Rise and shine!" Mum sang, snapping open the window shades in my room on Saturday morning.
"What time is it?" I asked groggily.
"Nearly nine thirty."
I groaned. Nine thirty on a Saturday morning? I jammed the pillow over my head to block out the light.
"No, no, no," Mum said, snatching it away. "I told you. We are going dress shopping today. So put your happy game face on, as you kids say."
I've never heard anyone say that.
"Like this?" I grinned and crossed my eyes.
"If that's your happy game face, then yes. Now get dressed."
I put on my typical weekend wear-purposely ripped black jeans held together with safety pins, black hoodie, neon pink socks. Ninja style. With a splash of color.
Over breakfast, she kept trying, and failing, to put a good spin on it. "Nothing too, too fancy. Something chic and fun. Something 'kicky.'"
"Mum-kicky? I don't even know what that means."
"We'll save the fancy dress for your own bas mitzvah," she added, ignoring me. "Hopefully you'll have grown a bit by then."
I peered down my own shirt. "Nope."
"Don't be vulgar, Tara. And go put on a training bra."
"For what?"
"You need to wear it to see how it fits under a dress."
I buried my head in my hands. Pointless. "I don't know where I put it," I lied.
"It's in your top drawer. No doubt with the tags still attached. Go."
I stalked back to my room and fished the itchy, icky thing out of my dresser drawer. Why, why, why? It fit like an infant bikini top-completely pointless. I wriggled it on over my head and put my sweatshirt back on. It made no difference whatsoever.
"Where are you two ladies off to?" Daddy asked as we were leaving.
"Macy's," said Mum.
"My condolences," he said.
"Thank you," Mum and I both answered.
Mum was in a terrible mood from the start. She began criticizing my posture on the subway and even yelled at me at Macy's for riding the escalator backward, which I always do. And the dresses-ugh.
"How about this?" she asked, pulling out a long-sleeved velvet number that was almost as tall as she was.
"Too long."
"This one's cute," she said, trying again with a blue satin minidress.
"Too short."
If she wouldn't let me wear my normal clothes, then I'd rather do something vintage, maybe repurpose an old dress of hers or even Gran's. Or one of Daddy's old suits cut down for me. That would be cool. Mum would probably die of embarrassment. Which would be part of the fun.
Mum could be so uptight about stuff like that. I guess in high school, when she lived with Meena Auntie, she only got to wear hand-me-downs because Meena couldn't afford to buy her sister new clothes. That meant wearing Meena's old-ladyish salwar kameezes instead of the designer jeans and sweatshirts everybody else was wearing.
I wasn't clear on all the details, because Mum never liked talking about it. Meena Auntie was in law school at the time and became Mum's legal guardian so she could bring her to the U.S. for high school. Mum never got over being the outsider, mocked for her clothes, her accent, and the strong-smelling curries Meena made her carry to school every day in a round steel tiffin box. One time, it leaked all over her school bag and her clothes and looked, Mum said, like diarrhea. I mean, I love Indian food, but I can't imagine carrying it to school and having to eat it cold from a leaky, three-tiered tiffin. Mum was happier before she came to the U.S., but the catch is, now she couldn't stand to live anywhere else. And somehow that was Meena's fault, too. I guess that's just something that happens between siblings. Not that I would know. But it did explain why the idea of vintage really freaked her out. Used clothing-on purpose? The horror!
"Stop scratching your chest, Tara. Here, you can't object to this one," she said, holding up a knee-length dress with purple and white stripes.
"Too Sheila Rosenberg," I said.
Mum sighed. She can be fairly clueless sometimes. First of all, we wasted like an hour in the wrong department. Anything designed to be held up with a pair of boobs is obviously not going to work for me, training bra or no. And the girls' department was even worse. I mean-really, Mum? Pink chiffon? Not with my complexion.
After two hours of bickering and no dresses, Mum heaved herself into a tall seat at the makeup counter, thrusting her jacket and purse at me. "Shanette, dear," she said, reading the woman's name tag, "I need a fresh-up."
As Shanette prepared to apply new makeup over Mum's old makeup, I played with the lipsticks and eyeliners on the counter, twisting them up and down, smelling them, trying to imagine why anyone would leave home with this sticky stuff on her face. I really didn't get the attraction, even though lots of girls in my grade had started wearing eyeliner. I couldn't even draw a straight line. Not that that stopped some people. Sometimes Rebecca and I gave each other crazy makeovers, but only in my room. I wondered if Mum was going to try to make me wear makeup for my bat mitzvah. Probably. I made a mental note not to wear mascara, after what had happened to Sheila Rosenberg. Not that I was planning to cry. But it might rain or something-better to be safe.
I've noticed that Mum will only stop for a "fresh-up" if there's a woman of color at the counter, because white women don't understand her skin-they'll slather on a foundation color that's either too light, making her look like a circus clown, or too dark, so she looks like she's wearing a mask. I couldn't blame anyone for being confused-on the counter was a massive color wheel with about a thousand different skin tones multiplied by four different "undertones"-apparently you were supposed to know both to find your perfect shade. I gave the outer wheel a spin, and it randomly landed on ebony.
"Stop playing with that, Tara."
"Mum, am I a Warm or a Cool?"
"A what?"
"Do I have pinkish, yellowish, olive, or brown undertones?"
"You don't need foundation, Tara."
"I know. I'm just asking."
Shanette lifted my chin, tilting my head this way and that. "I would say your tone is a light brownish," she said. "Wheat, to be precise. With a touch of honey."
Personally, I would have said oatmeal, with grayish-blah undertones, but honey wheat sounded nice. Like something delicious. I turned back to the color wheel, lining up the two parts. Honey plus Wheat-that made me a Warm. Look for yellow, gold, or peach-based makeup shades. Okay! I grabbed a Coral Lush lip pencil from the counter display and carefully drew a large pink bindi dot between my eyebrows. I bunched up my lips like Aishwarya Rai, the Indian movie star, and gave myself a long, sexy look in the magnifying mirror, drawing Mum's scratchy linen scarf across my face like a silk dupatta. That was when it hit me.
"Mummy," I said, "I have an excellent idea."
"Yes, love?" she murmured, through slightly parted lips as Shanette applied powder all over her face with a large, soft brush.
"For my bat mitzvah, I think I'll wear Meena Auntie's sari."
I thought Mum would like that. It wasn't like wearing a hand-me-down. It was something more special than that-an heirloom. She couldn't possibly object. The sari was very expensive and old, with lots of family history. It had once belonged to my great-grandmother, who had passed it on to Meena Auntie, who passed it on to me because she doesn't have a daughter, only Vijay. It seemed to me the kind of "lovely gesture" that Mum was always talking about. Plus, it wasn't technically a dress. Bonus. I turned and smiled, anticipating Mum's pleasure.
"Tara," Mum said through her teeth while Shanette painted a wide, Heavenly Hibiscus gash across her mouth. "There is a time and a place for everything."
I was surprised by her reaction-hurt, too. This wasn't the same as having potato samosas-this was different. Special. A way to have a little piece of Nanaji there with me. In other words-I wasn't kidding.
"You will do no such thing," she continued. "You will not be having some… some-basmati bas mitzvah!"
I had a good laugh at that, actually. When Mum gets flustered, she sounds exactly like her mother-my nani-making up silly bilingual puns and alliterations on the fly. It's something all Indians do, like the billboard for Amul butter I saw when we visited Mumbai that said, "Let bhaingans be byegones!" Bhaingan being eggplant. I had no clue why that was supposed to be funny.
I decided to play it straight and have some fun at her expense, to get back at her.
"Good one, Mum, except it's bat mitzvah. No one says bas nowadays. 'Basmati bat mitzvah.' I love it!"
"Seriously, Tara."
"It's a great idea," I said, acting all serious. "We can serve pullao on a big star-shaped platter."
"Tara," she said in a warning tone.
"Yes, exactly!" I said. Tara means "star" in Hindi, after all. "And instead of throwing candy at the bimah, everyone can throw basmati rice, like at a wedding." I smirked.
"Enough, Tara."
"Or they can throw marigolds, like in India. I love marigolds, don't you, Mum? I'd like my corsage to be marigolds." I'd been obsessed with marigolds, and Indian weddings, ever since seeing Monsoon Wedding on cable over the summer.
"Tara, you take a thing too, too far," Mum said in the singsongy Indian accent that comes out when I'm aggravating her.
"But you said-"
"I said you can have a say in the arrangements. I did not say you could make a mockery of everything."
That was harsh. I had mostly been kidding about the other stuff, but I was way serious about the sari. If I could choose the decorations and the menu and the cake, then why not my outfit, too? If I wanted to desi it up-"Indify" it a little, honor Nanaji by wearing my sari-then why not? It was my party.
Besides, it was just clothes. Mum, of all people, knew you could express yourself with what you wear. Why couldn't I express my Indian heritage and my Jewish one at the same time?
"You are wiping that-that shmutz off your face. Right now."
"Here, try these new makeup-removal towelettes!" Shanette put in, tearing open a little packet for me. I have to admit, it worked really well-took the pink stuff right off and wasn't greasy or anything. I pocketed the rest of the samples for the next time Rebecca came over.
"You should get these, Mum," I said. "So you don't wake up with kohl eyes in the morning."
"Twelve ninety-five for one drop of aloe vera lotion on a paper towel?" Mum said with contempt. "Nothing doing."
Shanette looked disappointed. She went back to applying Mum's fresh-up.
I wanted to go home so badly. I was sick of shopping and annoyed with Mum for being so conventional. This fitting-in business was never for me. It actually made me feel more self-conscious, like there was something weird about me that everyone could see except me.
Keeping things orderly and separate may have made Mum feel more in control of her life, but me? It made me feel like someone with multiple personality disorder-make that multiple ethnicity disorder.
I knew where she was coming from, but it had nothing to do with me and what I wanted. Just because she hated going to high school in the U.S. didn't mean I was going to. I definitely didn't hate middle school. I kept telling her that things were different now from when she was a kid, but I don't think she got it. I wasn't even the only Asian kid in my Hebrew school. Well, Asian-looking-Adam Greenspan was adopted, so it's not as if either of his parents is Asian. And nobody gives him a hard time, not even his best friend, Ryan Berger, who's not exactly the most thoughtful person on the planet.
Anyway, this wasn't the "time" or the "place" for a real argument, so I tried to sit quietly and not pick a fight. But Shanette was taking forever with the eye shadow, showing Mum how to "accentuate" the crease in her eyelid. I didn't know that was supposed to be a good thing.
"Sit still, Tara," Mum said when I accidentally kicked Shanette, causing her to goof up Mum's left eye.
"Sorry," I said. "Restless leg."
Shanette wiped off the eye shadow and started again. I stifled a groan. I needed to get away from Mum for a few minutes.
"Can I go downstairs and get a shake at the Cellar? Please?"
"You'll ruin your lunch," Mum said.
"But I'm hungry now." I put some extra whine into it, knowing it would irritate her into saying yes. "Please?"
Mum sighed. "Take money from my wallet. But I want you back here in five minutes. You hear me, Tara? Five."
"Okay!" I called over my shoulder. I was already past the accessories counter. I headed downstairs to the Cellar via Small Leather Goods. To make myself feel better, I rode the escalator backward.
While I was waiting in line at the ice cream counter, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned around. Of all people, it was Ryan Berger and his permanent sidekick, Adam Greenspan. As if I had conjured them up just by thinking about them five minutes earlier. That was a disturbing thought.
"Oh. My. Gawd! Tara Feinstein," Ryan said. He stuck out his hip and pointed at me, imitating some gum-chewing airheads in our grade. "Random!"
"What are you doing here?" I asked, eyeing them both with suspicion.
"Getting ice cream, same as you," Ryan said.
I thought about what Ben-o had said on Wednesday, about Ryan Berger having a "thing" for me, which was totally gross. But it was true that everywhere I went, there he was. Random, my butt.
"At Macy's, I mean. Are you following me?"
"Nice ego," Ryan said, holding up a shopping bag. "Shirt and tie. For my bar mitzvah."
"Without your mom?"
"She's here. Upstairs, I mean. In No-Man's Land."
"Oh." I nodded. "Lingerie." The very thought made me itchy again.
"Yup."
The line started to move forward. "Well, see ya," I said, turning my back to him. A moment later, he tapped my shoulder again. "What do you want, Ryan?"
"Can we cut in? Behind you?"
I couldn't believe the chutzpah. Ryan Berger and I may have been partners in Robotics, but that didn't make us friends. Then we "randomly" run into each other at Macy's and he thinks he can chat-cut? No way.
"No way," I said.
"Come on," he insisted. "We'll reverse-cut."
"That's between you and the people behind me," I said. But behind me was a mom with four little kids who were all over the place, and she said she didn't mind if my "little friends" wanted to join me. Blech. I kept my back to Ryan and Adam and pretended to be super-interested in the menu painted on the wall above the counter, even though I knew exactly what I was going to have. Vanilla shake, one pump of chocolate syrup. Same as always.
Ryan tapped me a third time, which was starting to get on my nerves. "Can Adam borrow a dollar? He's a little short." He practically fell over, he was laughing so hard at his own joke. Adam stood there grinning like an idiot, not at all insulted by the joke about his height. I wonder why he takes it.
One time in fifth grade, Ryan called me a Hin-Jew, which was totally ignorant, because how would he even know if my Indian family was Hindu or not? There are like a thousand different religions in India, even Judaism. When I told my dad, he just laughed and said that was a good one, but he didn't hear it the way Ryan had said it. Daddy said you have to have a sense of humor about things or you end up holding grudges your whole life, like Gran. And Mum, I thought, but he didn't say that.
Anyway, I lent Adam the dollar, but I doubted I'd ever see it again.
"Why do you keep scratching under your arm?" asked Ryan.
I didn't say, "BECAUSE MY STUPID BRA ITCHES!" Instead, I gave him a murderous look, and he backed off. Then it was my turn to order. Ryan and Adam walked up to the counter with me.
"Together or separate?" the ice cream lady asked.
"Separate!" I barked.
Adam was served first, and his ice cream cone was already starting to melt by the time I got my shake.
"You better not drip on my new stuff," said Ryan, shifting the shopping bag away from Adam. "My mom'll have a cow."
"You should see the bow tie his mom made him get." Adam snorted. "It's really dorky."
"No, it's not," said Ryan. "It's cool-for a tie, I mean. Wanna see, Tara?"
"Not particularly," I said, slurping my shake.
Ryan shrugged. "I guess you'll see it at my bar mitzvah, then."
"I will?" That was a surprise. "I didn't think I was invited."
"Of course you are. My mom said I have to invite everyone."
"Gee, thanks."
"I would have invited you anyway," he said. "But not Sheila Rosenberg, probably."
"Please," I said, holding up my hand. "Don't put Sheila Rosenberg and me in the same sentence."
"Just let her tell me I'm not Jewish," Adam declared, recalling our fight. "I'll punch her in the nose."
It's interesting, when you think about it. Here was this Korean-born Jewish kid named Adam Greenspan. Yet his best friend-the same jerk who called me a Hin-Jew in fifth grade-didn't even seem to find anything remarkable about him, other than his height. He would never call Adam a name like that, even though Adam probably wouldn't care.
"She's bigger than you," I reminded Adam.
"I can take her."
"Go for the hair," I advised.
Ryan hooted. "See ya tomorrow, T," he said.
"See ya, T," Adam echoed.
"Yeah."
Did Ryan Berger really just invite me to his bar mitzvah? Well, that was weird.
