Stick a pin in the phonebook. See where it lands. Make the call. Does everyone have a story? Five writers find out

In a world of blue surgical masks, Charna is the rose-gold sequined one. She texts to let me know that, so I can identify her at the pizza shop she likes to frequent. New Jersey has just recently reintroduced indoor dining, so this is an exciting first. But though de-masking for eating is now okay, you still need to wear masks while you’re, say, sitting around waiting to meet a journalist.

As I slide into the booth across from her, I immediately chastise myself for falling into the trap of snap stereotyping that I’ve always deplored in others.

When Miriam Milstein told me to pick a name at random, I was fairly certain I knew what to expect.

I’d struck out only once before getting an easy consent from Charna. I noted the address — typical Lakewood development. I got this. I figured I could probably write the story before meeting her. Mid-thirties or forties, kollel wife or recent-ex-kollel-wife, six kids, a Sienna, a townhouse, and a job in medical billing or special ed.

But from her unhurried, thoughtful diction to her expressive gestures, from her bobbed sheitel and handmade beaded necklace to her denim pencil skirt, it’s clear that Charna is no cookie-cutter cutout.

Charna’s parents, both baalei teshuvah, met in Tampa, then spent several years moving among Tristate communities in their search for a welcoming neighborhood and good school. They ended up in Lakewood around Chanukah time 26 years ago, when there were three girls’ elementary schools to choose from (today there are more than 30).

Not knowing the accepted way to apply, Charna’s parents dressed her nicely and knocked on the door of the principal’s office. Back in the day, a move like that could still end in acceptance, so the family was officially settled.