Intentions Read Online Free PDF Page A

Grandma made the strenuous trip up the stairs only because she couldn’t believe I had really cleaned), no one can recognize my room. Not even me. Mom and Dad are truly scared. I can see it in their eyes.
    Mom says, “Shower?” and I smell my pits. She’s right. I take a quick one, throw on a pair of pants I found that I had forgotten about and a T-shirt I’ve never worn, and go downstairs.
    The dining room table is our usual Shabbat table: the white tablecloth and the good china, the silver candlesticks, the challah on the special plate given to Mom and Dad for their wedding.I find it reassuring. Mom, Grandma, and I say the blessing over the candles, Dad says kiddush and ha-motzi , and then, as we are eating our first delicious pieces of challah pulled from the loaf, I tell them I’m not going with them to temple.
    They stare at me. I quickly demolish most of the challah, scooping out the soft inside, my favorite part. They don’t ask why or ask me what prompted the room cleaning or ask me how school was this week (their usual Friday night conversation).
    “What?” Mom says finally. This is a bigger deal than usual. I don’t go every Friday night, more like once every month or two. But tonight is a special service honoring their friends the Silversteins, who’ve contributed a lot of time and money to the temple. The Oneg Shabbat, the party after services, is being given by a close friend of Grandma’s, Mrs. Philips, who is a fantastic baker.
    I don’t actually want to miss the Oneg, not that part. Mrs. Philips makes the best devil’s food cake in the universe. Rich, dark chocolate. Sinful vanilla buttercream frosting between the layers and on top.
    If I could get away with going only to the Oneg, I would. But I can’t go to services. No way. I could not possibly sit in that room and listen to His Phoniness pontificate from the (I can’t help but think of it this way) fucking bima .
    “How will we explain it to the Silversteins if you’re not there? It’s their big night. You are so dear to them,” says Mom.
    Oh please. They won’t even notice.
    “They’ll understand,” I say. “I’m not feeling well.”
    “So if you’re not feeling well, I guess you won’t be going out at all this weekend?”
    Touché, Mama Bear.
    “I mean emotionally,” I say. “Not physically.” This is, of course, true.
    “Well then, a little sanctuary time is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” she says.
    Sanctuary time? Is that what they call it now? If she only knew.
    I look at Grandma. She used to be my shopping buddy, my chick-flick-watching partner, my ally, the one who took my side in fights with Mom. But ever since Grandpa died, she’s been a shadow of her former self. She is picking at her noodle kugel , not looking up at all. I’m not even sure she’s paying attention.
    “Grandma, help,” I say, but she keeps picking.
    I give my father a pleading look. Dad, who I swear only goes to temple to please Mom, shakes his head slightly. “Sorry, Raebee, I gotta go with Mom here. I think you should come.”
    She smiles at him, he smiles at her, and then it’s as if they’re alone in the room. What is it with them? This hot-and-cold thing is driving me crazy.
    “I hate you,” I say, and I storm up to my room, or to what used to be my room.
    My phone vibrates. A text. It’s Adam.
    Gotta go to temple 2nite. Pls come.
    Huh. I text back:
    Punishment?
    Yup. But u being there will make it OK.
    Hmmmm. Adam wants me to come? I text him back, my heart beating a little faster than I would like.
    OK
    I take off my pants and top, throw them onto the floor, and go stand in my closet.
    What to wear? Something the parental police will think is appropriate but that is not too uncool. A black skirt, red tank top, black sweater over that. Black leggings, black ballet slippers. I throw on my coat before they can tell me to button up the sweater.
    I get a lecture in the car about not saying the word hate , but they don’t put a lot