We finish our milkshakes, Tiffy finishes her long story about the perils of shoe shopping in Brooklyn, and the sky outside is an inky shade of blue. “Okay, we better go,” Bina says lazily. Tamara, who’d been strangely quiet the past 20 minutes, blinks. “You guys go. I need to talk to Rachel Ahuva.”

Tiffy looks confused. “But you’re our ride!”

Tamara’s eyes flash. “Well, figure it out,” she snaps.

Tiffy looks hurt, Rikki puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll call my older sister,” she says hurriedly. Tamara had turned away already, she was reading the book titles on my shelf. “Okay, well, bye,” I say awkwardly when Dassi, Rikki’s sister, beeps a little while later. They mumble their goodbyes, but their faces are cold, and I know that what I’ve done — somehow influenced Tamara to stay here without them — is unforgivable. I walk them out for etiquette’s sake and then hurry back up the stairs to Tamara.

She’s curled up on my bed and there is something actually vulnerable about the way she’s sitting.

“Hey,” I say, and I sit next to her as if she’s Sari or Tzippy, although my hands shake slightly. What on earth could she want to talk to me about? Did I commit a grand faux-pas and I’m being evicted from the group?

Tamara grasps my new pillow in her arms and hugs it tightly.

I hold my breath.

“Rachel Ahuva,” she says. “Your mother… she…”

She stops and lifts her huge brown eyes to my face. I startle; they’re wet, tears threatening to spill over her lash extensions, and I realize that somewhere in my subconscious, I’d been positive that Tamara Fine does not have tear ducts.

I nod, scared to move, to break the spell.

“Your mother… really likes you,” she whispers, and then she’s crying, tears leaking down her face delicately. I think of my own messy cry of the week before and smirk to myself. Even Tamara Fine’s sobs are pretty.

I shrug, unsure of what to say. Agree? Disagree? Reassure her? I opt for honesty. “Yeah,” I say in a low voice. “We’re a pretty close family.” I think fleetingly of Sari, her bed now tucked away under the window in Tzippy’s room, but I shake it off.

Tamara chokes and shrugs. “My mother, my mother.…” She stops. I nod encouragingly.

She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and then tries again. “I don’t think my mother actually likes us. She just needs perfection, she needs us to be these all-around societal successes. We play piano, dance, play tennis, we can bake petit fours and ski and sew.”

Phew, I’m overwhelmed just listening to all that.

“But I don’t think she really cares about me, you know what I mean?”

I don’t, I really don’t, but I just nod, my face serious. She takes one more shuddering breath, so I do what I would do for anyone else. I lean in and hug her. A real hug, tight, and warm and sincere. At first, she remains stiff as a board, but after a second, she loosens, and before I know it, Tamara Fine is hugging me back.

(Excerpted from Mishpacha Jr., Issue 741)