Living in a house with newlyweds had brought other ideas to the forefront of her mind. Day after day, she was witness to the interaction between her father and her stepmother: the way they stood beside each other doing the dishes, their shoulders almost touching, exchanging warm, secret smiles. The little, unexpected bursts of laughter. The way her father sang Eishes Chayil to Leah on a Friday night, his blue eyes deepening in color, his forehead glistening with a newfound youth. The way Leah touched him, so casually and delicately, her hand seeking a shoulder, a finger, his back. How they were together had awakened something within her, something new: a curiosity, a longing, to know more of that great mystery that existed between men and women.

Until now, she had found no outlet for her desires, except to buy a ticket and take a seat on the staid, socially acceptable shidduch merry-go-round. But that wasn’t what she wanted. First, she felt much too young. And second, it wasn’t a husband she was looking for. What did she need a husband for? All she wanted was to simply explore how it would feel to be with a young man who would look at her the way her father looked at Leah. What was wrong with that?

Up until now, it had been hopeless. But all by herself, she had finally found a solution, which albeit completely socially unacceptable, was one that felt right to her. And even though at the moment it was more like a fantasy than reality, still its promise lay close to her heart. She realized, of course, that if it were ever exposed, there would be hell to pay. But that only made it more thrilling, increasing her excitement and her desire.

“You should ask your parents about what’s being said,” Shulamis suggested, interrupting her thoughts. “Maybe even talk to the rav? He’d put an end to it.”

But Shaindele had stopped listening, her mind a few blocks away. She blushed. Let her father and stepmother and Bubbee deal with this. It had nothing to do with her. She had a life of her own, she thought with sudden joy.

8

THE BOY FROM THE PIZZA PARLOR

It was one of the few places where young men and young women mingled in Boro Park: Moishy’s Kosher Pizza and Dairy on Fourteenth Avenue. Children and teenagers stopped by on their way home from school or ran over an hour after Shabbos ended, magically already starving despite having stuffed themselves all day. But you didn’t have to be hungry to order a slice from Moishy’s. Even when you had no appetite at all and had no intention of going in, the smell wafting out into the street of baking dough, melting cheese, and tomato sauce fragrant with basil and oregano drew you in like sea sirens.