Chayala felt her phone vibrate, but she was frozen. She felt the silence between herself and her parents stretch and grow heavy as her brain struggled to process what her parents had just told her. She rubbed her arms as if she was cold. Maybe she was cold. She couldn’t feel anything.

“I must be misunderstanding,” she said slowly. She saw her parents exchange glances. Her father shifted uncomfortably in his oversized chair.

“Chayala.” His voice, usually so loud, exuberant, and comfortably rumbly, was low, urgent, and serious. “My firm has been going through some financial hardships lately. You’re a business owner — you know how it can be. We’re working through some things at the firm. Uh, a partner may have been involved in something… problematic, and until it blows over we need to make some… minor changes.”

“What on earth does that mean?” Chayala interjected wildly. “Problematic, like, illegal? Or problematic like unsuccessful?”

Her father ignored the question, which was very, very troubling. “Mike wants me to take the fall for him. I’m not going to let that happen.”

Chayala’s mouth opened and closed, but she couldn’t manage to form a word.

“I’m confident things will blow over soon,” said her father, his usual bravado-filled smile faltering as he spoke. “Until that happens, we’re going to be cutting back a bit. We didn’t want to burden any of the other kids, but you’re the oldest, and an adult, and we felt like it was right that you know what’s going on.”

Chayala thought about her younger siblings. Suri was 24, Moishy was 21, and the three teenagers, Goldy, Ruchy, and Malky, were 18, 16, and 14, respectively. Maybe the younger two would freak out, but this information didn’t seem  like the kind of thing you could hide long term.

Then her brain caught up with her father’s words. “Cutting back?” she echoed.

“Yes, exactly,” her father said with a nod. “Which brings me to why we asked you to meet us here tonight. I’ve been dealing with this mess with Mike for a few weeks, but recently things have come to a head. Our house… it’s too big for us. It would  be a better choice to downsize right now.”

Chayala considered her modest childhood home. The eight of them were in four bedrooms, and every surface was cluttered with books and photo albums and stuff. Her going on a date always necessitated a frantic cleanup. People assumed lawyers were automatically rich, but the reality of a frum, tuition-paying family was totally different. Their small home could never be described as too big.

Her face showed her skepticism.

Her father coughed. “Well, I mean, we’re taking a recommendation from the bank to downsize, actually. I don’t think it’s necessary, this is all going to blow over very soon,” he said again. Repeating himself wasn’t a good sign either, said a voice in Chayala’s head.

He plowed on. “We’re moving to an apartment in two weeks. It’s going to be fine. We found a place, and of course there’s room for you.” Her father glanced at her mother again. He seemed to want to say more, but he fell silent.

“Is our house… in foreclosure?” Chayala asked carefully.

Her mother was swift to answer. “That doesn’t matter, Mamale. What matters is that we’re starting over, and we thought it was important for you to know. Things will be tough for a few months, but with siyata d’Shmaya, we’ll pull through.”

Chayala stared at her hands. Fear and shock, and most of all, anger — hot, burning anger — built behind her eyes. Of all the Hi Sweeties her mother had pulled, this one sure was the kicker. Her gaze dropped to the bill, sitting in a classy navy billfold stamped with a B in gold foil, and a bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. She struggled to keep her voice low and her tone steady. “Why are we having this conversation in the fanciest restaurant in New Jersey?” she asked.

Her father barely flinched. He waved his hand dismissively, as if racking up more debt was the least of his issues right now.

Chayala stared at him in disbelief.

A raucous laugh from the restaurant door broke the tension. Or so Chayala thought. Her father stiffened across the table, then sprang into action. He grabbed her mother’s black shorthair fur coat and her designer bag and got up abruptly, the napkin on his lap fluttering to the floor.

“Shaindy, that’s Weiss. We have to leave right now.”

Chayala’s mother shot her an apologetic glance. She was probably just upset there was no time for her usual 20-minute goodbye.

Within seconds, Chayala was alone at a table for three. Alone, except for the stupid fancy billfold with its stupid  understated insignia.

“Your parents get major props for thinking of the worst color war breakout of all time,” smirked Dassi from behind the wheel of her parked white Acura SUV.

Shira shot her a look from the passenger seat.

“Sorry, that was low-hanging fruit,” Dassi apologized.

“Not only did they ruin my life, they left me with a $450 bill to show for it!” Chayala seethed, but Dassi was momentarily distracted from the drama at hand as Aly rapped on her window. She lowered it and took the four proffered fountain sodas in their cardboard holder. Aly opened the rear passenger door and slid in, heaping takeout bags and all.

She opened the bag. “Yapchik?”

“Me!” said Shira happily, intercepting the Styrofoam clamshell container and white plastic spoon.

“Poppers?”

Dassi rolled her eyes. “You knew that was me.”

“Brisket fries for you, Chayala. And that leaves a grilled chicken salad for me,” finished Aly.

Shira turned in her chair.

All three girls gaped at her.

“Seriously?” asked Dassi. “Is everything okay?”

“Relax.” Aly laughed. She held her usual cholent aloft. “This is the only minhag I have. I’m not copping out.”

Their standing Thursday night date at Ess N Fress hadn’t changed for years. Dassi picked them all up in her car (affectionately called Susie, name selected to elicit the best reaction when they casually mentioned her in conversation) and they drove across town to a little cholent/Chinese joint with a half-broken neon sign declaring Ess N Fress, as if that was something you wanted to declare. It was the perfect hideout. No shadchan they knew would show their face there, and if boys ever found out they actually ate there, it was worth exponential street cred points.

Many a stressful breakup had been rehearsed over pastrami fries in that darkened strip mall parking lot. Not to mention a great place to not have to talk about Shira’s dissertation on attachment theory, Aly’s lesson plans, or Chayala’s business.

Dassi picked at her poppers, secretly relieved that her date was taking a backseat to the newest saga. She had  expected the night with Ari (she checked his résumé when she got home to verify his name) to go nowhere fast, but there was something compelling her to see where it could lead. Over dinner and in the car ride home, he’d asked her about herself, thoughtful questions even, which was a novelty, and it seemed like he was actually listening to the answers. Hope was silly after a first date, but she felt… something. She wasn’t ready to analyze it over poppers and cholent. Or ever, possibly, if she could help it. Feelings? Pass.

As Shira and Chayala Zelled Aly their balances, Shira’s intuitive eyes landed on Dassi’s phone, unmistakably on her lap, not being used to magically send her friend money.

“So you said yes?” she asked casually, her face professionally relaxed, but Dassi knew, masking the genuine desire for her friend to find happiness.

“Aly won on a technicality.” Dassi grinned with practiced ease. “I’m planning on saying yes, but I haven’t heard back from him yet. I told her I’d be happy to call this round a draw.”

“These poppers are manifesting a yes from him,” declared Aly, flashing her trademark dimples. Shira didn’t reply, but considered Dassi through shrewd eyes.

As if summoned, Dassi’s phone let out a chirp. The dashboard monitor blinked awake and now read MRS. FRANKEL SHADCHAN DO NOT IGNORE. She disconnected her Bluetooth quickly, then opened the door to talk privately outside.

“And I want Mashiach,” said Aly loudly through the closed door.

“So, Ari really liked you,” began Mrs. Frankel in her signature high-speed talking style. “He wants to go out again. How’s seven on Tuesday?”

Dassi felt a jolt she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. So long, she wasn’t sure if what she felt was excitement or dread.

“Um, okay. So you want to know if I want to go out again?”

Mrs. Frankel let out a staccato laugh. “Sweetie, this is Ari Steiner we’re talking about. Unless you had the worst night of your life, you should be giving this another date.” She paused for an expectant beat, then concluded, “So he’ll pick you up at seven.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 824)