It’s early enough that responses only kind of trickle in, which is why she sees Cass’s as soon as it comes. It’s a shot of Cass in her own bed, probably, eyes closed, face slack. You get into so many kinds of trouble, her message says.

Enough to know this morning’s is the boring kind, Lulu replies.

Midway through the service, Lulu’s Advil wears off, and a headache starts to press a barbed-wire crown of pain against her skull. She slips out to take some more and can’t make herself go back in. It’s been so long since she was at temple. She doesn’t remember any of the words.

Instead, she makes her way to the reception hall, where, by the grace of the god Lulu’s just been failing to pray to, the Bar Mitzvah boy’s parents ordered catering, and a spread is already set. She drinks an entire black coffee while she covers a bagel in cream cheese and lox; she’s well into her second cup as she heads for the bridal room, a changing space off the hall that’s usually unlocked. Lulu may not know the service well, but she’s an expert in every place you can go to get away from it.

The room is empty, nothing but four walls and a mirror, but that doesn’t matter. Lulu sinks gratefully to the floor and eats half of the bagel in three or four bites, swallowing throat-sized lumps. She takes another Advil with the last of the coffee.

Glancing up, she catches sight of her reflection: her hair, dry now, down and limp. Her bare face, bare legs, bare arms. The dollop of cream cheese at the corner of her mouth.

Who do you think you are? Lulu asks herself.

She has absolutely no answer.

Lulu rubs a knuckle against the cream cheese, realizing as she does it that she didn’t grab any napkins. Her finger hesitates. The door swings open.

Kiley Rathbone walks in.

Of fucking course.

“Heyyyy! I thought I saw you earlier with your family,” she says, like she expects Lulu wanted to be seen, or acknowledged.

“Yeah,” Lulu says.

“I don’t usually?”

“No.”

Lulu wipes the cream cheese off her finger and onto the carpet.

“I’m here every Saturday, so I know the regulars,” Kiley says. “I think my parents make us come to prove a point. Like, See, look at us. We’re real, live black Jews! We’re still real Jews! It’s so boring.”

Lulu doesn’t say anything.

Kiley is undeterred. “I also don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat carbs before,” she says.

“I don’t—uh. Sorry. But, like, do you watch me eat?”