“Thank you, hero sister.” I help her settle Ezekiel back into the giant sink, then scrub him while he licks my hand.
“Any time!”
I’ve been volunteering at this animal shelter for two years. Volunteer work is a must for a good college application, and this place is an easy shtick. The manager, Marnie, has an overflowing roster of volunteers: animal rights activists, college students, and retirees. She doesn’t actually need me, so I keep spare clothes in the car and only come once a week after synagogue.
It’s hard to watch the animals stuck in these cages, but at least when I’m here, I can let them out and run around with them. And they especially love it when I bring Rachel. “Watch this!” she shouts.
She’s trained a mutt that’s definitely part standard poodle to jump up on its hind legs and beg for a treat. The dog is almost taller than her when it does so. “Badass,” I say.
She bows. “Thank you. Now we can tell her future parents she’s well trained.”
I grin. “Yeah, but is she housebroken?”
Rachel shrugs and gives a mischievous smile before turning her attention back to the dog. An hour later, we’re done with the washing and the walks, and I tell Rachel, “I’ve got to study. You gonna play in the yard?”
Rachel sighs. “I’ve got to study, too, big brother.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Study for what?”
“Geography,” she says. “We have a test on the capitals.”
“Oh, that won’t be bad,” I say.
“Capitals of all the countries.”
“What?” We didn’t do that until ninth grade. Though I’d be no help to her now. It’s the kind of information you forget a week after you learn it.
“It’s multiple choice,” Rachel says, which is better, I guess. “Can Ezekiel study with me?”
“Sure.”
Rachel grabs Ezekiel from his kennel, and we head to the front of the shelter. I sit at the desk, and Rachel sits on the entryway couch, dwarfed by the backpack next to her. It’s a slow Saturday, so we’re the only ones here at the moment. Ezekiel curls up on the floor near Rachel’s feet. She’s bent over an open folder, studying while munching on a bag of Cheetos.
I take out my notebook, my calc textbook, and a bag of Sour Patch Kids. I chew on the sour candy while copying down the first problem. My pencil carves deep grooves in the paper, like if I write the numbers hard enough, the formulas will stick in my brain. Then I flip to the front of the chapter to study the steps. My shoulders hunch over the page. A stress headache blooms in my forehead. It takes far too long to do one problem, but finally I have it. A wave of relief sweeps over me. I flip to the back of the book to confirm my answer is right.
It’s not.
Crap.
* * *
It’s too warm for soccer season. The bright sun beats down on me as I climb out of my car. The Grateful Dead plays through my phone speakers. A light breeze ruffles the air but doesn’t offset the humid heat.
My family is already at the field. They came early to set up the tent and food because the parents in this area like to tailgate elementary school soccer games like it’s college football. I peer down on the scene from the top of the hill.
The fields back up to the same trails as my synagogue, all of Tinder Hill Park. I’d love to spend the day watching Rachel’s game, then walking the trails with Sook, but I brought my own car so I could come late and peace out early to study. The final hours of the weekend are ticking down, and I’m nowhere near ready for this test next Friday.
I glance at my phone. 11:27. Only twelve hours left in the day, fifteen if I make it a late night.
I head down the hill toward my parents, who are congregated with Amir’s family. We sit together every game. Rasha, Amir’s older sister, laughs loudly at some joke my dad must have cracked. She’s wearing a black blouse and a lavender hijab. Her parents are next to her, digging into the food with my mom, piling plates high with pasta salad, cold chicken tikka, and cut-up fruit.
Amir is off on his own, down the sideline, taking pictures as everyone warms up for the game. He’s on one knee, back bent at an odd angle, neck craned. I wonder if the exaggerated pose is contrived, like he’s paying more attention to what he looks like than what the photo looks like.
Mrs. Naeem calls my name and waves me over. She doesn’t look a day over thirty, even though she has a twenty-year-old daughter. Unlike Rasha, she doesn’t wear a hijab, so her dark hair is loose around her shoulders.
“Hi, Mrs. Naeem.” I say.
“Beta, come here!” She gives me a hug. Then I shake Mr. Naeem’s hand and wave at Rasha, who cuts off conversation with my dad to come over and say hi.
“How’s college going?” I ask her.
“Slow. The start of the semester is boring. Too many people dropping and adding classes to get anything done. Total waste of time.” Rasha yawns. “God, it’s early.”
“It’s eleven thirty,” Mrs. Naeem says. “You’re not a teenager anymore—no more sleeping until two in the afternoon.”
“I take late classes,” Rasha says.
Mrs. Naeem tsks, and Rasha rolls her eyes.
Even though she’s in college, she still lives at home. She lived on campus in the dorms freshman year, but said she missed being around her family. Especially Sara. She wants to be there while her little sister grows up.
“Ariel’s always been a morning person,” Mom says. Actually, this is not true. I force myself to be a morning person. I can’t remember the last time I woke up without an alarm. Even this summer, I woke up early to study for the SATs. I’d already scored a 1560, but I wanted that perfect 1600.
And I got it.
“I’m jealous,” Mrs. Naeem responds.
“Don’t be. If they’re asleep, they can’t beg you to make them breakfast on the weekends.”
I nudge Mom’s shoulder and grin. “I’m very sorry you have to feed your child.”
She nudges back. “You’re seventeen. You can make your own breakfast when I want to sleep in on a Saturday.”
“But you do it so well,” I respond. Still, I feel a twinge of guilt. Mom works hard all week. I don’t like bothering her with homework woes, and I shouldn’t bother her to make me scrambled eggs, either.
“Come here,” she says. “You have some schmutz.”
Before I have a chance to get away, she licks her finger and rubs my cheek. “Mom.”
“Oh, hush, tatala.”