I put down the china platter I’m holding and skip out the front door. It’s a bit cold, but I still eagerly accept the icy drink Atara’s mother hands me and thank her profusely, all the while wondering why I can’t just jump into her Subaru and let her take me home to Esmerelda. But I do need to spend the next day packing for Florida, so after blowing Atara a kiss, I reluctantly head back inside to finish my job.

I ignore my brothers’ comments — same ones every year, all about how I don’t know how to share — and drink my Slurpee slowly as I sponge down the counters.

Finally, the older boys head out to ShopRite to buy cereal and cookies, and the rest of us make hot cocoa and sit around, too exhausted to move. That’s the Martin family tradition.

Cookies have never tasted so good, and slowly, we all come to life again.

“So, Ma,” Aharon starts, “while the women are relaxing in Florida, what do you say about us men going on a little trip?”

Yehuda chokes on a cookie as Aharon elbows him. “Oh, yeah. Hm, what do you all say about fishing?”

Daddy’s nodding slowly, listening carefully, but it’s obvious to everyone that he’s totally in on the plan.

Naftoli jumps in, saying they’ll invite Zeidy and it’ll be good for him, the fresh air, and Ma’s rolling, because the whole conversation is so scripted, it’s pretty hilarious.

It’s finally settled, while we women are lounging at the pool and spa, the men will be sleeping in a tent, fishing, and not showering for two days.

Thank You, Hashem, for making me a girl. The brachah “she’asani kirtzono” has never seemed more appropriate.

When the last Stella D’oro and Funfetti cookie has been finished and we all stand and stretch and the boys wonder if they can make brachos in the morning, what time is alos, yada yada, Ma says, “a new family is moving into that brownstone across the street.”

I perk up, cause, hi, hock, but then Ma says, “I think there’s a girl your age, Bells,” and I shut right back down.

No and thank you.

No new people.

No new friendships.

No new relationships.

Because, I realize, as I pull the covers up to my chin and snuggle deep into my sheets, the thought of becoming friends with someone who never knew about me and ballet, and introducing myself as a whole person when part of my heart is missing, admitting that my name is still Bella Rena Martin and that life just went on, would be like losing my ability to dance all over again.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 819)