She put the phone down and didn’t sleep. The next morning, Sophie stood at the bimah in her silver flats, looking out at the congregation. Her voice did crack—twice, actually, once on a high note and once on a Hebrew word she’d practiced a hundred times. But people smiled anyway. Her grandmother cried. Her father gave her a thumbs-up so enthusiastic it looked like he was hailing a taxi.
Maya snorted. “You’re her best friend. You tell her.”
Elena shrugged, picking at her nail polish. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just be ‘sick’ that day.” -No estas invitada a mi bat Mitzvah-
That was before the Incident.
“You’re not invited either,” Sophie said, even though he was, obviously. He was family. He had to come. That was the rule. The night before the bat mitzvah, Sophie couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, running through her Torah portion in her head, and her mind kept circling back to the same image: Elena’s face when she’d laughed at the lockers. Not mean, exactly. Just careless. Like Sophie was a joke she’d gotten tired of telling. She put the phone down and didn’t sleep
“You’re still not invited,” Sophie said. “Not to the party.”
It felt good. Final. Like slamming a door. The weeks leading up to the bat mitzvah were a blur of Hebrew practice, dress fittings, and centerpiece arguments (Sophie wanted succulents; her mother wanted roses; they compromised on succulents with one single rose in the middle, which satisfied no one). Sophie didn’t think about Elena. But people smiled anyway
“Sophie—”