The Truth About My Bat Mitzvah by Nora Raleigh Baskin Page A

If she hadn’t seen my necklace, why was she concerned about my shirt? Of all the things my mother did to annoy me, she never hassled me about my clothes.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with this shirt?” I asked.
    She lowered her voice. “I just thought you might want to wear an undershirt or even one of those bras I bought you, Caroline. That shirt is a little clingy.”
    Oh, God. That’s what she was talking about?
    My skin, my face, flushed with a sudden heat of embarrassment as if just that moment I became aware of myself. I materialized in solid form, whereas a minute ago I was invisible. A minute ago I was just a kid. And for no reason at all, tears sprang into my eyes.
    â€œOh, sweetie. I’m sorry,” my mother said. “Here, come on. Let’s go into your room. I can drive you to school a little late. Come on.”
    After Sam and my dad left, I let my mom show me what she was talking about, even though I already knew. I had seen it in other girls, little lumps of flesh that practically screamed nakedness. My mother took out the two little bras she had bought me and put in my drawer about a month ago. One was tan, one was white.
    I was just about to take off my shirt with my mom in my room when I remembered I was wearing my Jewish star.
    â€œNo, Mom. Don’t look. Don’t! Turn around,” I shouted. Ihad my arms crossed, my hands holding either side of my shirt—the shirt that, now that I knew it was practically see-through, I would never wear again as long as I lived.
    She laughed. “Okay. Okay.” She turned her back to me and made my bed as I got undressed. “But, sweetie, we’ve all got them.”
    But we don’t all have this, I thought.
    We don’t all have a religious symbol hanging around our neck. For a second I caught a glimpse of myself in my mirror, my bony collarbone, my bare shoulders, and the glint of gold resting just at my neck. What would Mom think? Would it make her happy or sad? Would she think I was trying to be someone I wasn’t? Would she roll her eyes at me like I was just a child? Like I was hypocritical? Two-faced? Just plain silly?
    I didn’t feel like finding out. Not now.
    I quickly undid the clasp and slipped the necklace back into the top drawer of my dresser. I pulled the elastic bra, the tan-colored one, down over my head, slipped my arms in, and adjusted it over my chest.
    â€œOkay, now you can look,” I said, turning around.
    â€œYou’re a woman now,” my mother said. “Just imagine that.”
    â€œI can’t,” I answered. “I’m not ready.”
    â€œNobody feels really ready. Ever. If you waited until you felt totally ready for something, you’d probably be waiting forever. You’d never try anything new.”
    I wanted to tell her my idea. Right now. It was perfect.
    â€œHow do you think I got through medical school?” She laughed.
    Mom, I want to be Jewish too. Like you. I want to know funny little Yiddish words. Like Nana and Poppy. I want to know what you do on Yom Kippur. Like Rachel.
    I need a bat mitzvah.
    But my mother was already standing up. “Oh, by the way,” she said. “Poppy is coming up here with Aunt Gert. They want to visit before Gert leaves for the winter in Florida.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œThis weekend. Why?”
    â€œBut this weekend is that sleepover. At Lauren’s!”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œLauren Chase, Mom. Saturday. Mom, I told you. You said I could go.”
    â€œNot to worry.” My mother kissed the top of my head. “Sunday. They’re coming Sunday.”
    My I-think-I-maybe-want-a-bat-mitzvah speech and the necklace would have to wait for another day. Suddenly, I was reminded of more important things to worry about.

18
    What I Need
    Rachel’s invitation came in the mail that very Saturday. I had known that she and her mother made them by hand, but when I opened it, I couldn’t