Crossing Over Page 8

  Melman squeezed Slimey’s hand—it was hard to watch their friend look so out of his comfort zone. She hoped they wouldn’t call him out for his flammable robot. Ever since he’d lost the competition, he’d been keeping his head down and mumbling one-word answers. Melman guessed wearing the spotlight in the spotlight was the last thing he wanted.

  “The third defendant will be judged with Mr. Steinberg,” the Captain/Dracula said. “She is a . . . Faith Hiller.”

  The Faith Hillers clapped and cheered so loudly, the kids sitting three rows ahead put their hands over their ears. Melman slung one arm over Slimey and the other over Sophie. The J-squad pulled Missi up to her feet as she released a silent, hissing laugh through the front gap in her teeth.

  The Captain/Dracula gave another throat clear. “Bethany Melman, please make your way down.”

  It took the longest second of her life to register, and then it hit like a head butt. Whaaaaaaat?!? Melman repeated over and over in her mind, and maybe even out loud—the experience was so out-of-body, she couldn’t tell. Hundreds of heads turned to face her. Any other summer she’d be freaking out with excitement, but between getting the boot from the boys’ team and now having to deal with her who-knows-what feelings she did or did not have for Totle, this wasn’t the best timing.

  Slimey pulled her in for a quick hug. Missi’s frizzy strawberry head sunk back down as the J-squad released her. They hopped over Sophie and grabbed Melman instead, push-pulling her toward the front.

  She found her place next to Steinberg and playfully shoved his shoulder.

  “Ow,” he said, rubbing it like she’d used the weight of her body and not just a flimsy hand.

  “Sorry,” Melman replied. She’d only wanted him to relax. She considered another tactic: resting her elbow on his shoulder. But she resisted. She was starting to feel self-conscious, because they were facing a hill of three hundred faces, eager to laugh at whatever embarrassing inside-inside joke was about to expand to the camp-wide net. She rolled her shoulders back and took a shallow breath as the screaming crowd hushed.

  “Now, this is an interesting duo,” Judge Casper commented, his raspy voice booming. He was probably still behind the screen, but without Steinberg shining his light, the shadow was gone.

  The Captain/Dracula nodded in agreement. “Your honor and ladies and gentlemen of the ghost jury, Robert Steinberg has neglected his duties to become a man, whereas Bethany Melman has done everything in her power to become one.”

  For a split second, Melman’s heart dropped and she froze with terror. But then the crowd went wild and the girls screamed, “WE LOVE YOU, MELMAN!” and she couldn’t help but smile.

  Judge Casper stepped out from behind the screen in ghost-wear. The crowd gasped and clapped. It reminded Melman of the scene in The Wizard of Oz where the Wizard comes out from behind the curtain. He was walking with a hunch and approached the podium at the dramatic pace of a tortoise on NyQuil.

  Melman noticed neon-yellow kicks peeking out from the bottom of Casper’s costume. He was Rick! Melman wanted ones like his, but in orange.

  “Robert Steinberg,” Casper rasped into the mic in a voice that was now so obviously Rick’s, “where are you supposed to be during Rest Hour?”

  Steinberg scrunched his nose like he wasn’t sure what Casper was getting at. “The Social Hall?”

  “That is correct. According to our witnesses, you’ve been dropped there every Rest Hour by your counselor, Preston—”

  “It’s Yoshi,” one of the ghost jurors blurted.

  Rick/Casper face-palmed. “And yet, every Rest Hour, Rabbi TJ shows up for your bar mitzvah lesson, and you are nowhere to be found.”

  Ah. For Jewish boys, becoming a bar mitzvah meant becoming a man! Riddle solved.

  Rick/Casper snapped his fingers.

  Just then, Melman felt the screen glow behind her. She turned to see an image of the One Tree Hillers posing for a bunk photo in front of the Social Hall. Out of focus, in the far background, was unmistakably Steinberg, running with his inhaler two inches from his mouth. He was escaping from his bar mitzvah lesson. His body had been circled in red marker like a football playback on The Sports Network.

  The crowd pointed and laughed.

  “What do you plead?” Rick/Casper asked.

  Melman looked to Steinberg, expecting his face to be as white as the ghost sheets, but instead he switched his headlamp to the strobe setting, raised his arms, and welcomed the explosive applause. “GUILTY!”

  Melman smiled. Maybe all this would launch him out of his funk.

  Rick/Casper leaned over the podium and drew in a breath. Melman stiffened for her blow. “OK, Miss Melman . . . or shall I say Mr. Evans?”

  Before she could even think or speak, the crowd went ballistic. “Mel-vin! Mel-vin! Mel-vin!”

  Melman smiled coyly and shrugged like she wasn’t admitting anything either way, even though everyone knew her not-so-secret secret. It got the crowd even more riled up.

  “Melman is Melvin?” she heard Wiener cry out.

  Well, almost everyone knew. Apparently, Romeo hadn’t gotten the message.

  From behind her, Melman felt the familiar glow of the screen. She swiveled on her heel to catch a projected photo of Melvin in goal, diving toward the ball.

  I look awesome, she thought, admiring the muscle definition in her arms, how well the bandana stowed away her locks, and the way her T-shirt was flush against her abs, mid-leap. The photo captured everything Melman strived to be and more.

  Scottie jumped to her feet. “That’s my girl, oi!” The Faith Hillers followed, screaming for Melman/Melvin, and then initiated a camp-wide wave.

  Melman was so overwhelmed by the support, her beaming smile turned into a nervous chuckle. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand to collect herself.

  “How do you plead, Miss Melman?” Rick/Casper asked.

  “Guilty!” she said.

  The crowd roared.

  Melman imagined the One Tree Hillers as CITs, telling their One Tree Hill campers all about the legend of Melvin. Today would go down in camp history, for sure.

  Captain/Dracula faced the candlelit table. “Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?”

  Yoshi/Juror #2 stood tall. “The jury finds the defendants just like the defendants have found themselves,” he said, instigating murmurs of confusion from the crowd. “What I mean is, yes. Guilty!”

  Rick/Casper cut Yoshi off with a nod, then faced Melman and Steinberg. “And now for your sentences.”

  Melman took this opportunity to fling her arm over Steinberg’s shoulder. He was shorter than her by more than a few inches, but he managed to get his arm around her shoulders, too. She was glad she had a friend by her side and didn’t have to carry her excited anticipation alone.

  Behind them, the two images—Steinberg’s escape and Melvin’s save—were projected side by side. Only, on Steinberg’s head, drawn in blue marker, was a yarmulke. Drawn over his inhaler were Hebrew letters. It looked hilarious, like he was practicing for his bar mitzvah rather than about to go for a puff of air. Steinberg seemed to think so, too—he was nodding over the crowd’s screams like he dug it.

  Melman scanned her picture and her heart sunk like a brick down to the pit of her stomach. Over Scottie’s bandana, drawn in pink marker, was a princess crown. Over her T-shirt and shorts, a poofy princess dress. Her shin guards were tights and her cleats were high heels, and this was quickly becoming her nightmare.

  Melman drew her arm away from Steinberg’s shoulders and crossed it over her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the screen.

  “Mr. Steinberg,” Rick/Casper rasped, “you will proceed with bar mitzvah lessons, and actually go to them.” The audience chuckled. “And then you will perform your haftarah in front of the entire camp.” All the kids clapped wildly, and Melman wondered if they knew what they were applauding for: a long, awkward Jewish chant full of pubescent voice cracking. She’d sat through plenty before and it wasn’
t pretty.

  Juror #4 abruptly rose from his seat. “I can’t lie to your mother about your progress any longer,” he said, all frantic. He pointed two fingers at his bedsheet eyeholes and then at Steinberg’s goggles. “We start tomorrow. One-thirty sharp. Be there.”

  Melman wondered how many times Steinberg’s mother had nagged TJ over the phone. It must have been a lot to warrant this outburst.

  “Two bar mitzvahs, double the presents,” Steinberg said coolly. “I can live with that.” Melman figured that since the Robo-Hills Challenge was over, he’d have time for bar mitzvah lessons anyway.

  Rick/Casper moved on. “And I have a challenge for you, Miss Melman. If you accept and complete it, you’ll earn your bunk an ice-cream sundae party.” Melman could hear the Faith Hillers scream with delight. It wasn’t every day they got ice-cream sundaes. In fact, it was only once a summer, on August 11, for Sophie’s birthday. Melman had no idea what the challenge was, but how could she turn down an ice-cream party?

  Rick/Casper leaned forward, and Melman held her breath in anticipation. “For three days straight, you wear . . . this.” He pulled from behind the podium a hot pink princess costume that looked a lot like the sketch. Melman burped up a little vomit and swallowed it down.

  “Even during the campout?” she croaked.

  “Three days straight,” Rick/Casper repeated. “You have twenty-four hours to decide.”

  Melman tried her best to put on a brave face. Of course she didn’t want to wear the costume, but she didn’t want to let her cabinmates down, either. They were screaming their heads off. It was just a stupid dress for a stupid three days, and if she had to spend the annual campout looking disgusting in pink, so be it. At least wearing a dress would make the squat-and-pee in the woods more manageable.

  Still, as Melman walked uphill toward her cheering friends, the scratchy pink froufrou dress in hand, she couldn’t help feeling a little haunted by the unfairness of it all. If Rolling Hills was a place you could be the best version of yourself, then wasn’t her challenge kind of backward?

  She wondered what Slimey thought. Maybe she wished Melman would stop being a tomboy and try to be a normal girl like her. Maybe she thought Melman should go out with Totle. Maybe she hoped Melman would feel all the amazing feelings every other girl her age felt. Because maybe, just maybe, Melman wasn’t immune to butterflies and goose bumps and could actually enjoy wearing clothes that were free of grass stains and mud. And if so, maybe Slimey was right. Who knows? She tried to be optimistic.

  By the time she plopped back down beside Slimey, her heart had settled into its rightful place and her racing mind had hit a stoplight. She decided to take the challenge in stride. She’d either learn something about herself and be changed forever, or she’d learn nothing, ceremoniously burn the dress in the fire pit, and move on. Either way, there’d be ice cream at the end of the tunnel.

  One thing was for sure: Melman was a good sport, and not even three days of torture could change that. Game on.

  Steinberg lay on a wood bench, staring up at the Social Hall ceiling, which was flanked with Color War posters from summers past. “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu, Melech haolam,” he droned, then took a breath, then droned again, “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu, Melech haolam.”

  He glanced at TJ on the floor. TJ was struggling to assemble one of the new tents in preparation for tomorrow’s campout on the golf course and had yet to notice that Steinberg was on his eighteenth loop of the same Hebrew phrase. This first bar mitzvah lesson was anything but a lesson, and Steinberg was bored out of his Chaim.

  “That’s good, buddy. Keep it up,” TJ encouraged emptily, like an automated sound bite. Steinberg watched TJ feed a metal rod through the canvas . . . the wrong way.

  As Steinberg entered his twenty-fourth loop, he began to wonder if TJ even knew his Alephs from his Bets. His hypothesis—nope—was worth testing.

  Steinberg pointed to the first line of his haftarah—the one he’d been chanting on repeat like a broken record. “Yo, TJ. I’m stuck.”

  TJ pulled the rod out. “Uh . . . you have the transliteration or something?”

  Yup. “No.”

  “Cool, well, I can’t give you all the answers.”

  Not asking for all the answers. “Can you give me just one?”

  TJ shrugged a no, feeding the rod into another wrong slot. “Try to sound it out.”

  Steinberg rubbed his goggles clean to show he was serious and then recited the five Yiddish words he’d picked up from his bubbe: “Kvetch, tuches, goyish, oy vey, mazel tov.”

  “There you go, buddy! Nice work!”

  Hypothesis confirmed. Rabbi TJ ≠ real rabbi.

  Just then, feedback sounded over the PA at violent decibels. TJ dropped the tent, and Steinberg rolled off the bench with a thump.

  Captain: TJ?

  “Yeah?” he answered like the Captain could hear him. Steinberg shook his head at TJ’s illogic.

  Captain: TJ, you’re needed by the pool, please. Code H.T.T.A.T.

  Chaim decoded the code. “Holy turd, there’s a turd!” Steinberg told TJ.

  TJ raised his eyebrow. “Is that what that means?”

  Captain: Come quick.

  Steinberg gave TJ an affirmative nod.

  TJ looked at his not-yet-a-tent with a hunger to finish it. But then the PA squealed off, and he took that as his cue to follow the Captain’s orders. “Steinberg, watch this for me, will you? I’ll be right back.”

  Steinberg gave him a salute.

  “Keep practicing.”

  Steinberg chose not to gesture a response. He preferred not to lie about it.

  TJ rushed out, and Steinberg fed the pole through the correct hole. Voilà! Tent pitched.

  He crawled inside and felt instant relief to be alone. Ever since the robot catastrophe, he’d doubted his cabinmates still wanted to hang out with a loser like him. He was even dreading their annual campout, which was always a blast—scary stories, cooking food over the fire, assembling bear sensors and remote-controlled spider zappers and light projections for funny shadow puppets. But Steinberg had vowed to take a break from science, and without it, he feared the scary stories wouldn’t be as scary and the food over the fire wouldn’t taste as good. Steinberg was a damaged cog in a machine now destined for breakdown. He desperately needed a plan to impress his friends—to show them he was still awesome.

  Just then, the shadow of one, two, three, four . . . seven antennae danced on the tent’s canvas. Steinberg flip-flopped between fight and flight, but his body rejected both, and he froze in fear. He closed his eyes to the terrorizing sound of the tent’s front flap unzipping, and opened his eyes to the smell of watermelon breath and Sophie’s lips hovering a centimeter from his own.

  Steinberg rolled out from underneath her and shot up with his hands protecting his face. He was all for chemistry (well, not anymore), but he imagined that lip-locking with Sophie would ignite about as much spark as doing mouth-to-mouth on a dead fish. This was not a hypothesis he planned on testing.

  Sophie puffed out her cheeks with disappointment. “You just had peanut butter, didn’t you?”

  Steinberg thought back to lunch, thirty minutes ago. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. “No.”

  “No?! Perfect!!” Sophie squealed, leaning in with puckered lips.

  Chaim connected the dots in the nick of time. “I—I—I had peanuts though,” he stuttered. “As a snack. I had peanuts as a snack.” Steinberg could smell his own fear as little beads of sweat built up at his widow’s peak. He was experiencing a rapid onset of claustrophobia and would do just about anything (other than kiss Sophie) to get her out of his personal bubble of oxygen.

  “I’ll get you next time,” she said with a shrug that went up to her ears.

  Steinberg cringed, wishing she would end this relentless game of tag . . . with her tongue. He wasn’t her Prince Charming—he was Dr. Frankenstein to a peanut butter–spewing monster that had tried to kill her. Steinb
erg made a mental note to keep his lips sealed and breathe only through his nose, pending an asthma attack.

  “Are you still mad I won the Robo-Hills Challenge?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Good! So what are you going to do with all your free time? Practice your haftarah?”

  Dear Adonai, I hope not. Steinberg had promised his mom he’d come home knowing his haftarah like the back of his hand, but he’d made a point of not looking at his hand since. That way, his Hebrew could be just as unfamiliar. If he started practicing in the cabin, he feared he’d replace Wiener as the butt of the jokes. Without Wiener as the butt of the jokes, surely the bunk dynamic would crumble.

  Sophie eyed Steinberg suspiciously, then grabbed the haftarah papers from his lap. “Ooooooooooooh!” she said, her eyes scanning the page right to left like a pro. “Recite it for me,” she demanded, pulling herself into a cross-legged position and closing her eyes. Steinberg didn’t move. “Go on . . .”

  The beads of sweat on his forehead were multiplying. He wasn’t ready to do his haftarah in front of her. He had only twelve percent of the Hebrew down. Surely, Sophie would laugh at eighty-eight percent of it. “No thanks. I’m good.”

  “Prove it,” she said, pushing the haftarah into his chest. “I came here to help you. After you recite it, I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

  Steinberg wondered if Sophie had heard him say no or if she’d just chosen to ignore him. Either way, she wasn’t budging. Fine, he decided, if this is what it will take, so be it. He geared up with a breath. “Baruch—”

  “Wrong! In Hebrew, there’s no ch sound like in ‘chicken.’ Pretend there’s a fly stuck in your throat.” Sophie tilted her head back and gargled her spit.

  Steinberg salvaged an ounce of patience and started up again, careful to avoid the ch sound. “Baruch atah Adonai—”

  “Wrong! Your pitch went up on atah but it should go up on Adonai!”