Honey and Me: Chapters 6–9

“Shhhhh!” Aginéni will say in shul if a child dares whine or ask their mother or father for something. “Vilde chaya,” she’ll add, muttering about kids who behave without any decorum—all this from her front-row balcony seat, where she can keep an eye on both the ladies’ section and the main sanctuary down below.

The backyard is ravaged by weeds and overgrown plants.

My eyes catch the sheen off the plastic cover of a library book resting on the island between the main part of the kitchen and the little eating area.

“An old lady should sit at home by herself all day staring at the walls? I used to knit, but look—” She holds out her fingers, gnarled to claws.

“And why shouldn’t I?” Aginéni says haughtily, narrowing her eyes at Honey. “Are you saying I am an old lady and should be banned from reading what I want to? The alte kakers can only read the boring stuff?”

Her parents grew up Hasidic but left their sect before she was born and now don’t keep any Jewish laws or customs.

As we pass by her cane on our way out, I think it kind of looks like a shofar, the ram’s horn blown on Rosh Hashanah to awaken the congregation to repentance. I try to think of things I am sorry for, or that I want to do differently this year.

“I thought you were scared of her,” Honey says peevishly as soon as the screen door bangs shut behind us.

“On Succot, we are celebrating and remembering when the Children of Israel lived in the desert on the way to the Promised Land—we lived in temporary huts, exposed to the elements,” she carries on calmly, despite the thrum of whispers and giggles.

I see that Mr. Sandler—who, like the other general studies teachers, tends to mark assignments during Judaic Studies assemblies—has looked up, intrigued.

“Succot is the festival of insecurity. And you teenagers and soon-to-be teenagers—you are in a temporary dwelling right now, just like a succah. You know that adulthood exists; you even know actual adults.”

“Most nations don’t like to be reminded of their humble origins, but the Jewish people’s three pilgrimage festivals—Pesach, Shavuot, and Succot—do just that. They are celebrations, but embedded within them is always a reminder of where we have come from and who we are.”

Then he clarifies for the rest of the class: “You can write about insecurity in terms of food and shelter—not knowing where your next meal will come from or where you will sleep each night, and if it’s safe. Or you can write about it in terms of feelings and emotions. Interpret it however you like.”

I roll my eyes at her antics. But despite my best intentions, the corners of my mouth start tugging up until we’re both laughing hysterically.

“Pleased to meet you,” she tells him elegantly, as if the Wines’ living room was Buckingham Palace, and I see Honey giving her an appraising look of approval.

“In order to perform the unique Succot mitzvah of lulav and etrog, where we take three plants bound together with a fruit and shake them in every direction to remind us that God surrounds us, we need all four of the items to make the blessing,” she begins in her impeccable English accent. She sounds like the Queen.

It says in the Mishnah that the lulav—a frond from the date palm tree—has taste but no smell, symbolizing those who study Torah but do not possess good deeds.

“We need friends and partners who complement us. Even if we think we have much to offer, or if we think we have nothing to offer. The etrog has both smell and taste—it has everything to offer—but you still cannot make the blessing on it alone.”

Max is at their feet wearing his space ranger costume, absorbed in an elaborate Lego Minifigure battle, and my dad is napping.

“But she says wearing vintage is not only cool but reduces your carbon footprint.”

“And that skirt is super versatile. It’ll match with so many things. Let’s try it on.”

We squeeze in together, and Honey sweeps the curtain shut behind us with a flourish as we collapse into a fit of laughter.

“We’re allowed to be here!” Honey says from inside her dress.
“Then behave like it,” the saleslady snaps. I can’t see Honey’s face but mine sobers instantaneously.

Her face softens, and she smiles ruefully. “I remember my first time going to a bat mitzvah.”

“Mazal Tov! I like your dress,” I shout to Tammy over the din.

I kind of agree with Natalie’s assessment, but I also feel indignant at her nerve.

I kind of agree with Natalie’s assessment, but I also feel indignant at her nerve.

Natalie’s bat mitzvah is in March, and she’s already been regaling us with the details. Her dress, the chairs, the tablecloths: Everything will be matching black and gold.

She’s wearing her new plaid shirt and jean skirt, the What Goes Around bag on the floor and the tags cut off and strewn about the carpet.

“Ima won’t care,” Honey says defiantly. “Anyway, I paid for it with my own money.”

“You kvetch about wearing our cousin Faigy’s hand-me-downs—which are free—but you go and spend your own money to buy a stranger’s old clothes?”

And maybe I am mistaken, but was that a wistful look Miriam flashed at me and Honey before she slammed the door?

“It’ll be good experience,” I tell my mother entreatingly.

As I enter, I see the black snood she covers her hair with when she’s in the house flung on the banister.

“The yeshiva just called. They’ve been threatening not to let him graduate, but it sounds like this time they’re serious.”

“Have you seen this one yet?” Honey says, sidling along the counter to open up a laptop.

Folding tables and chairs are stacked precariously against the walls.

“Oh, Aaron,” she says in an exhale, and closes her eyes for a minute when Honey quickly gives her the gist of what happened.

Even though we are supposed to be as tznius as we can in all ways—to be modest in our dress and our actions, to need little, to be humble—it is still important to have dignity and to have identity.

I smile back and try to catch Honey’s eye, but her head is still on Mrs. Wine’s shoulder and her eyes are closed, her fingers idly picking at a small spot on her skirt where the denim has frayed.