Chopped Liver

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My parents had dragged me to a Bar Mitzvah in San Francisco—the kid was the son of a family friend and I was not given a choice about attending. As a sophisticate of 17, I had no interest whatsoever in being there. When the ceremony ended, I separated myself from my parents as soon as I could, dodging past the bejeweled and well-coiffed women, the balding middle-aged men, and the packs of 13-year-olds who jockeyed for position in front of the mounds of chopped liver and towering platters of cookies. I piled a few items on my plate and headed toward the far reaches of the room so I could sit alone and wallow in my adolescent angst.

An elderly lady, balancing a cane and a plate of goodies, had the same idea, and sought a chair next to mine. Great, I thought; now I am stuck talking to a total stranger who is also older than God. Maybe she won’t bother me.

But no, she struck up a conversation, beginning with all the usual questions about school and my interests. There is never a good answer to the “How’s school?” question when you are a teenager. Which day do you mean? Which hour? Whatever I said seemed to satisfy her, so I turned my attention to my plate, trying to decide whether to eat the little bagel first or start with the lemon bar.

I stuffed the lemon bar in my mouth and braced myself for the next inevitable question from the old busybody. “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.

Oh, boy, did I ever. And he was part of my misery. For some reason, I opened up to her about this guy who either made me swoon with desire or infuriated me, with not too much middle ground. So I told her about this boy I thought I was in love with. I told her about the movie dates where he would buy his ticket and then wait, avoiding eye contact, while I fished around in my purse for money to buy my own. I told her about the way he would pull up in his car and sit there in the street with the engine running and wait for me to come out. I told her about the other girls I knew he was seeing behind my back. I told her that he could be very romantic, but that he usually needed a couple of drinks first. I told her that he was tender and sweet in private, but totally ignored me in public, especially around his friends. I told her how he called me a million times while I was babysitting once and the kids must have told their mother because she never asked me to babysit again. I felt bad about that. I told her that he made me laugh, when he wasn’t making me cry.