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“We’re a few minutes early.”

  “Okay, so we can wait out here.”

  “It’s a nice night, anyway,” he said, running through his father’s list of conversation topics. He figured weather was a safe bet.

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed, not meeting his eyes.

  He’d made a reservation for seven. You don’t want to go on a first date too late, he’d heard from the other boys. Girls might think you want to take advantage of them if you do that.

  Which he did.

  But he wasn’t about to let on.

  Weather chatter exhausted, they decided it was okay to go in a few minutes early and take their seats.

  Across from him at the table, he saw that she was beautiful, as he’d heard from his friends. Actually, Avrumi had told him she was “hot,” for which he smacked him hard on the arm. Of course, all the bochrim talked like that, a little, when the rabbis weren’t listening. Trying on the bad-guy role, just a little. Everybody knew they would straighten out when they got married.

  Married. Beryl just couldn’t imagine it, on the one hand; on the other hand, he couldn’t stop imagining it.

  Was he the only bochur whose mind was twisted this way?

  Was he the only boy thinking of slipping his hand under a girl’s skirt, right there in the restaurant? Under the table, perhaps, or even dashing away with her into the bathroom?

  He could barely focus to order for the two of them.

  “Have many of your friends gotten married already?” he asked, trying to be polite, after the waiter left.

  “A few.”

  “Are they living here now?”

  “Some are here. One’s in eretz Yisrael. One in Canada.”

  “Ah. I have friends there, too. Montreal.”

  He could barely speak straight. And he was most definitely grateful for the tablecloth that lay over the table, concealing his nearly-bursting eagerness.

  She was probably expecting some degree of awkwardness. He knew already that, like him, she hadn’t dated anyone else yet. But the girls must talk among themselves.

  They must know a bit what to expect from these bochrim, these boys who – their whole lives – had never spoken to another woman beyond their mothers, their sisters. Maybe store clerks. And some of the luckier boys had married older brothers, so not only had they witnessed the process, and had some idea of what to expect, but had actually been forced to make conversation with those terrifying characters: their brand-new sisters-in-law.

  “My friend Shmuli’s brother Lazer got married last year,” Beryl said. “It was a beautiful wedding.”

  “Was that Lazer Strauss? I think I was there, too.”

  “Really; amazing.”

  “Amazing,” she agreed.

  He didn’t mention that he’d gone to the wedding with Shmuli. The bride hadn’t been beautiful, but that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about her. From staring at her little feet, eyes roaming upwards into those magical white folds and creases of her dress.

  From there, they’d strayed upwards to the little virginal bulge of the bride’s tummy, where she hadn’t quite managed to lose all her teenage plumpness, to her little breasts. As much as the bride’s mother had tried to flatten them beneath the heavy white satin, they were still there, still visible. And then her pale neck and terrified face, her chin just visible beneath the opaque veil as she was led to the chuppah.

  And then led away by Lazer, to the private yichud room, before returning to raucous music and celebration with the crowd. The yichud room, where bride and groom are alone together: the first time either had been secluded with a person of the opposite sex.

  That whole wedding, Beryl couldn’t stop thinking about Lazer and the yichud room. About what he’d do to Hindy, his new bride. But Shmuli did say they didn’t do it right there in the yichud room. The parents and rabbis only gave couples about ten minutes there. No, the serious business waited until that night, said Shmuli, exactly like that.

  “That’s when they did the serious business.”

  “Oy!” said Beryl. “Don’t talk about it.”

  “Why not?” asked Shmuli. “It’s only natural. Don’t tell me you never have.”

  “I never have,” lied Beryl. “And you shouldn’t either.”

  “I don’t think about what they do,” the boy insisted. “Who wants to think about that?”

  “Right,” said Beryl. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him.

  “But my brother said it’s holy, what happens, and that the rabbis will teach us when the time comes.”

  “Okay,” said Beryl. He wanted to change the subject, and baruch Hashem, it was time for their next class anyway.

  Despite his tough talk, Shmuli was a good kid. He would never think about what actually went on that night, the way Beryl did. If this was Shmuli out on a date with Raizy, he wouldn’t have any trouble, talking, ordering, paying attention.

  But all Beryl could think about was what lay beneath Raizy’s dress.

  “So do you like to read?” he asked.

  “I love it,” she said, her face animated for a second with an unexpected passion before she continued. “I love to read and…” she hesitated. “I write.”

  “Write?” he asked, like he’d never heard of it. Dumb, Beryl. Dumb. She’s going to love you now. “Write what?”

  “I don’t know. Some articles, so far. Some stories, poems.”

  “Like, for a job?” he asked.

  “Well, nobody’s paid me for it so far. Maybe someday.”

  “But you have a teaching certificate, right?”

  “Right,” she agreed. “After I get married, I’ll teach to support – my husband – so he can sit and learn.” They all had to say that, he thought, or else they’d never snag the Torah scholars… unless they came from rich families. He didn’t think Raizy did.

  And again, here, the thing he’d never say: “What would you think if I… wanted to go out to work, instead of sitting and learning?”

  How could he shatter her dreams that way?

  “Tell me about your family,” he said instead.

  “What about them?” she asked.

  And they were off on another awkward meander, down another conversational dead-end street, a placeholder meant to conceal the fact that all they really knew about each other was what the shadchan had told their mothers: height, weight, shoe size and a rough family history.

  Somehow, despite the conversation, despite his erection, despite his blasphemous thoughts, Beryl muddled through that date.

  Somehow, Raizy agreed to meet with him again.

  And again.

  And somehow, after one more date, they and their parents agreed: it was a match.

  Somehow, Beryl was getting married.

  He hoped that marriage would turn him into less of a pervert. And perhaps more of a conversationalist.

  CHAPTER Six

  Raizy

  For Raizy, that first date was just surreal.

  Her parents had made her promise she wouldn’t say or do anything inappropriate, and she had blushed. She was a good girl, of course, and it wasn’t her fault that she was just a little too worldly. A little too widely read.

  The shadchan admitted that she’d hesitated to suggest Beryl. She was about to mention somebody from another yeshiva, somebody a little more modern. But Raizy wanted a Torah scholar, her mother had insisted.

  Raizy agreed, of course. Despite all the hours she’d spent in the library, reading more than she should have, she still believed in the value of a Torah life.

  Which didn’t stop her from glancing at his pants, there in the restaurant, as he excused himself to go wash when their food finally arrived.

  “I’ll be right back,” he mumbled.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Nice ass, she thought, and then mentally slapped herself.

  It was the kind of thought the bad girls would have, the ones who, despite their years in Bais Yaakov, managed to find thems
elves pregnant in high school by the kinds of boys they weren’t even supposed to be speaking to, let alone being friendly with. Let alone – doing it with.

  He’d asked her how many of her friends were married… but not about the one who’d gotten knocked up without benefit of marriage. Only once during the time she’d gone to the school.

  Compared to that, her parents probably figured reading a few secular books here and there was the least of all the evils Raizy could have exposed herself to. And every single parent and teacher seemed to believe firmly in the virtues of marrying and settling down. They said it in one breath, just like that.

  “Marrying-and-settling-down.”

  The vice-principal stood up to explain how it happened: the girl, a year older than Raizy, had met the boy online. At first, he pretended to be a frum teenage boy, and only gradually did it turn out that he was not only not frum, he wasn’t even Jewish. He just liked Jewish girls.

  These predators saw the girls and their innocence as a challenge, the vice-principal had told them. The principal hadn’t been the one to talk to them: he was a man, and such a talk from him would have been inappropriate. But from a woman, well, if it prevented future tragedies, it was probably worth it.

  Raizy thought she was probably the only one in the room wishing the same thing would happen to her. Or at least something. Some kind of adventure between the legs.

  That some boy would see her innocence, that pristine space between her thighs, concealed behind heavy skirts, beneath opaque stockings, above shoes as clunky as her 80-year-old grandmother wore and beneath a blouse designed to lie as flat as possible over her chest, as a challenge.

  As something delicious: a sweet, creamy chocolate filling lying within a salty, spicy éclair.

  After the vice-principal talked to them, Raizy had often pictured herself as that éclair, perhaps – for an extra challenge – place on top of a mountain, so that the boy, like some fairy tale prince charming, had to clamber to the heights to attain her as his reward.

  Lying her flat atop the mountain. Spreading her legs wide. Licking out that creamy chocolate filling.

  She tried to force herself to stop thinking about it. To think thoughts of Torah. But she hadn’t been able to, then or now on this date with Beryl, here in the restaurant.

  “I’d like to marry a scholar,” she said, probably for the fifth time, her voice sounding like a hollow echo.

  “Well, I’m definitely planning to sit and learn,” he told her. Again. If this was Hollywood, their dialogue would be on the cutting room floor by now, the writer in Raizy sniped.

  “How’s your soup?” she asked, picking at her own salad. Don’t think about it, she told herself. Think about the soup.

  “It’s great. I think I’ll go wash now,” he said.

  And that’s when he mumbled that he’d be right back.

  Don’t get up, she’d messaged him, telepathically. If he got up, she might not be able to control herself. If he got up, she might wrap herself around him right there in the restaurant. Raizy could feel the same wetness and heat starting between her legs. Don’t get up.

  He got up.

  Nice ass. Nice shoulders. She couldn’t see his package, but with a dirty mind like his, it was just as well.

  Throughout the awkward conversation, she’d been watching his lips instead of listening to his words. And there was something about his lips, she had to admit.

  A twitch that almost looked like the start of a smile. A gentle pout, a rounded fullness that made her think maybe she’d better hitch her wagon to his steed before her wild thoughts ran away with her altogether.

  Watching the back of his pants, his ass, as he walked away, she felt her éclair swelling, and she desperately hoped that Beryl might be the Prince Charming to scale that mountain and claim her, licking out as much as possible of her creamy filling for his prize.

  CHAPTER Seven

  Raizy

  None of which her parents suspected when they told her how much they approved of Beryl.

  “He’s so perfect!” her mother cooed.

  “He seems like a very nice boy,” said her father. “I heard him give over a dvar Torah on Shabbos, and he seems very serious.”

  “So handsome, too,” her mother said.

  “For a yeshiva bochur,” said Raizy.

  “Handsome doesn’t come in shades,” said her mother.

  “Okay, he looks good,” she admitted, playing it cool.

  It was easy enough to play it cool. Despite her strong feelings during their dates, he was still far short of the physical ideal that she imagined was only attainable by goyim. He was pale and thin, which a lifetime of learning Torah indoors could do to you.

  Sure, he’d told her the boys got outside to play basketball a few times a week. A ballgame every couple of days does not an athlete make.

  But there was a nice breadth to his chest that some of the other boys didn’t have. His shoulders looked wide and strong. And that curve to his lips.

  Her older brother said he’d danced with Beryl at a wedding a while ago and he’d taken one of the chair legs that supported the chassan, the groom, lifting him up along with three boys on the other legs.

  He hadn’t dropped the chassan.

  How crazy was it that her brother had danced with Beryl, who she’d marry soon, and she hadn’t even touched him yet?

  Her brother had put his hands on this man’s shoulders? Linked arms, held hands, maybe even touched him at his waist or on his ass. They all shtipped each other that way when they danced, in shul, and around the yeshiva, her brothers had said.

  And she wouldn’t be able to even touch his baby finger for three more months, until their wedding date.

  Still, baruch Hashem, it was only three months away.

  “So when did you have your period?” her mother asked when it came time to set the date.

  “What?” Raizy had asked, startled. She was sure her face had just turned bright red.

  “Your period,” her mother said, pulling a crinkly plastic package out of her apron pocket. “Your cycle.”

  “I guess… it ended a week ago,” said Raizy. Was she really even talking about this with her mother.

  “Well, good.” Her mother paused for a minute, as if calculating. “So if you start taking these now, then we’ll be able to get your cycle lined up.”

  “Lined up?” She saw now that the package was pills. Birth control pills.

  “All the girls take them,” her mother said. “So we can set your wedding date. And be certain that you won’t be a niddah when the date comes.”

  Raizy blushed.

  God forbid. To be a niddah on her wedding night.

  The ultimate disgrace for a bride was to get her period too close to her wedding date. For two weeks after her period ended, she and her husband wouldn’t even be allowed to touch each other. Hand each other plates, glasses. Unwrap presents together. Share the same piece of cake.

  Let alone to climb into the same bed, to do… it.

  She couldn’t imagine the shame.

  So that’s what the pills did, lined up your cycle so you wouldn’t have to suffer that fate on your wedding night.

  Thinking about the wedding night and all it entailed in her mother’s presence was simply too much. The familiar pulsing between her legs returned, and she blushed again.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “So I take these every day?”

  “That’s right,” said her mother. “The days of the week are written on the package. Just take each one on the right day.”

  “Okay,” Raizy said again.

  “Remember to pop out the one for Shabbos on Thursday night, so you don’t have to do it on Shabbos.” Of course. It was not a sin to artificially align your periods with chemicals, but it was to tear a wrapper with writing on it on the holy Sabbath day.

  There was nothing else to say.

  How could she even think about why she was doing all of this, here in the same room as her mother?r />
  “After the third package, you’ll stop,” her mother went on. “You’ll get your period, and then go to the mikveh.”

  The mikveh.

  Yet another humiliation. Stripping naked and then dunking in the holy water with only an older woman watching, her mother in another room waiting for her to come out.

  Raizy didn’t know all the details, and as if her mother had read her mind, she spoke again.

  “You’ll be learning with Rebbitzen Schwartz. Starting next week. Kallah classes!” her mother said brightly.

  Raizy already knew from other girls that the lessons were deathly boring. All-the-way-to-tears boring. You’d think they’d be exciting, given what they were preparing the girls for. But the rebbitzen apparently managed to string God and holiness and blessed Jewish children into every conversation until it killed any passion that might be left in the girls.

  “Fine,” said Raizy. She needed to say something else, to play the good girl that everyone imagined her to be. “Thank you.”

  “I just can’t believe how grown up you are,” said her mother, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you’re getting married already.”

  Neither could Raizy. This was the start of the rest of her life. She should be taking it seriously? So why couldn’t she get her mind out of the gutter? Why couldn’t she think of Beryl’s mind, his Torah learning, the family they would surely have together? She wished she could force her mind to think past the yichud room, past that first night of their marriage.

  On the other hand, what was there to look forward to, past that first night? He’d get up, go to shul, then to yeshiva. Sit and learn all day and she’d shvitz under fluorescent lights in a classroom somewhere, yelling at a bunch of girls and tugging her wig a few times each class to make sure it stayed straight.

  Tugging at her stockings a few times each class to make sure she appeared as virtuous as possible in front of her impressionable classes of young girls. Trying not to daydream in the classroom about stories she longed to write.

  Why should she think past the wedding night?

  After her mother went out, Raizy listened as the house quieted down for the night. Her parents said goodnight to each other, light switches snapped off, upstairs and down.