“Hey, sistah,” I drawl, giving her a quick grin. She’s not in my class — she must be a ninth-grader.

“Yeah, we totally look it, no?” She settles beside me. Her legs are long and lanky, and she has her bright-red curls twisted up in a bun. I’m average height, my hair is dark and wavy, and I just don’t have that perky come-have-fun look to me. The makeup girls will have to work hard to make sisters out of us, that’s for sure.

“So what scenes are you in? Oh, I see, you’re in three, four, seven… and eleven. The reunion scene, it’s going to be epic, no? I have a couple of other scenes, too, that meeting one where everyone gets arrested. Going to be a really cool one.”

She’s playing Faiga, my older sister. Of course, she’s in several other scenes besides the ones I’m in, which instantly makes me feel stupid next to her.

But hey, play friends, right?

“Yeah, looks cool,” I say, like I don’t care about the size of the parts at all.

I don’t. Not really. It’s just a play, come on, a stupid make-believe drama with a ridiculously clichéd plotline and badly written scenes that make my silly Purim shpiels look professional.

Miss Muller’s standing onstage now, tapping the mic. It gives a high-pitched squeal and I wince, covering my ears. Ouch.

“Girls, we’re going to start by reading through the entire script, start to finish, just your lines, not in positions on stage. Try to read everything loud and clear, put in expression, get yourself into the part, because this is your taster of the real thing! Scene 1, Mirel, Masha, Mama, let’s go!”

“What about Mindel, Malka, and Tante Minna?” I mutter to the redhead beside me. I don’t know her real name, but in my head, she’s just Faiga.

She snorts. “I know, right?”

So she gets my sense of humor. That’s a pleasant surprise.

We kid our way through scene one, but Faiga appears in scene two, and the girl beside me suddenly straightens and turns serious.

“Tonight? On Shabbos? But how can that be? How can we—”

I hate to admit it, but she’s good. The lines are vapid, almost meaningless, but she’s managing to infuse them with life, with Faiga-ness. I can see a real person there.

I want to tell her that, compliment her acting, but I suddenly feel small, like I’m just there for the entertainment and stupid jokes and she’s left me behind, somehow.

I space out, and of course, I totally miss my cue.

“Chava? Chava, where are you, oh, over there.” Miss Muller calls my name into the mic, just as Faiga nudges me and the whole entire cast turns to look. Ugggh. I fumble with my script, and Faiga pushes hers over to me.

“Oy vey! That’s terrible. What will be, Mama?” I read, feeling like a jerk. I don’t even know what I’m responding to.

Faiga takes her script back, speaks soothingly. “Shhh, Chava, don’t cry. It will be okay. Hashem is watching over us, and He will watch over Masha, too. No matter where she is.”

We move straight along to scene four; this time it’s Faiga and her friends; I just come on at the end. Faiga leads the conversation. She really is good. Not like some of the other actresses. Breindy from my grade is playing Sarah, and she just… can’t. She barely squeaks out the words, blushing wildly as she does so. Why, oh why, does she have a part in the play? And why couldn’t I have just tried out properly? I know I could do this.

I imagine myself playing Sarah’s role, or Mirel’s, or Masha — the main character — for that matter. But no, I’m stuck with my five lines and oy Mama.

Stop caring so much, I tell myself, fiercely.

Tammy’s in the next scene. She takes up the reading a few moments later, voice slightly deepened, sounding cool and composed and infusing her tone with just the right amount of tension for the scene. Okay, so she’s good, too. But we’re over, she’s done with her friends-friends thing, and I’m not chasing. Let her see I have a friend, too, other people are interested in sitting with me, so there.

Scene seven is my shining moment, I have an actual whole paragraph to say. Faiga fake-cheers me when I’m done, and I smile despite myself. She’s nice, but I still feel like an idiot.

Sometime between scene seven and the end, other girls start filtering in. I guess dance and choir practices have finished. It’s getting late, but Miss Muller’s insisting on going through the whole entire script, beginning to end.

“Just keep going, let’s keep it up,” she keeps saying, alternately prodding the play along and shushing the rest of the school.

A gaggle of ninth-graders plop down on Faiga’s other side.

“Have we missed your lines? Is it fun? How much longer?” they ask her.

Oh, so this is her circle of friends. Well, of course she has one, what else? She’s definitely friendly enough.

We finally, finally, finally get to the end of the play. Miss Muller makes some announcement about practice schedule, and girls surge forward with questions. I’m not interested, I’ll check the bulletin board, and honestly, they can manage without me if I miss a practice.

Girls are leaving and I can’t wait to leave, too, back to my quiet room in Bubby’s house. I stuff my script into my bag and something else falls out — my diary. I feel so disorganized. My stuff is in such a mess, but I’m kind of halfway between two houses now, and anything I value has to come in my bag with me, otherwise I’ll never keep track of it. I scramble to retrieve the diary, try to make some order.

“This yours?” Faiga bends down, too, picks up some papers that fluttered to the floor.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks,” I say.

“Coming?” one of Faiga’s friends asks her. She gives a weird sidelong look at me as she speaks. Like, why aren’t you sitting with your own classmates, your own friends. Or maybe I’m just imagining things?

“Yeah, sure. So long,” Faiga says, tipping me an imaginary hat. Cute.

“See you, Faiga,” I say. She winks at me and disappears.

I still don’t know her real name.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 966)