When Life Gives You O.J. (3 page)

“Zelda,” said my mom warningly.

“What? It was just an idea for the name.”

“How about Spot?” suggested my dad in his
Kids, no fighting
voice.

“Great, except there’s no spot on it,” I informed him, showing him the jug.

“You could paint one on?” said my dad, winking at my mom. It sounded like he was telling one of Ace’s jokes.

“This isn’t funny!” I said, my voice getting shrill.

“Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sorry,” said my dad.

“I’ve got one,” said my mom, carrying a piece of normal-colored challah French toast on a spatula. She deposited it on my plate, then passed me the syrup. “How about ‘O.J.’?”

“O.J.?” I asked. “Like
orange juice
?”

“Right,” said my mom. “It sounds like a dog’s name, doesn’t it?
Good boy, O.J. Fetch the paper, O.J.
”

“Well, fetching may not be one of this dog’s strong suits,” remarked my dad. “Seeing how he is, shall we say, a little challenged in the leg department.”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “O.J. it is.” I put the jug down on the floor next to my chair and reached for the maple syrup. I poured a pool of syrup onto my plate for dipping. More than anything, I just wanted to stop talking about the dumb old jug.
Hey, that’s it
, I realized suddenly, perking up at the thought.
O.J
. didn’t have to stand for “Orange Juice.” It could also stand for “Old Jug.”
Dumb
Old Jug, that is.

“Good boy, O.J.!” said Sam, leaning down to pat my “dog” on the “head.”

“Watch out,” I informed him. “O.J. bites.”

After breakfast, my parents started bustling around the kitchen, packing stuff up. Their plan for the day was for all of us to go on a family outing to pick cherries.

“Why do we have to go, again?” I asked.

“Remember how Mrs. Stanley told us about this?”

I shook my head. Mrs. Stanley is our next-door neighbor. She’s always telling my mom about great Vermont places to go and things to see. But she has a super-cute, super-old beagle named Bridget, so most of the time I just pay attention to Bridget and tune Mrs. Stanley out.

My mom explained, “There’s a cherry orchard just outside of town, but they have a very short season. Really just a couple of days, apparently.”

“So, maybe we already missed it?”

My mom smiled. “Why don’t we go and find out?”

“I have an idea. You guys could go cherry picking, and I could go over to Al—” I almost said “Allie’s” out of habit. But
unfortunately, for another two whole weeks, my best friend in the entire world would still be at sleepaway camp. I swallowed hard. “… Reesa’s?” I suggested.

“It’s Saturday. Doesn’t she have swim meets every weekend?”

“Uh … maybe.” I had forgotten about that. “What about Tasha and Talia?” I hadn’t seen the twins since school let out, but it would be much more fun than—

“I believe their mom said they were spending most of July on the Cape. Besides, Zell, this is family time.”

I sighed. My parents are big on “family time,” especially on weekend mornings. When I was Sam’s age, I didn’t mind so much because sometimes family time meant
ice cream
. But now that I’m almost eleven, I’d rather hang out with my friends, even if it means there’s no ice cream.

“Not for every family,” I said, looking down at my feet and thinking,
Not for Allie’s family
. It felt like she had been gone for a million years and wouldn’t be back for a million more.

“Oh, sweetie, chin up,” said my mom, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll hear from Allie soon.”

Hear from Allie
. That would be good. Not that it would be anywhere near as good as if I had gotten to go, or if she was home now, but at least it would be
something
.

“What time does the mail come?” I asked.

“Zelly, you ask me that every day. Late afternoon. It will probably be here when we get back from cherry picking. Now come on, go get dressed. Chop-chop!”

“There should be a law against best friends being separated in the summer,” I said.

My mom looked amused. “You sound just like your grandfather,” she said.

My parents said the same thing when I tried to convince them to send me to sleepaway camp with Allie in the first place. I had made a list of the reasons why I should be allowed to go, which I read out loud to them.

Julia is Allie’s big sister. Usually, she either ignores us or bosses us around, but I figured my parents might not need to know that.

“Um, Zell,” said my mom, “those are all good reasons, and it’s great that you wrote them all out and made such a good case for them.”

“Good advocacy skills run in the family,” said my dad.

“But it’s not that simple. I mean, it’s just …,” said my mom, looking at my dad for help.

“What your mother means is …,” started my dad.

“The camp Allie and her sister go to,” said my mom, “is, well—”

“IT’S FOR THE GOYIM,” interrupted Ace, who had been listening from across the room. Ace wears a hearing aid, and I guess he must turn it up when he wants to hear stuff from far away. He must not be able to hear his own voice all that well, though, because he always talks in a booming voice, much louder than anyone else.

“Dad!” said my mom.

“WHAT? IT’S TRUE. WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?”

“What’s ‘the goyim’?” I asked.

“It means ‘non-Jewish people,’ ” said my dad.

“What’s wrong with non-Jewish people?”

“Nothing!” said my mom and dad together.

“Do you have something against non-Jewish people?” I asked them suspiciously.

“Of course not,” said my mom, glaring at Ace.

“Then why can’t I go?”

“Sweetie,” said my mom, “that camp is run by a church. So a lot of the activities are church-related. Church songs, church crafts—”

“MAKING FUDGE,” added Ace.

“Dad!” snapped my mom.

“What does that mean?” I asked him.

Ace shrugged. “IT’S A PROVEN FACT: JEWS CAN’T
MAKE FUDGE. THE GOYIM, THEY KNOW HOW TO MAKE FUDGE.”

“Well, what if I want to learn how to make fudge? They can’t tell me I can’t go just because I’m Jewish, right?”

“That’s not really the point,” said my mom.

“Then why can’t I go?”

“Well, for starters, you’re not eleven yet,” said my dad, shooting my mom one of his
Let’s take this down a notch
looks.

“I’m almost eleven. I’m going into sixth grade, just like Allie.”

“Look, Zellybelly,” he said, “it’s been a pretty zany couple of months, what with the move and”—he glanced at Ace—“everything else. The way your mom and I see it, this summer is a good time for all of us to just slow down and settle in.”

“But I’m already settled in,” I told him. “And while I’m off at camp, you guys can slow down all you want.” I gave one more pleading look and crossed my fingers on both hands.

“Maybe next summer, sweetie,” offered my mom, “we can look at some sleepaway camps for you.”

“That’s a thought,” agreed my dad, like this solved everything.

When Allie called later that night, I told her what had happened.

“Bring me back some fudge, okay?” I said.

“We get to make fudge?” she asked. “Julia never said anything about fudge.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s one of those camp secrets.”

“It’s not fair,” said Allie. “I don’t want to go if you can’t go.”

“Maybe you can stay home,” I suggested.

“Hey, yeah!” said Allie. “Oh, except my parents are having our kitchen renovated while we’re gone, so they’re staying with my aunt.”

“You could stay with me,” I offered. “A three-week sleepover! How good would that be?”

“The best!” said Allie. But then she was quiet, probably because she was thinking the same thing as me:
No way are my parents going to go for that
.

“Well, if they make you go anyway,” I finally said, “you have to promise you won’t get a new best friend there.”

“Yeah, well, duh! You neither.”

“Oh, right. Like who? Nicky Benoit?”

“I think I’m gonna hurl,” said Allie.

I replied by making noises like Allie’s cat makes when it’s going to be sick:
ulp, ulp, ulp
.

Allie laughed. Then she said, “Hey, I know! I have Julia’s old camp trunk. We could hide you in it.”

“Yeah! I’ll just curl up real tiny,” I said.

“Exactly! And I’ll put all my towels and camp stuff over you to hide you.…”

“And we can poke some holes in the side.…”

“Yeah, and pack snacks and stuff.…”

“And then by the time anyone finds out, it’ll be too late.”

“Yeah!” I felt a rush of excitement. “It’s a plan.”

Even though we were just kidding around, the day before camp started, we actually tried to see if I’d fit in her trunk. Even with most of the clothes pulled out, and my knees tucked up under my chin, it didn’t quite work.

“Take your shoes off,” suggested Allie, standing over me.

“O-kay?” I said carefully, because my head was pretty tightly wedged in. I shifted a little onto my back and stuck one foot in the air. Allie was pulling my shoes off for me when Julia walked in.

“What are you two—”

“Nothing!” we yelled. I unwedged my head and sat up, embarrassed.

“A stowaway?” Julia looked amused.

“NO!” protested Allie. Piles of her shorts, T-shirts, and bathing suits surrounded the camp trunk. In which I was sitting.

“Here’s an idea,” suggested Julia. “Why don’t you just
sign up for camp
?”

“My parents,” I said.

“Oh,” said Julia, nodding knowledgeably.

“It’s so unfair!” said Allie.

“Yeah, whatever.” Julia shrugged. “It’s not for everyone.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Allie. “You love camp.”

“Yeah,” said Julia. “But Zelly might not.”

“Well, I’m not going if Zelly can’t go!” insisted Allie, looking at me.

“Yeah, you are,” said Julia, laughing.

Allie shook her head, folded her arms, and planted her feet. I nodded back, equally defiant. I could tell we were both thinking the exact same thing.

She just had to get a bigger trunk.

Unfortunately, Allie’s parents didn’t get her a bigger trunk. Julia’s old trunk—and Allie—left for camp the next day. Without me. So while I was stuck getting ready for “family time” picking cherries, she was probably doing drama or computer clubhouse or making fudge … or who knows what else? I didn’t know because I hadn’t gotten a single letter from her yet.

I’ve always loved getting mail, and I was pretty sure Allie knew it. The first time she ever passed me a note in class, she wrote “Special Delivery” on the outside, and drew lines to make the folded-up paper look like a tiny envelope. I couldn’t help wondering,
Why hasn’t she written to me from camp?

Back when we still lived in New York, my grandma, Bubbles, sent me letters all the time. She was a painter, so she wrote on sketchbook paper with little doodles crowding out the words. The letter I remember best was actually a birthday card she made for me for my third or fourth birthday. It had an enormous giraffe drawn on the front. My eyes must have gotten huge when I saw the giraffe sticking its long neck under our apartment door. My mom picked it up and read out loud, “ ‘I came a loooooong way.…’ ” Then she opened the card and read, “ ‘just to see you today.’ ” And then the doorbell rang, and there was Bubbles herself, squatted
down to my height, her arms open as wide as her smile. “Surprise!” she crowed. For years I was convinced that Bubbles had stamped herself, climbed into a mailbox, and mailed herself to me.

Walking upstairs to get dressed for cherry picking, I pictured Allie sitting on my doorstep, her forehead covered in stamps. Okay, not very likely, but the thought cheered me up. As did the thought that a letter might come today. But the thing was, I thought the same thing every morning when I woke up, and every afternoon I’d jump at the sound of the mail slot only to find: no letter.
Still, maybe today will be the day
, I told myself, trying to shake off the nervous feeling that my best friend in the whole wide world had completely forgotten about me.

When I got downstairs, I almost tripped on something blocking the front door.

The Dumb Old Jug.

Hooked to its handle was the leash.

Underneath it was a plastic bag.

And rubber-banded to its neck was a new note.

This note said:

I groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.