The letter. That reminds me of the letter I mailed Ima yesterday — and the newspaper again. I wonder when she’ll get the letter. I wonder if she’ll write back.

Today’s practice is more annoying than usual, because Faiga hasn’t shown up. Yuck, I hate being so reliant on her, but she’s my only play friend, maybe my only friend in the school. And now I have no one to sit with, or laugh with, or anything, while I’m waiting to say my next, “Oy, Mama,” or pretend to cry into a handkerchief.

Also, without anyone to talk to, my thoughts keep jumping back to the newspaper article, the crisis in India, frightening images of my parents and siblings stuck in a war zone… and I can barely focus even when it’s my turn to get on-stage.

Miss Muller is standing in for Faiga, which is disconcerting, especially when she puts her arm around me for that line about Hashem watching over us. I have to resist the urge to take a step back.

Seriously, I thought practice couldn’t get any worse.

There are a few girls from my class in the play, and I find a seat near them when I’m not on-stage, which is 90 percent of the time. I would just leave, but the practices have been scheduled with the main characters in mind, not me, and it turns out that almost every day there is practice for one of my scenes, meaning I have to sit through the whole practice just to get up on-stage for one stupid line. Arggh.

I wish Faiga was here. Ugh, I hate how needy that sounds.

I wish I could call Ima, at least use the time to hear from her, reassure myself that they’re okay. But I’m stuck in the auditorium, watching the same dumb scenes over and over. Sigh.

There’s some action going on at the back of the stage, a few girls lugging something big and bulky, laying it out behind where Tammy and Shifra (Mama) are now having an intense conversation, punctuated by Shifra’s wracking “sobs.” I’ve already spent two weeks critically analyzing each of the actresses, and honestly, not many have impressed me very much, but what do I know about acting and school plays?

Sometimes, though, I itch to get up there and play someone else’s role. I think I could do it; I feel like I can. Maybe I should offer to play Faiga until she gets back.

Who am I kidding; there’s no way I’m going up there and offering Miss Muller anything. She’s too busy with Mama and Masha and whoever.

“Mama, I just remembered — the letter!” Some younger girl, acting Mirel, barrels her way on-stage. She flings out an arm in front of her. “The letter… that Masha was reading!”

“Letter? What letter?! I didn’t know of any letter!” Shifra gabbles off, too fast.

Mirel pants loudly, clutching her chest. “There was… a letter. And Masha made me promise not to tell — and I promised! And it’s all my fault!”