Chava laughed. “I asked about Shimmy, not Shani.”

“Oh!” Tammy wiped her forehead, tucking a strand of hair back into her scarf (a Devoiry original, worn for the occasion). “I thought you were checking up on me, to make sure I wasn’t talking to Shani behind your back.”

A shadow crossed her face, and Chava sighed.

“I’m really not—” she started, but was interrupted by Devoiry’s squeal.

“Tammy! I’m so glad you came. And you’re wearing my scarf! Adorable! I love it!” She gave her a hug.

When Devoiry was in what Chava called her “showman mode,” it was hard to gauge her sincerity. Devoiry was acting like Tammy was her best friend, but that might not mean anything. Still, Chava was surprised to see how comfortably the two now fell into chatting. Tammy was asking about Sari and Yitzi — when had she gotten to know Devoiry’s family so intimately?

Feeling like a fifth wheel, Chava turned toward a display of scarves next to her. She fingered one that was a gorgeous sky blue with silver sequins. She lifted up the price tag: 200 shekels. Raising her eyebrow, she dropped the scarf, just as Elisheva came over to her.

“Mommy, Dassi wants to buy one of Devoiry’s pocketbooks, but she doesn’t have enough money here. Can you lend her some?”

Chava glanced over at Elisheva’s friend, looking on hopefully from a few feet away. “Her mother’s okay with it?”

Elisheva lowered her voice. “She didn’t want to ask her for so much money. She said she has her own babysitting money at home. She can pay you back with that.”

Chava frowned. This was really not a dynamic she wanted to be involved in. Resentment arose as she looked back at Devoiry, still chatting blithely with Tammy. Hadn’t she realized this was the type of tension she’d be creating in simple Israeli families by pushing a line of overpriced luxury products?

She was still deliberating how to respond when a waft of Devoiry’s and Tammy’s conversation reached her ear.

“—so many people came today, really amazing!” Tammy was saying.

“Yeah.” Devoiry looked around, a smile on her face. But then, to Chava’s surprise, she saw that smile freeze, saw it replaced by a fleeting look of — was that panic? — as Devoiry leaned in closer to Tammy. Lowering her voice so that Chava just made out the words, she said, “I sure hope they buy stuff. Because, between you and me, I need to start making a profit, and fast.”

ZeeZee felt unaccountably nervous as she walked into the Yad b’Yad center. She hadn’t been here since Chanukah. There’d been a million excuses — vacation, school activities, the weather. But she’d finally admitted the truth: She was afraid to face Ilana and tell her that Shani had left.

Now, hesitating briefly by the doorway, she gave herself a mental shake. Get over yourself, Zeez.

The center was more crowded than usual; it looked like some kind of event was going on. The girls were all gathered in a circle, and some lady was speaking. Okay, this was awkward; ZeeZee was on the verge of leaving when Dafna turned around.

“ZeeZee!” Her face broke out into a smile. “Hey, stranger! Long time no see.”

The lady speaking didn’t seem fazed by ZeeZee’s entrance, so ZeeZee made herself comfortable on the floor next to Dafna.

“What’re we doing?” she whispered.

Ilana, sitting a little off to her right, was the one who answered. “Group therapy,” she said with a smirk. “Where you get to let off all your rants against the system.”

The woman, who’d been talking in Hebrew, now shook her head with a smile at Ilana and said to ZeeZee in English, “This is an open discussion group. You can ask questions about any topic that’s on your mind.”

“Cool!” ZeeZee said.

Ilana muttered, “Same thing.” In a louder voice, Ilana added, “We were just discussing Dafna’s rant.”

Dafna glared at her. “It wasn’t a rant, idiot.” She turned to ZeeZee. “I just said that I can’t imagine G-d cares what I wear, and it’s probably just the rabbis who made these laws up.”

“Oh.” ZeeZee shifted her legs uncomfortably, and Ilana snickered.

“Way to corrupt Miss Goodie-Goodie Seminary Girl’s soul.”

ZeeZee stiffened. “I’m not a goodie-goodie.”

The lady continued talking to ZeeZee in English. “We were discussing the idea of respecting our bodies.”

“Cool,” ZeeZee said again.

A girl sitting across from her spoke up. “But why should anyone else tell me how I should respect my own body? Like, for me, getting a tongue piercing is respecting my body, ’cuz I think it’s beautiful.”

ZeeZee’s eyes widened, but the speaker didn’t seem shocked by the question. “Excellent point,” she said, and ZeeZee found herself nodding. She waited curiously for the rebbetzin’s answer.

The woman spoke about how our bodies aren’t our property to do with what we want but are given into our safekeeping by Hashem. As she spoke about the responsibility to take care of them, ZeeZee’s thoughts wandered to Shani. What would she say to this idea? Would it have made a difference to her?

One of the girls brought up tattoos, another proudly displayed one on her arm, and, as the discussion heated up, ZeeZee understood what Ilana meant about rants and group therapy — but she’d never been so captivated in her life. This no-holds-barred discussion was radically different from anything she’d ever experienced in any hashkafah class — and she found it intensely liberating.

The lady wound up circling back to Dafna’s question about clothing, pointing out that everyone, even the most non-conformist counter-culture groups, uses clothing to make a statement about where they belong. ZeeZee found herself vaguely disturbed by this; as she mulled it over, she suddenly heard herself being called out.

“We haven’t heard from you yet.”

The speaker was smiling kindly at her, and ZeeZee realized, to her horror, that the woman assumed she was one of the Yad b’Yad girls. Blushing, she murmured, “No, it’s okay, I’m just here to—”

“Come on, Seminary Girl,” Ilana sneered. “Don’t pretend you don’t have any deep, dark questions.”

ZeeZee felt herself getting even redder, which made her feel stupid. She lifted her chin with sudden resolve.

“Yeah, I do have a question.” She looked at the speaker and took a breath. “Why are we all so conformist by nature? And why is being out of the box considered such a crime in the frum world?”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 754)