﻿Then the china, the set they were given on their wedding day fifty years ago, white, navy blue, the thinnest trim of gold lacquer. Silverware after, just the regular stuff, not the real silver, not after my cousin Alana's date stole three spoons and a butter knife. Then glasses, two each, one for water and one for wine (or grape juice at the little kids' table).
Finally, the Seder plate, proud and center of it all.
The cooking also starts a week in advance. We all help. My grandparents make the main dishes, brisket and matzo ball soup. My family makes charoset, grinding up nuts and apples and spices. And we boil the eggs, gross. Aunt Barbra and Uncle Larry buy the gefilte fish and the wine, so much wine. Aunt Judith and Aunt Cheryl make the kosher for pesach desserts, flourless cake and fruit salad. And my eldest cousins make matzo from scratch—and also bring more wine.
It's a family affair. A family tradition.
Unfortunately, it's also a family tradition to bring a date to Seder. This has been a storm cloud of annoyance over my head since I turned thirteen. My grandparents love to share our Seder and the story of Passover far and wide, with Jews and non-Jews alike. From the time of our b'nai mitzvah, we're highly encouraged to bring a date. And if we don't, the questions will never stop:
What? You don't like anyone?
You're too shy?
It doesn't have to be a boy, you know! Bring a girl, a nonbinary person, we love everyone!
Sometimes, the questions are more pointed:
What? So, you're going to be alone forever?
Impressively, my great-aunt Esther said that last one without a hint of irony when I was only fifteen.
My siblings and cousins all got with the routine immediately. My older brother Josh brought a date to the Seder right after his bar mitzvah. Alyssa was on debate team with him. She had silver braces and a dappling of freckles across her nose. My grandparents loved her. They also love the dates my older sister, Audrey, brings, a different boy every year, each one more impressive than the last.
My older cousins are either married or bring dates. And even my younger cousin Marty brought a date last year, a soft-spoken boy named Tyler with red hair.
He wore a tie. It was adorable. Everyone swooned.
And then—
And then everyone looked at me and asked where my date was.
I'm eighteen years old and about to come up on my sixth year of failure. Of course, I've told my parents how outmoded it is to force their children into romantic relationships. Romance isn't for everyone. Some people don't want a romantic relationship.
And some people, well, some people are eighteen and would maybe possibly definitely kind of want a romantic relationship, if only they could figure out how to string together two sentences in front of a cute boy.
I'm not a total shy hermit. I talk to my family and my friends. I answer questions in class. I make people laugh, occasionally. But stick me in front of an attractive boy, and I clam up with beet-red skin.
It's embarrassing. Archaic. Absurd.
Boys are not special. There is no reason to feel less confident around them. Boys are just humans. It's not a big deal. I could talk to a boy if I wanted to.
And I do want to. Because I can't handle it anymore. I can't handle one more Passover Seder being asked, And where is your date, Rachel? Oy vey, I hope they didn't get sick!
Passive-aggressive Aunt Cheryl.
No, thank you. It's not happening.
This year I'll bring someone to Seder just like everyone else. That'll show them. And then next year I'll go off to college, and maybe I won't even come home for Seder. Maybe I'll stay at school and eat chips and hummus on my dorm room floor like a freaking adult.
Yeah, that'll show them.
Now, just one problem: I need a date.
Matthew Pearlman plays tennis, is on the model UN team, and wears a polo shirt to school every day. He is the epitome of preppy. Not exactly my taste.
But he also has soft hair, intense brown eyes, and a jawline you could write poetry about. He's also single, a requirement for this venture. And we used to be friends in middle school, so I have an in.
Matthew and I always sat together in the back row of Ms. Baumstein's sixth-grade Hebrew school class. We would do anything but pay attention. Matthew enjoyed making paper footballs and flicking them at various goals. I enjoyed decorating his paper footballs with a variety of flowery designs. We held an ongoing, increasingly competitive streak of hangman, and Matthew would mutter a little red-cheeked curse under his breath every time I stumped him.
It probably goes without saying that Ms. Baumstein hated us.
I, however, loved us. I looked forward to every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon because it meant spending ninety minutes in the back of a classroom with Matthew, our knees tucked under a desk far too small for growing preteens, snorting and laughing as we received glares from our peers. I was always happy next to Matthew. It was my favorite part of the week, the beginnings of a crush blooming inside me. And the best part was that it felt like I had all the time in the world to let that crush grow. There was no rush, no care, no worry.
But something happened over that long stretch of summer between sixth and seventh grade. Matthew changed. Became a guy's guy who didn't want cute doodles on his paper footballs. Became a guy who stood in the hallway with a pack of other guys, laughing as loudly and as obnoxiously as possible whenever anyone passed by. Became a guy who didn't want to sit in the back of a classroom and play hangman with me.
And, I guess I changed that summer too. Became quieter, less sure of myself. Became aware that people didn't look at me in the way they looked at my older sister, Audrey, with her thick hair, long legs, and a quick-witted response for any comment. Became aware that the world wasn't made for me to thrive in, that it was my job to find some way to navigate myself to a piece of happiness.
Matthew and I never talked much after that summer. Sometimes, in regular school, we'd ask if the other had last night's homework. Or give a quick head nod as we passed in the halls. But soon even that connection disappeared and, by the time we made it to high school, my friendship with Matthew Pearlman was a faded memory, fragile and worn at the edges, like the flower I pressed into my notebook from the day of my bat mitzvah.
The last time we spoke was a year ago. Matthew surprised me by pulling me aside in the hallway. I was startled to come face-to-face with him after so much time apart. At first I expected the rosy-cheeked sixth-grader I once knew, but the Matthew of today has lost the roundness in his cheeks. In the hallway, with students crowded around us, moving from one class to the next before the bell rang, Matthew asked me if Audrey had a prom date yet. My heart, which I hadn't even realized had taken off with a flutter, dropped to my stomach.
Yes, she has a date, I told him. Of course, she had a date. Audrey Ableman basically had her senior year prom date lined up when she was still in utero, and if that somehow fell through, there was a line of eager young men happy to take his place. Matthew was interested in Audrey, just like everyone else in the world. I've got to get to class, I told him, then disappeared into the crowd.
That was the last time we spoke.
Matthew doesn't like me, probably doesn't even think about me. And despite that ridiculous case of heart flutters last year, I don't like him either. That was nothing but surprised adrenaline. Sure, Matthew has grown more attractive over the years. But I'm not attracted to him. He's the kind of guy who's going to join the Jewish frat in college and binge drink his college education away, then land a nice cushy job because his brain is good with numbers, while I'm going to toil away with my visual arts degree and barely eke out twenty thousand a year selling handmade jewelry and pottery.
Yes, I know I could major in something else—or, not go to college at all. But that's not an option in my family. At least in the arts, I can do something with my hands. I can make something.
I do not like Matthew Pearlman.
Matthew Pearlman does not like me.
But Matthew Pearlman is my best shot at a Passover date.
I watch him throughout the entire lunch period. He sits in a pack of other boys who wear polo shirts. They talk and laugh loudly and take up a lot of room. They shoot their empty drinks and food wrappers into the trash can like basketballs. They miss half the time and never bother to pick the trash up. They are—annoying.
My best friend, Cassandra, sits next to me. She nudges me in the side every thirty seconds. Her short blond hair is bobbed around her shoulders. "Are you going to do it yet?" she asks. "Time's almost up."
Time is almost up—time for lunch, and time to find a date. Seder is tomorrow night. Like so many other things in my life, I've waited until the last possible second, and now I get to deal with the wonderful anxiety-ridden aftermath.
"Okay, okay." I lean back from the table but don't stand. Have I forgotten how to stand?
No, it's not that. I just don't know how to get to Matthew in that group of boys. Interrupting that much noise seems like an insurmountable task.
But then, luck seems to be on my side. Matthew throws his carton of chocolate milk in the trash and misses the shot. But unlike the rest of his friends, he stands up to walk over and pick it up. This is my chance.
I rush out of my seat so fast I bang my knees on the table. "Ouch! Damn!" I shout, muffling my voice with a hand over my mouth. I can feel Cassandra wince behind me.
I recover and run up to the trash can just as Matthew is throwing away his milk carton. "Hey, there, Pearlman," I say breathlessly.
Pearlman? What? I do not call people by their last names. I am not a "bro."
Matthew turns to me, then looks down, which is where I'm located. Pearlman is approximately one foot taller than me these days. Guess it's from drinking all of that milk.
"Hey, Rachel," he says, a bit of surprise on his face. "What's up?"
"Um."
I didn't really think this through. I didn't think about how to ask him. I only fantasized about the looks on my family's faces when I walk in with a date on my arm.
"Rachel?" he asks. His voice sounds soft around my name, pleasant.
"Um," I repeat. Then rush out the next words. "I need a date to my Passover Seder. Second night. Everyone in my family brings dates. And I've never brought one before. For reasons. And I thought I could bring you this year. Obviously not as a real date. Just to like shut up my family. And yeah my sister will be there, so maybe you can talk to her. And it's tomorrow night. Do you want to go?"