***

My new room is breathtaking. Like literally, my breath catches when I look at its gorgeousness. The light teal, white and gold form a striking combination. Even Ma, who considers sticking a bouquet of flowers into a pitcher of water “decorating”, took a pause when she’d examined the finished room.

She’d also looked at me funny, but I can’t worry about that.

I lounge back on my new teal linen and for the first time in a very, very long time, I feel calm. I think that’s what attracted me to the color scheme in the first place. The headboard had a calming tone to it, and Heaven knows, I needed to calm down.

My phone dings. I lift it lazily.

Dolce? The text reads.

I roll my eyes. Tell the girl you gained ten pounds and she invites you to partake in fattening activities.

Nope. Power walk? I counter.

Sure.

Oh. Well, I guess I’m going walking then.

***

We talk about everything under the sun as we swing our arms briskly down the street. You know, everything except dance. And failing school. And Fraidy’s hair course. And any other elephants among us. So basically, we talk about Ms. Silverman, Naftoli, and how cute Effie is.

I just wish she’d stop talking about Ms. Silverman so much, it’s getting to be a bit much.

My foot starts to ache by our second turn around the block, and I know I’ve reached my limit for the day. “Sorry, Tars,” I say as my house comes into sight. “Gotta call it quits. Wouldn’t want anything to snap now, would we?”

“Ah, black humor, my favorite kind,” she says loftily and we both laugh.

I wave goodbye and turn into the driveway. Freezing cold drink, then burning hot shower are matters of the utmost importance right now. Yawning, I enter the kitchen. Naftoli’s back is to me and I’m about to say hi when I hear him speak, and I realize he’s on the phone.

“No, that is not a good idea,” he’s saying heatedly. “Because! It’s just not. Baruch… Baruch!”

I settle myself at the kitchen table, because if I’m going to overhear a juicy conversation, I might as well be comfortable while doing so.

“It will not help. It won’t! Baruch. Can you just stop?”

Naftoli slams his hand down on the kitchen counter.

I can’t help myself, I gasp.

Naftoli whirls around. His eyes narrow at the sight of me.

“I need to call you back,” he mutters, and hangs up.

“Why,” he demands, sitting across from me, “are you eavesdropping on my private conversations?”

“Maybe,” I say, “it’s because you are having them in the middle of the very public kitchen?”

I heave myself up and grab the pitcher of juice from the fridge. I pour us each a glass.

Naftoli seizes his cup gratefully, makes a brachah and takes a long sip.

“Just went walking,” I say conversationally.

Naftoli grunts.

“Brisk out there.”

“Yeah.”

“Naftoli?”

“Mhm?”

“Who’s Baruch?”

“Just drop it, Bella.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Yes, that sounds very much like me. Dropping intriguing topics.”

Naftoli rolls his eyes. “What was I thinking?”

“Dunno. So, who’s Baruch?”

“Bella Rena…”

“Who is he?”

Naftoli sighs and stares into his empty glass.

“Baruch is the boy who really cheated. And he wants to come over.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 807)