| Teen Fiction |

Teen Fiction: Money Matters

By Bassy Goldhirsch | October 10, 2018

Of course I understand. I’ll put on an exemplary show, I’ll play the part well; a well-behaved teenager whose world has just come crashing down

“O
f course,” I say. I smile and nod, and I smile and nod some more until I reach the staircase where I bolt up the steps to my bedroom.

Of course I understand. I’ll put on an exemplary show, I’ll play the part well; a well-behaved teenager whose world has just come crashing down.

I had asked for money to buy new clothes for the coming year. It had never been an issue, but now it was.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” Mommy had said very quietly, and I had felt chills tingle up my spine, tickling my senses.

I kick off my shoes and allow myself the liberty of self-pity. Who would have thought? Who would have believed that living a life of comfort could end so quickly, so ruthlessly, without giving me a chance to say goodbye?

Abba is out of a job. Just like that. Goodbye new backpack, new school supplies, new hairclips, new shoes. Goodbye exciting trips, ice-cream parties and malls.

Oh, where had I been? Oblivious to the world around me. I had been so busy hanging out with my friends. How had I not seen Abba’s gray beard start to turn white? The hushed conversations behind the study door, the dark circles under Mommy’s eyes? Come to think of it, when was the last time Mommy had gone on a shopping spree? Where was I, pampered little girl, so involved in the trivialities of teenagehood that I was oblivious to everything around me?

I pull at my hair, willing myself to comprehend, to grasp the severity of the situation. Abba is unemployed, out of work, laid off. No more money trickling in to pay for my every need and whim. No more money for me and my friends to go out for lunch at Avi’s Pizza every Sunday. No more trinkets and no more splurging.

I feel the heat creeping up, my face is sweaty. It’s stifling hot in here and the air conditioner is set high. I need a fruit shake, an iced coffee, a razzle; something to calm me. But these things cost money — money that we don’t have. I settle for a glass of water; at least sink water is still free. I’m going to have to prioritize, to distinguish my needs from my wants. I’m going to have to start learning the ABC’s of life.

“So, we’re leaving at about 4:00, is that fine with you?” I’m so absorbed in my thoughts, I don’t even realize that my cell phone rang, never mind that I had answered the call.

“Uh, where are we going?” I ask. My words come out strange, alien even to my own ears.

“Earth to Shaina! Don’t you remember? We’re going to Lord & Taylor to buy new school bags. I’m just finalizing a time. So what do you say? Can my mother pick you up at 4:00?”

I freeze. Going to Lord & Taylor means shopping, shopping means money, green dollar bills. Money which we don’t have. How ironic, what used to be a magic wand that wiped away my problems is now the very cause of my troubles.

“Shaina? Are you there?” Blimie’s annoyance is vibrating through the line.

“Sorry, but I can’t come.”

And I really can’t. I can’t go into a store where there will be rows and rows of school bags and handbags with their price tags dangling, staring me in the face. I can’t prance around the aisles as if I’ve got no care in the world, and I can’t ask my parents for money. I’m not going to behave like a selfish daughter, even if it means using my old briefcase. Even if it means starting the school year with nothing new to show for myself.

I try not to be around in the mornings. I can’t bear to hear Mommy wishing Abba hatzlachah on the day’s interview. Seeing her smiling eyes and rosy cheeks, as if everything is fine and dandy. As if it’s a normal thing for Abba to leave the house after 9:00 in the morning.

I’m not like that. I can’t pretend and engage in imaginary play. It’s too hard to swallow the fact that my smart, capable, strong father is looking for a job.

So I mope. I sulk and hang around and do nothing all day. By the time the day is over, I’m exhausted and worn out from all the brooding, of thinking morbid and self-pitying thoughts. I don’t even bother interacting with my friends. Why should I party when my social standing is hanging by a thread? Why should I even bother with fear of rejection, with anxiety and humiliation, when I can just bury this nightmare under my pillow? Who am I kidding? Drama was never my thing. I guess I really have to brush up on my acting skills.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door. Blimie and Dina are standing at the doorway with a bag of fresh popcorn and cans of Coke.

“You’ve been avoiding our calls,” Dina begins.

I sigh, and settle deeper in my quilt. What’s there to say?

“Uh, we figured that you might want some company,” Blimie continues.

I stare at them blankly and have an uncontrollable urge to show them the door. If I don’t answer calls, then I don’t want company. How specific can one possibly get? But they don’t get the hint. Blimie deposits the popcorn on my desk and sits down on the corner of my bed.

“It must not be easy,” She bites her nails and I wonder if her words are meant to be directed to herself as well.

I raise an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

There’s a pause. “You know, uh… about your father.”

No. I don’t know. So my family news is the latest gossip, probably to hit the headlines of tomorrow’s papers. How rumors spread! Why can’t everyone just keep to themselves? Yeah, I know. I always enjoyed the limelight, but this is not the type of attention I want to attract.

“Um, actually your mother told us,” Dina adds. “She asked us to come over, she said you’re taking it quite hard.”

My mother told you? I’m enraged, pink with anger; at Blimie and Dina, for barging in on me, at Mommy, for telling them about our family situation, at Abba for losing his job. And, yes, at myself — for feeling so depressed and miserable.

My thoughts are spiraling out of control. This is ridiculous. I’ve got to find my mother. I want to know, to understand. What are we — a museum, where everyone comes and looks and stares and talks about the latest exhibit? Why does everything have to be out in the open?

I find Mommy sitting in the family room, cushioned between my two younger siblings. One arm is draped over Rina’s little shoulders, and Zevi’s face is nearly buried in the pages of the book she is reading to them. I stand at the doorway and stare at my mother, at the creases on her face, at the lines on her skin. How can she just sit there, read stories and change voices? I search her features. Where is she hiding her anxiety, her worries?

My mother looks up and our eyes lock for a long moment. It is there that I see support, encouragement, and hope. It is not a façade. It’s real.

“How’s it going darling?” she asks, pausing mid-story.

A familiar queasiness rises up within and I swallow it back lest I lose myself in my misery.

“Great,” I say, but I hate the rustiness of my voice. “Great,” I try again, and I’m amazed at how great I actually feel. Mommy beckons me over and I fall into her open arms. The hug feels magical and it lasts for a long time.

So there’s no salary and no earnings, but I’ve got a mother. A mother who cares, who’s dependable and reliable. A mother whose only worry is the wellbeing of her daughter. I’ve got a family. We’re all together, we’re all healthy and we still have a house.

Yes, we’ve lost our steady source of income, but I guess money isn’t everything. And you know what? It’s okay. Truly okay. Even if we celebrate the first day back at school with a picnic in the park instead of eating out in a restaurant.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 730)

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