My Shaygetz
By Phyllis Schieber 

My parents agree to let me work as a waitress for the summer in a Jewish sleep away camp in the Berkshires. I’ll have to haul trays of food, bus my area, and set up my tables, all for one hundred dollars for the entire summer, no tipping allowed. I don’t care though. Two of my best girlfriends, Nancy and Heddy, are also planning to go. I can’t wait to leave. The only bad part is that I’ll miss my boyfriend’s high school graduation because I have to go up to camp a few days early for staff orientation.

“I feel so bad,” I tell Julian.

We are in his room, stretched out on his unmade bed. He murmurs something understanding, but he’s preoccupied with my trying to undo my pants with one hand and my bra with the other. I’m a junior, and we’ve been dating since the beginning of my sophomore year.

“Julian?” I say. “Are you listening?”

“Not really, “ he says.

He has successfully unhooked my bra and expertly worked his hand around to my breasts. I laugh and return his kisses. He smells like sandalwood. I love the skin on his neck; it’s so smooth. When we kiss, I always think of butter.  We spend our weekends at museums, galleries, and art film movie houses. We explore the shelves at the Strand for hours, buy secondhand copies of poetry books and read aloud to each other over dim sum in Chinatown.

“Will you miss me?” I say as I run my hand through his dark curls. “We’ve never been apart for more than a few days.”

Instead of answering, Julian works my jeans over my hips, stopping to lick my belly. I hold his head, wondering how I will live without his buttery tongue.

The last week of school, Julian and I cut classes and take the subway to Greenwich Village to see A Man and a Woman. When we come out of the theater, it’s raining very lightly, and we look at each other and smile. We are in our own French movie. Holding hands, we make a dash for a coffee shop where we stand under the awning and kiss deeply.

“I’ll write you every day, “I say.

“And I’ll write back.” Julian promises. He holds me close. “Every day,” he says. “And I’ll visit you on the way up to camp. My dad said we could stop.”

“Really?” I tilt my face up for another kiss. Julian smoothes my hair, winds some stray pieces around my ears and kisses my nose. “I love you,” I say.

Julian nods, pushes his glasses up with his index finger and pulls a sealed envelope from his back pocket. He writes me poetry that makes me cry.

“Read this on the bus up to camp,” he says.

He’s the perfect boyfriend—intellectual, handsome, and Jewish. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I couldn’t have it any other way.

The buses pull off the main road and slowly move down the winding, dirt path that leads into the camp. Our trunks, which were picked up weeks ago, are waiting for us in our dorms. But we have duffel bags that we drag across the field to our assigned quarters. Nancy, Heddy, and I will share a room with three other girls. The bathrooms and showers are in the hall. There are twenty-five girls in our dorm. We settle in, introduce ourselves, and unpack as much as we can before we have to run to the dining hall for our first meeting. I miss Julian already.

The next morning, the waiters and waitresses meet with the meshgiach. He supervises the kitchen to make sure we observe the laws of kashrut. My mother keeps a kosher home, so I know the rules. Dairy and meat must be kept separate—dishes and silverware must never mingle. The meshgiach, an imposing man with a thunderous voice, tells us that he will be vigilant at all times. “Any infraction of the rules will be reported,” he says. We all rise to begin our tour of the kitchen. I’ll be working breakfast because I’ve been assigned the staff tables. The campers are not due to arrive for another two days. I’ve pulled my hair back in a regulation ponytail. I’m ready to begin work. The kitchen is steaming, but I’m wearing shorts and a tank top that is, from the sidelong glance I get from the meshgiach, possibly too tight. I kneel and slide the heavy tray, loaded with dishes, silverware and glasses, onto my shoulder and slowly rise. After I set my tables, I return for the bread, plates of cut fruit, and three pots of coffee when a whistle makes me turn my head.  The boy who whistled is on a ladder, arranging boxes in a storage area.  He is wearing skintight black jeans and a tee shirt I know is called a “wife-beater.” His black hair is styled in a way that only the tough boys in school sport—a stiff pompadour juts out from his forehead. He winks at me before I turn away. Still, his tanned, muscled arms and his heart-stopping green eyes have not escaped my notice.

Nancy and Heddy are incredulous when I tell them about the boy in the kitchen. Nancy will wait on campers’ tables, so the next two days are hers. Heddy is working the switchboard in the air-conditioned main office. I envy them both. I’m already exhausted. We’re sitting under a tree, smoking cigarettes and trying to catch the breeze.

“What did you do?” Heddy says.

“Do? “ I say. “There’s nothing to do. I gave him a dirty look.”

“I wonder if he’ll be at the staff party tonight,” Nancy says.

I don’t have an answer to that either. I’m going to wait by the phones at eight o’clock for Julian to call.