I know we are being watched. Wherever I turn, there are critical eyes, expressions full of judgment. The hardest part of that for me is that I understand. After all, Frankie is a shaygetz. Jewish girls know those boys are nothing but trouble. We know to stay away from them. They only want one thing. But my shaygetz is different. He’s by my side each time I have to lift a heavy tray, taking it from my hands, sliding it onto his shoulder. And he’s sweet. One morning when I stumble up to the dining room after spending another night in his bed arguing about my virginity, I find that he has spelled out “I love you” with the silverware. When I catch his eye in the kitchen, he winks at me, and I wink back. He laughs, shakes his head and carries on with his work. But he is ever watchful, always ready to defend me from anything and anyone. And even though I tell him that he’s too protective of me, I secretly love that because of him most of the waiters give me wide berth. They think he’s dangerous and unpredictable, but only I know the boy who begs me to sleep with him out in the field and instinctively covers my body with his when the temperature falls, making sure throughout the night that I am warm enough. But he’s still a shaygetz, and it’s still a Jewish camp where girls like me are supposed to stay away from boys like him. But I can’t, and I won’t.
For that reason, I’m not surprised when I’m summoned to the office for “a talk” with the director, Rabbi Feinstein. I have a huge hickey on my neck. It’s been too hot to try to cover it, and besides, all the waitresses have hickeys. The difference is theirs are from Jewish boys.
Frankie is distraught. He wants to come in with me.
“Wait here,” I tell him. We’re sitting on a bench down near the lake. “I’ll be fine.”
“No,” he says. “I’m going to walk you there. I’ll wait outside the office.”
We hold hands as we walk up the hill. Frankie looks worried.
“What if they send you home?” he says.
“They won’t. If they send me home, they’ll have to send everyone home.”
He laughs, but I know he’s worried. “Go get’ em,’ he says. He kisses my eyelids, rubs my cheek with the back of his hand. “I’ll be waiting.”
A small air-conditioner sputters in the rabbi’s office. The door is half-open. I’m surprised to see Rabbi Mike, the rabbi who conducts the Jewish education and religion classes the wait staff is required to attend. But I am even more surprised to see Leah, the camp nurse. I knock lightly.
“Come in, Sonja,” Rabbi Feinstein says. “Sit, sit.”
Rabbi Mike smiles benevolently between puffs on his pipe, and Leah smiles almost apologetically at me. I suddenly wish I had let Frankie come with me.
“Well, I guess you know why you’ve been asked to come here today,” Rabbi Feinstein says.
I decide I don’t want to make it easy for them.
“”No,” I say. “I have no idea.”
Rabbi Mike clears his throat and exchanges a look with Leah.
“No idea?” Rabbi Feinstein says. He points to my neck. “For starters, Sonja, there are children here as young as eight.”
I don’t say anything.
“You’re supposed to set an example for them,” he says. “What are they to think when they see that mark on your neck?”
“Is it just the mark on my neck, Rabbi?” I say. “Because all the girls in my dorm have hickeys, some in places you can’t even see.” I look around. “I don’t see any of them here.”
The room is quiet. The air-conditioner gasps and pops; it’s too small for a room this size.
“But we asked you here, Sonja.”
“Because of Frankie.”
“Frankie?” Rabbi Feinstein says.
I realize that he doesn’t even know Frankie’s name.
“My boyfriend,” I say.
The word “boyfriend” hangs in the air like a dare.
Leah leans forward in her chair and in a low voice says, “Do we need to call your mother?”
“Why would you call my mother?”
“We don’t want any trouble,” Leah says. “You know what I mean.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not sleeping with Frankie. And if you want to call anyone’s mother you should call Renee’s mother, and Sandy’s mother, and Helene’s mother. For that matter, you should also call Barry’s, Jonathan’s, and Eli’s mothers. They’re all having sex. All those nice Jewish kids.”
“Like should stick with like,” Rabbi Feinstein says.
I don’t want to cry in front of them.
“At least try to be more discreet,” Rabbi Mike urges in a gentle voice.
“Can I go now?” I say.
“We just want to protect you,” Rabbi Feinstein says.
I have to shade my eyes from the sun when I step outside. Frankie is sitting where I left him. He stands as soon as soon as he sees me. I walk toward him, wrap my arms around him, and bury my face in his chest. My tears wet his shirt, but he holds me tight and doesn’t let go.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“It’s not okay,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter what anyone says.”
“Of course it matters.”
“No,” he says. “The only thing that matters is us.”
I nod against his chest, but I know he’s wrong.
