Honey and Me: Chapters 1–5

I’d sit with him here in the main sanctuary, quietly watching all the men praying, my eyes inevitably drawn to where Honey’s dad always sits.

That’s when I would whisper to my dad that I was going with Honey and before he’d even finished nodding his assent, I was down the aisle.

“Thanks!” we both whisper with gusto as he hands us the lollypops.

“My mom told me all the sixth-grade girls do a bat mitzvah presentation at the end of the year. Does your school do something too?”

Mrs. Wine is ushering a woman with a shaved head and nose ring to an armchair, listening intently to what she is saying and nodding.

Shabbat at the Wines’ always feature an array of guests, from Mr. Wine’s students, to single cousins, to dignitaries in the Jewish community, family friends and friends of the Wine kids, and even random people who don’t have anywhere else to go.

They haven’t noticed me yet, so I turn to one of the glass-doored cabinets that flank the archway to take a peek at the figurines inside: My favorite is an old lady holding balloons.

“Don’t you dare, Miriam,” Honey cuts her short with an imperious glare.

“And this is Milla Bloom, my Honey’s best friend,” Mrs. Wine says, gesturing in my direction. I blush and wave shyly, basking in the glow of Mrs. Wine’s warmth and my title.

I look around at the dining room: A nine-branched candelabra sits stately on the sideboard, burning bright with the Shabbat candles.

Over a shiny plastic tablecloth, the table glitters with delicate white dishes, with tiny midnight-blue-and-gold flowers around the edges, that the Wines only use on Shabbat and festivals.

“Very funny,” I tell him sarcastically, even as I flush with pleasure. I love the inside joke.

Introductions are made with all the guests, including two stragglers Mr. Wine has picked up at shul.

“Sure, why not,” I say, trying to sound casual. Of course, I’d rather die than let Honey know I think Micah is cute.

Micah smiles winningly at a skinny man with wispy hair until the man moves down one chair toward Ezra; Micah slides into the seat on my other side.

Dear Honey-loo, it says in Mrs. Wine’s quick scrawl, I was so proud of you for watching Aaron and Dan-Dan yesterday when I got my phone call from the chevra kadisha.

“May I invite you all to netilat yadayim, our ritual cleansing of the hands before we bless the challah. And let me remind you”—he holds up one finger in a fake serious way—“that between the blessing over our hands and the Hamotzi blessing over the challah, we do not talk until we have taken a bite of the bread.”

“I need Milla’s help with the soup!” Honey hollers over the racket, dragging me into the kitchen and then through to the walk-in pantry, firmly shutting the door behind her.

The pantry looks like a kosher supermarket and smells like bubble gum and a heady mix of the spices arranged haphazardly in wire baskets.

The kitchen has stark white counters and stainless steel appliances.

Framed artwork hangs at regularly spaced intervals in the front hallway.

Our house is not big, but everything in it is deliberate. Even the fake flowers in the downstairs bathroom are always arranged just so.

“Camp for two months, hanging out every Shabbat afternoon, now school together,” my dad says mischievously, looking at my mother. “If I had to spend all that time with somebody, never mind live with them, I would definitely get sick of them.”

“Of course I’m serious. I’m a serious guy. Who could have more gravitas than a tax lawyer?”

My mother lets out an exasperated breath.

It’s like the heavy velvet cloth covering the bima in synagogue is draping our house, muffling our voices and amplifying other sounds—neighborhood children playing in their backyards, an airplane overhead, the soft hum as the air-conditioning starts up, the clink of my mother loading the dishwasher, the whooshing of the Shabbos urn keeping the water hot for my mother’s tea.

Honey extracts herself from Natalie’s duck poses, again missing my conspiratorial eye roll, and takes turns hugging Sophie and Tali, who go to the same sleepaway camp as us.

“I’m Noam, by the way...”
“Hey,” Honey says nonchalantly.

It’s true she doesn’t really have a choice, but knowing Honey, I cannot believe she’s giving in so easily. Except that with each class after, when the teacher calls out Honey Wine on the attendance sheet and asks for her Hebrew name, she promptly supplies “Devorah.”

Mrs. McIntosh saunters out, and Mr. Sandler strides in for English.

She’s drawn a curlicue border with tulips and roses filling the space around her name.

Honey stays facing forward in front of me, her back straight, paying rapt attention to Mr. Sandler.

I raise my hand tentatively.

People have their heads down again, trying to scrutinize the poem.

By the time Friday afternoon comes around, I have been in middle school for a total of three days and I am thoroughly worn out.

“Nat invited me to come over on Sunday,” she tells me.
“Cool,” I say, feigning a smile.

I feel disgruntled and more confused than ever.

Aunty Steph smiles at me significantly. “Milla-babe, isn’t that he likes it reason enough?”

Honey’s smattering of freckles have deepened, and she fingers the ends of her own blond ponytail thoughtfully.

Then she grins impishly. “Anyway, being Deb was fun for a while, but Honey’s way better for me. Honestly, who else in the world is called Honey Wine?”