This Little Light - Lori Lansens Page 0,15

your parents send you to Christian school if you’re Jewish?”

“Like I said, I’m not Jewish…that way. And I don’t know what it was like in Chicago, but here, like, a quarter of the student body at most Christian schools are not practicing Christians. So. I’m just one of them.”

“God moves in mysterious ways,” Jinny said with a shrug. “Just, aren’t there other private schools you could go to?”

Bee encircled my waist. “We’ve known each other since we were babies. Rory wasn’t gonna be the only girl in our cul-de-sac going to King Gillette, which is public school. Other than that, there’s Hippie High in Topanga. No. Crest Point. Double no. Or New Jew. It’s not like she was gonna learn Hebrew.”

Jinny still seemed confused.

Fee explained, “Sacred Heart is progressive. So, like, Rory has every right to be there.”

So tell me, how did we go from a bunch of besties hanging in my bedroom to standing in my cul-de-sac defending my right to attend my own fucking school? Scholarship kid or not?

Jinny goes, “Progressive Christian? Oxymoron? Jesus was right two thousand years ago. And He’s just as right today.”

“My mother says Sacred Heart got progressive because the libtards ruined the economy a long time ago and they have to take anybody now,” Zara said. “No offense, Ror.”

“Oh my God, you guys. I’m an atheist anyway. So what. Like, can we flip the script now?”

“We kid Rory about being our very own heathen,” Brooky said. “But Rory kicks…it.” She’d been about to say “ass,” but Jinny. Already we were censoring ourselves. Already we were shape-shifting.

“We really respect everybody’s beliefs.” Dee was sticking up for me too. “Rory used to be a huge believer…but now she’s not. Even Jesus doubted.”

“I don’t get it,” Jinny dug in, coy as fuck. “You don’t even believe in Jewish God?”

“No God. Godless. Deity-free zone. That’s what heathen means.”

Jinny Hutsall peeled me with her eyes. “Heathen.” She rolled the word around in her mouth as if she liked the way it tasted.

* * *

—

Fee opened her eyes again a little while ago. I saw her watching the moon through the window. I asked her if she was feeling any better and she said she feels like she swallowed a sea urchin. I asked her if she thinks it’s possible that Jinny put something in those ganache thingies at the AVB. She made a face like I’m actually crazy. Maybe I am.

I asked her what she thought was happening. The bomb. The accusations. “Jagger and Jinny obviously had something to do with this,” I said.

She closed her eyes again and went back to moaning. This is the longest night of my life. Waiting for the winds…

* * *

—

It’s the Shelley Hour online right now. My mother is everywhere in the news, because of us. They’re showing cap ‘n’ gown pics of Shelley Frumkin from her University of Toronto graduation. Unpacking clips of her speaking on abortion rights at women’s conferences from years ago. Surveillance vid from a DACA march. They showed a piece in the local paper from when she was trying to persuade Hidden Oaks to harvest the fruits from our thousands of backyard trees—oranges, lemons, grapefruits, persimmons, plums and peaches, avocados and whatever else—so that the food could go to the homeless instead of the roof rats. Nothing the media’s “exposed” proves anything but that my mother has a social conscience.

Her photos. Oh Shell. Her style has not evolved past her freshman year. Same long blond hair parted in the middle. Same makeup palette—mascara and ChapStick. Same untailored shirts and roomy khaki pants. She’s always stood out in Calabasas. Never leaned into the Hidden Oaks vibe. She loves the other mothers in the neighborhood, and they are, well, were her friends, but there’s a language barrier. Shelley doesn’t speak shopping, or hair, or mani-pedis. She doesn’t understand plucking and exfoliation, or Swedish massage at Four Seasons. She buys her moisturizer at the drugstore, and she never used the facial and fillers gift certificates the other mothers got her for birthdays. I love Shelley’s wrinkles, but her friends don’t understand why she’d let her face tell a story when there’s such a thing as Botox.

It’s unbearable to think my mother is in detention. What does that even mean? Is she in a room? In a cell? God. I hope Aunt Lilly’s on her way. I mean, she is. She must be. She’d never let us down. She’s our rock. She got here in time to witness my birth,