The woman extended her hand. “Vaad Crisis Department, can I see your applica— one minute.” She looked up skeptically. “What on earth is this?”

C

lutching the sheaf of papers carefully, Reva made her way up to the secretary’s desk.

“Um, excuse me? This is my application?” Her voice rose precariously at the end of the sentence.

“You’re asking me, or you’re telling me?” The secretary didn’t even look up from the keyboard.

“I’m… I guess I’m telling you?” Reva shook her head. “I mean, I’m telling you.”

The secretary exhaled heavily, the sigh of a woman who has just looked at the clock and realized she has two more hours left at work, and also, she forgot to take out the chicken cutlets to defrost, and also, Malki has play practice tonight, and also, the dentist’s secretary already left for the day because apparently everyone else works better hours than she does, and so yet another day has passed in which she forgot to schedule Eliezer’s appointment, and also, Yehuda broke his glasses again, yet here you are, expecting her to worry about your inquiry.

“Yes?” She extended her hand brusquely, then flipped through the papers Reva had handed her.

“You’re giving me your application?” she asked, in the tone you might have expected from someone asking why you just handed her a dead slug. “Applications go to Miri, Rabbi Reinstein’s secretary. Down the corridor, third left, up the stairs, second door.”

Reva clutched the precious application and went down the corridor, hanging close to the hallways to avoid the crush of be-uniformed girls in pleated jumpers. Would her Shani be one of these girls next year? She looked closely at them, imagining.

Not that headband, for sure not, but maybe those shoes… or oooh, that bow. She took the second left, went down the corridor, up the stairs. She was admiring a particularly extravagant bow when she came to the third door — or was it supposed to be the second? No, the secretary had said third, she was sure of it — and tentatively pushed it open. Another hallway, this one dank and poorly lit.

Reva sighed, then straightened her back and soldiered on. No one said getting your kids into school would be easy. She bravely followed the winding hallway as it — was it sloping downward? And was that a chill blowing in? She shuddered, feeling as if she had wandered into a dark and foreboding plot twist, and continued down the very, very long corridor.

But everything must come to an end, except international travel with young children. Luckily, since this was just an ominous corridor filled with foreshadowing and not a Boeing 747, eventually Reva found herself in a large, fluorescent-lit office.

She hovered nervously near the front desk, where a woman who looked suspiciously like the annoyed twin of the first secretary was frantically pecking at her computer’s keys.

“Um, excuse me?”

The woman extended her hand. “Vaad Crisis Department, can I see your applica— one minute.” She looked up skeptically. “What on earth is this?”