I sighed. “That’s what everyone says. I mean, I get that he’s sad, but other than the no-talking thing, he seems fine.”

“What people show us on the outside may not be a very good indicator of what’s going on inside,” she said and then gave me a sudden side hug. “Be patient with him, Evie.”

I sighed.

Rabbi Alisha laughed, like she could read my mind. “But you’re doing a good thing, being a friend to him.”

But I wasn’t being a friend to him. Yeah, I was hanging out with him and teaching him things and letting him help with my chores, but we definitely weren’t friends. I felt like I should be doing more to help him. Like, if I was doing a better job, he’d be speaking by now. But if I said that to Rabbi Alisha, she’d only remind me about patience. Again.

“Just be there for him. I’m sure he’ll come around, but you can’t rush grief. It has its own schedule for everyone.”

“I know,” I sighed.

“Anyway,” she said. “I have some old prayer books I need to bring over for burial, but I’ll talk to your parents tomorrow to arrange a time.”

When I stared at her, trying to figure out what she’d just said, she laughed and explained. “Old, worn-out siddurs can’t be thrown away because they have God’s name in them. They need to be buried in the cemetery out of respect. There’s a special spot for books and other holy objects. We haven’t done it in a while, but I’m running out of space keeping them at my office.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” I said, even though I had never heard of burying books at a graveyard. “Do you have to put them in a casket?”

She shook her head. “No. Just an old sheet or pillowcase is fine. Anyway, maybe I’ll bring them over this weekend. I’d love to see some of your quilling projects.”

I almost groaned, wishing I’d never told her about my artwork. I’d been excited to tell her all about it when it was going so well. Now? Not so much. Ever since Oren’s terrible reaction to the gift I’d made, I had hardly any interest in quilling.

“Great,” I said. “But I’d better get back to Oren.”

She smiled at me and wished me Shabbat shalom.

When I found Oren, he was carrying a wire basket in his good hand. “Hi,” I said and craned my neck to peek inside the basket. There were four shiny, painted clay pots—blue, pink, yellow and green. The green one had a yellow sunflower on it.

“Are you planning to make a windowsill garden?” I asked. “Plant some herbs for your cooking?”

He looked down at the pots and then back up at me, frowning. Then he held the basket toward me.

“Oh,” I said as I realized he’d picked out the pots for me. “No, I mean, thanks. No offense, and those are nice and all. But I need plain pots without any paint or anything on them. Just the regular old orange clay ones.”