Today Tonight Tomorrow by Rachel Lynn Solomon

Author:Rachel Lynn Solomon [Solomon, Rachel Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781534440265
Google: K2vuDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1534440240
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Published: 2020-07-27T23:00:00+00:00

NEIL MCNAIR IS ogling my parents like he can’t quite believe they’re real.

“Do you want to lead the kiddush?” my mom asks him after lighting the candles with a hand over her eyes. Maybe she sensed he wanted to by the way he was staring at them.

“I’d love to,” he says after a pause.

In the car, he lamented not having changed into something nicer, but I insisted my parents wouldn’t care that he’s wearing a shirt with an obscure Latin phrase on it. Downside: the whole Neil’s arms situation is back.

It’s not quite sundown—read: not the best Jews—so there’s still light coming in from outside. When we got here, he took off his shoes in the hallway and shook my parents’ hands, but he could barely speak. They know the basics about him: longtime rival, infuriating, mediocre taste in literature. And Jewish, which I included in my message letting them know Westview’s valedictorian would be making an appearance at Shabbat dinner. My parents love opening our home to other Jews, and it happens much too infrequently.

My mom passes him the kiddush cup.

“Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha’olam borei p’ri hagafen,” he says in this low, honeyed voice. The blessing over wine.

His pronunciation, his inflection—flawless. Of course they are, with his affinity for words and languages. There is so much I love about Judaism, the history and the food and the sound of the prayers, but it isolates me too. Yet here’s someone I labeled as an enemy who was maybe feeling isolated in the same way.

After what happened at his house, I’m not quite sure how to act around him. It’s clear things have changed between us; we’ve shared more about ourselves than we do with most other people. But I don’t know how to tell him that if we win, I want him to take the Howl money without it sounding like it’s coming from a place of pity.

We pass around the kiddush cup that belonged to my dad’s grandparents, silver and ornately designed. Neil takes a small sip, then hands it to me. My sip is tiny too. I wonder if he thinks I purposefully sipped from a place he didn’t. Then I pass it to my dad and try to act a little less neurotic.

After that, we recite the blessing over the challah, and then it’s time to eat. True to their word, my parents picked up mushroom ravioli and threw together a salad with my dad’s secret vinaigrette recipe.

“Do you observe Shabbat with your family, Neil?” my mom asks.

“Not very often, no. But I have a good memory, and we used to do it when my sister and I were younger.” It’s slight, but I notice his jaw tense for a split second. “You do this every week?”

“We try to have Shabbat dinner together every Friday,” my dad says. “I suppose it’ll be different when Rowan’s in college.”

“It’s strange being one of only a few Jewish kids in class,” Neil says, and it’s odd to hear him vocalize something I’ve only ever thought to myself.

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