? That’s the common denominator of our friendship? What about my sense of humor? My depth? My heart?

But still, I nod, urging my ears not to turn bright red and betray my inner embarrassment.

“Well, Tzippy’s adorable. That’s definitely not it. She just doesn’t handle change well.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Why am I talking about my sister like this?

Apparently, this no-censoring of speech is catchy.

(Excerpted from Teen Pages, Issue 734)