Honey and Me

1. Title Page
2. Dedication
3. Shabbat
4. Chapter 1: Our Shul
5. Chapter 2: Honey’s House
6. Chapter 3: My House
7. Chapter 4: Deb?
8. Chapter 5: A Rose by Any Other Name
9. Days of Awe
10. Chapter 6: Aginéni
11. Chapter 7: Succot
12. Chapter 8: What Goes Around … Comes Around
13. Chapter 9: Brothers
14. Mitzvah
15. Chapter 10: Control
16. Chapter 11: Bat Mitzvah Season
17. Chapter 12: Right Side Up
18. Chapter 13: Orange Juice
19. Chapter 14: Orange Crush
20. Chapter 15: Something Sparkly
21. Chapter 16: Blessed Is the True Judge
22. Chapter 17: Results
23. Passover
24. Chapter 18: Bitter Herbs
25. Chapter 19: Mah Nishtanah …
26. Chapter 20: … Why Is This Night Different?
27. Feast of Weeks
28. Chapter 21: First Fruits
29. Chapter 22: Cleaning House
30. Author’s Note
31. Glossary
32. Acknowledgments
33. About the Author
34. Copyright

“Are you going to ask him for the Yum-Yums?” I whisper to Honey. It’s Saturday morning and we are scampering across the lobby of our synagogue on our way to the candyman. Mr. Eisner only gives Yum-Yums, the best kind of lollypop, to the kids he really likes.

“Don’t we deserve the best?” Honey says with a wink as we reach the door to the men’s section.

“You two think you’re so special, don’t you?” someone calls to us. We turn around. Honey’s younger sister Miriam is sitting on the counter of the cloakroom, watching us as she sucks on a lollypop—the bad kind. Miriam is ten and very annoying.

“I don’t think it, I know it,” Honey calls back, putting her arm around me and sticking her tongue out at Miriam. I don’t feel special like Honey is, but I grin anyway and put my arm around my best friend. Then we each use our other hand to pull open the double doors to the main sanctuary.

As the doors close softly behind us, I inhale the familiar smell of woolen prayer shawls, dark suits, leathery aftershave, and old prayer books. Everyone in front of us is standing and swaying slightly, many with their prayer shawls draped over their heads. Honey catches my eye and I nod: We’ll wait back here by the door until the silent Amidah prayer is over.

“Hi, Milla!” My little brother, Max, whisper-shouts, spying me from my dad’s regular spot about a third of the way into the sanctuary. Max waves and scoots over on the velvet-cushioned bench of the synagogue pew to make room for me.

“Shhhh.” A few men cloaked in their cream and black-striped prayer shawls turn around. My face heats. Do they stare at me an extra beat before turning their backs again? My father looks up from his siddur for a moment to give me a smile before looking down at the prayer book and continuing the silent meditation. I give a small wave back at Max, pointing to Mr. Eisner to indicate that I’m just making a quick candy run.

When I was Max’s age I also used to come to shul early every Shabbat morning with my dad. 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. She and her siblings were usually squished two or three to a seat, jostling one another and loudly saying “shush”—until eventually Mr. Wine would release them to attend the children’s services. More likely they would run to the cloakroom, or the lower level where the kitchens are, or the stairs to the ladies’ section, or any of the other spots the kids in our synagogue like to hang out. 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.

“C’mon.” Honey tugs my arm now as the prayer ends and people sit. “Good Shabbos, Mr. Eisner,” she says as soon as we get to his seat, wishing him a good Sabbath and offering her hand for a handshake.

“Good Shabbos, ladies,” Mr. Eisner says, shaking Honey’s hand and then mine. “So good to see you both again.” Honey and I have been away at sleepaway camp together for the last seven weeks.

“Next year we’ll send you a postcard,” Honey says with a grin.

“Marvelous!” Mr. Eisner says, his eyes twinkling. “Perhaps I shall send one back.”

“Even better, you can send us some candy,” Honey says, and I cover my mouth with my hand. I don’t know how she can be so bold, so chutzpadik—and with a grown-up!

But Mr. Eisner claps his hands together now as he beams. “Always negotiating, this one,” he says. “You strike a tough bargain, young lady. But it’s a deal.”

Honey laughs and offers her hand again for Mr. Eisner to shake and seal the deal, which he does. He puts out his hand to me and I give him a firm handshake too.

“So—” Honey says. “Any Yum-Yums today?”

“Please,” I add.

“For you two, of course,” Mr. Eisner responds with another beam. “You know I save them for my favorite kids.”

“Thanks!” we both whisper with gusto as he hands us the lollypops. Then Honey tugs my arm again and we run back down the aisle and out of the sanctuary.

“Oh, hi, Miriam,” Honey says, smoothly opening the wrapper of her lollypop as we pass by the cloakroom. Miriam’s still on the counter, watching a group of girls her age playing a hand-clapping game underneath the coatracks.

“Well, you won’t be getting those for long!” Miriam calls after us. “Soon you’re going to be sitting next to Aginéni and hoping she doesn’t offer you some cod liver oil.” Miriam laughs.

Aginéni is an old lady who sits in the front row of the balcony women’s section every Shabbat and festival, in a seat she staked for herself before our parents were even born.

“At least I’m not afraid of her,” Honey calls back. “Like someone I know.”

On cue, we both cough into our fists and say, “Miriam.” Of course, I’m totally scared of Aginéni too—everyone is, except maybe for Honey—but we both crack up as we turn away again.

When we reach the stairs that lead to the lower level, I say, “It’s true though about Mr. Eisner. I mean, your bat mitzvah is in March.” I don’t add that mine is in June. We both know that once Honey is twelve and too old for the men’s section, there’s no way I will go to Mr. Eisner by myself.

“So we have until March,” Honey says, hopping onto the banister and sliding down sidesaddle.

“I can’t believe we’re starting middle school,” I say, meeting her at the bottom of the stairs. “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?”

Honey is still sitting on the bottom curl of the banister swinging her legs, but a weird expression has crossed her face. “Huh?”

“Does your school have a bat mitzvah presentation or something?” I repeat. Honey and I don’t go to the same school.

“Oh, um, maybe,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows. My nine years of experience being best friends with Honey Wine tells me this is something she would know.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“Nothing,” she says. Then the uncomfortable expression leaves her face and is replaced by her familiar grin. “C’mon, let’s go see if we can sneak into the kitchen and get some kiddush food.” She hops down from the banister and loops her arm through mine.

My mouth waters at the thought of hot potato kugel, maybe with a side of salty herring on a cracker. I grin back and give her arm a squeeze.

Everything is always better with Honey by my side.

The next Friday night, I wriggle out of the cardigan my mother insisted I take and bounce down my driveway to my favorite place in the world: Honey’s house. It’s Labor Day weekend, and the twilight is warm, the sky a deep blue above me as I take the narrow dirt shortcut and emerge onto Honey’s crescent-shaped street. At the deepest part of the curve, the Wines’ red-bricked house sits on a wide double lot like its arms are outstretched in welcome.

I bound up the front steps. The big brass knocker that used to be attached to their heavy front door has fallen off. We don’t use the doorbell on Shabbat, so I knock as hard as I can with my bare knuckles. This is mostly for show. In the spot where other people have a lock, the Wines have a little gold keypad fitted to the door, and like any neighborhood kid worth their salt, I know that to get into the Wines’ you just press 61318, then turn the dial and push the door open.

“Helloooo?!” I call, opening the door for myself. “Good Shabbos!” I hear the light sound of women’s voices coming from deeper in the house. The men must not be back from shul yet. I drop my cardigan on the front-staircase banister, right on top of the spare wig Mrs. Wine plunks on her head whenever she leaves the house, and follow the sound down a wide hallway to a broadly lit scene in the living room.

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. A case in point is Susie, who Mrs. Wine settles herself next to on the love seat: Susie is always here, but even after all this time of being friends with Honey, I actually have no idea if she is a long-term hanger-on or some kind of relative.

Miriam gets up from the wingback chair and squeezes herself onto Mrs. Wine’s other side. Honey is sitting cross-legged on the rug, fixing two little blond ponytails on her sister Dan-Dan’s head. Then she turns Dan-Dan to face her, cocking her head to one side to evaluate her handiwork. 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. My fingers itch to play with it.

“Milla!” Honey says, spying me and getting up. “I have big news! You’re not going to believe it!”

“Oh yeah,” Miriam calls to me. “She wants to tell you—”

“Don’t you dare, Miriam,” Honey cuts her short with an imperious glare. “Ima said we could each tell our friends.”

“And this is Honey, my oldest daughter,” Mrs. Wine says to the guest I don’t recognize, gesturing in our direction while giving a stern look to Miriam.

Honey raises her hand slightly by way of greeting. “I might be the oldest girl, but I am also the middle child of seven kids. Just in case you thought you had issues.” She folds her arms and waits for the woman to look impressed.

“Wow,” the woman says. “Intense.”

“My oldest daughter and a blessing,” Mrs. Wine says, smiling now.

“What does that make me?” Miriam asks. “A curse?”

Honey and I exchange smirks. “You said it, not me,” Honey tells her. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“Miriam, of course you are a blessing too. Baruch Hashem, you are all brachas,” Mrs. Wine says firmly, thanking God for these blessings.

“And I’m Dan-Dan, the littlest blessing,” adds Dan-Dan, smiling sweetly.

“Her real name is Daniella,” Miriam informs the lady. “One day she’s going to hate having such a baby name and all I will say is, I TOLD YOU SO.”

Dan-Dan gives Miriam an impressive side-eye for a four-year-old and goes to sit in Mrs. Wine’s lap. Honey tugs my sleeve and starts pulling me out of the living room.

“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.

“Like a sister,” Honey says, putting her arm around me.

Miriam scowls.

Honey tugs my arm again, and I let her pull me out the door and across the hall to the dining room. She shuts the French doors and then leans against them. “Milla,” she says, her eyes sparkling.

“What?” I say excitedly.

“Hang on,” Honey says. She whirls around, lifting the tablecloth and its plastic covering. Honey’s younger brother, Aaron, six and blond-haired like Honey and Dan-Dan, is sitting cross-legged under the table, ripping playing cards in half one by one.

“Hi, Aaron,” I say.

“Hi, Aaron,” he says, which is his way of saying hi back to me. Then he screeches and throws two halves of a king of hearts in front of him.

Honey lifts a finger to tell me “one minute” and disappears under the table.

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. My mother looks like she’s smelled old milk whenever she sees plastic in someone’s dining room. But if Mrs. Wine didn’t have it, she would probably have to buy a new tablecloth every week. At the Wines’, somebody is always spilling something.

Glancing at the wallpaper above the sideboard, I can see it is peeling at the edges, and I smile fondly at the grandfather clock in the corner, which has read a quarter to three since as long as I’ve known how to tell time. I do think that the Wines are very on top of their home though, which is different than their house. There aren’t many rules at the Wines’, but the ones they do have—like no gossiping—pretty much never get broken. And as always, at the foot of the table, on Mrs. Wine’s sparkling china plate, there are seven white folded pieces of paper. I let my eyes linger on them while listening to Honey’s soothing tones coming from under the table.

After another minute, she lifts up the tablecloth and crawls out. I see Aaron now calmly making piles out of the card halves.

“Okay, so—” Honey says to me.

“Good Shabbos! Good Shabbos!” Mr. Wine and Honey’s older brothers call from the front door.

“Ugh!” Honey groans, flopping down from her knees onto the thick carpet.

“Just tell me!” I say. “Quickly, before they come in here.”

“No, I want to do it privately—” she says.

“I. SEE. DEAD. PEOPLE,” Josh says, throwing open the French doors to the dining room. He stalks toward me, his arms out like a zombie. Josh is the oldest of the Wines, mischievous and popular. He shaves, has his driver’s license, and goes to the big kosher deli with friends on Saturday nights. He likes to make fun of me for my look of shock when I found out Mrs. Wine is a chevra kadisha volunteer. She helps prepare dead bodies for burial.