A Literary Magazine in Support of the Jewish Community
The Invite
“I’m not even that Jewish.” The statement comes out unintentionally defensive, though what’s that saying about intentions?
“That’s not a thing,” Ezra says. “That’s like being kind-of pregnant.”
Joke’s on him. I’m also kind-of pregnant.
“They’ll love you, Noodle!” He lowers his fluffy head into the crook of my neck. I blush, and not the cute kind. Hot flash of red, prickle of sweat at my hairline and upper lip.
“Can we table this? I have class.” I’m not going to class, but I don’t want Ezra to know that. Like I don’t want him to know there is a cluster of cells in my abdomen multiplying itself exponentially as we speak.
Nothing embarrasses Ezra. That’s not hyperbole—the boy does karaoke sober. I think he was born without a shame gene. Maybe the cluster would be, too.
It’s hard not to smile when Ezra does. I get redder and sweatier when he kisses me in front of the Student Union, redder and sweatier still when he shouts “Love ya, Noodle!” across the Quad. By the time I turn onto State Street, twin rivulets of perspiration are snaking between my boobs and down my back.
#
The way I don’t want to deal with the cluster is akin to not wanting to go to the dentist. But just because you don’t feel like getting a tooth drilled, doesn’t mean you want to keep the tooth. The air is wet in that way that feels like fluid in your lungs. Buds breech on branches, and it’s making me depressed. Can Spring, just, not be in the air right now?
The issue is not that Ezra’s parents want to meet me. It’s the Seder of it all. Ezra’s family does the full Haggadah, not just breezing through until they get to the Festive Meal. They stand, where it says to, and actually wash their hands. At some point there’s dancing around the table. Ezra offered that up like it was a selling point.
I’m late, but the cluster forces a detour so I can vomit the banana I barely managed to force down at breakfast. Tic Tacs battle banana-flavored stomach acid, doing what they can. Too late, I remember I wasn’t supposed to eat or drink. Does it still count if it’s been regurgitated behind a bush? Oh well. The worst that can happen already has.
#
The cramping is mild, but it mirrors an emotional twinge. Not that I regret my decision. It’s just that the cluster was so… unceremoniously dispatched. Someone should have said something, no? The peeled-back foil on a plastic cup of juice waves to me from a bedside tray.
Yit-gadal v'yit-kadash…
Am I a woman, or a Jew?
Ezra picks me up. No questions, not yet. He calls me Noodle, and I am relieved.
The visit will be fine; other people's parents love me. Four cups of wine will go down easy. OK then, I think. Onward.
Amen.
Erica Ottenberg
Erica Ottenberg is an Emmy Award-winning writer and creative director. An alumnus of Nickelodeon, she is also the author of three books in Madonna's The English Roses series for middle-grade readers. Erica is the first prize winner of Book Pipeline's Unpublished Competition for her young adult novel, Confessions of a Ghostwriter. She is the winner of Writers' Hour Magazine's flash fiction contest and was shortlisted for the Inkspot Publishing Short Story Prize. Her work has been featured in Short Beasts, The Plentitudes, and elsewhere. Erica lives with her family in New York City.
