Not for the first time, an argument had broken out in the car on the way to Hebrew School. I glared at my mother defiantly with as much dignity as I could muster from the backseat of her Volvo. Dad twisted around from the passenger seat, his brow furrowed.

“Rebekah, you must go to Hebrew School. Quitting is out of the question,” he said firmly. I groaned, flopping back into the tan leather interior dramatically.

“But I don’t even care about having a bat mitzvah!” My mother’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, the veins standing out on the backs of her hands. My dad sighed, obviously not taking me seriously.

“I’m not even going to respond to that,” Dad said folding his arms and staring out the window. I wished he would respond. I wished they could understand that I don’t believe in any of this stuff.

Who cares how many days it took God to create the world (seven) or how many of each animal went into Noah’s ark (two)? Those are the kind of useless facts that have been drilled into my head since birth, practically.
My mom pulled into the winding parking lot, unlocking the doors so I can get out and walk to my doom. The click of the locks filled me with dread. Grumbling, I sling the drawstring back with the temple’s logo plastered on the front over my shoulder and climbed out of the car.

I walked up the stone steps unhappily. My mom honked, pulling out of the lot. I paused on the steps to turn back to glare at the back of the car. Easy for them to be in a good mood, they don’t have to go to Hebrew School to have stale bagels and beliefs shoved down their throats. 

---

I’d finally done it. Somehow, the stars had aligned and a great miracle occurred. I talked my parents into letting me quit Hebrew school. How had I done it? I was still not quite sure. I think it was the combination of tears, screaming, and the promise that I would have a bat mitzvah in some form or another. They decided I could get bat-mitzvahed in Israel. I didn’t regret it. The promise of no more Hebrew school and a free trip to Israel was well worth the ensuing screaming match .

We planned to go this summer. There would be a small ceremony at the Western Wall, the last vestige of the temple that once stood there. I would barely even have to memorize a lot of prayers. It wasn’t too much work, and it would satisfy my parents.

I was lounging on the couch, reading a book . All felt right in the world, until my mother dropped a bomb on me in more ways than one. She was in the armchair, browsing through Facebook on her iPad. She was most likely on some parenting website or the class Facebook group, kvetching with parents about other people’s kids. Her eyes scanned the glowing screen and I saw the Facebook logo reflected in her small rectangular glasses. Kvetching it is then. She glanced up toward the TV and her mouth fell open in shook.

“Rebekah, look!” she exclaimed, pointing a finger at the screen. My eyes followed her line of vision, landing on the news. The headlines screamed at me. HAMAS FIRES ROCKETS AT TEL AVIV! ISRAELI AIRSTRIKES SHAKE GAZA WHILE HAMAS PERSISTS WITH ROCKET ATTACKS! The television showed shaky camera footage of explosions and rockets streaking across the sky. My blood ran cold as I imagined what would have happened if my family had been vacationing there now.

“So, not a great time for a vacation then, huh?” I asked shakily. My mom gave me a look, her eyes never straying far from the television.

“Benjamin, come in here!” she screeches, calling my dad downstairs. I winced as her voice permeated through the room. No one could scream like an overbearing Jewish mother, especially mine.

“What is it Chava?” My father bellowed back from the third floor.

“Come down here!” She yelled at an impossibly higher volume. I heard him shuffling around upstairs, and then he slowly descended the staircase, glowering. Mom waved him in wordlessly.  He walked in and stared at the screen appraisingly.

Mom laid a hand on his arm and they exchanged a meaningful look. I stared between the two of them curiously. There were a few moments of silence, and Dad left the room, shaking his head the whole time. I look toward my mom in concern, who is still clutching the remote and staring at the screen. Her face was lit up with the glow of explosions and fires.

“What is it Mom?” I asked tentatively. She blinked in confusion, as if coming out of a trance, and looked towards me as if she was seeing me for the first time.

“We won’t be going to Israel this summer,” Mom said simply. And that was the end of that.

---
I was in the car again, this time just with my father, and even angrier than before. Apparently after the whole Israel thing blew up in our faces, they couldn’t let this whole bat mitzvah thing go. They decided to make me meet with some random rabbi they probably found off Yellow Pages.  I was wearing crosses on my ears and had a copy of the Bible clutched under my arm. A latte from Starbucks rested in the cupholder, a peace offering from Dad. It hadn’t exactly made things peaceful in the car. I slumped low in the seat, my arms crossed. I was sulking.
The car pulled up in front of the chabad house. It was quiet and empty. Dad gestured for me to get out of the car. He cut the gas with a sigh as I gave him a scathing look.

“Come on Rebekah, get out of the car, “ He said firmly, “And leave the earrings!” Muttering under my breath, I removed the earrings and tossed them back in the car, hitching the Bible up further in my arms.

We entered the low stone building together and were greeted by a tall man in a black coat, presumably the rabbi. He greeted us politely, which couldn’t have been a small feat considering the amount of annoyance I was projecting in his direction.

Several minutes later we sat around a table. What followed was a very uncomfortable hour in which I loudly drummed my fingers against the cover of the Bible which I had placed on the table and occasionally grunted in annoyance when he and my father mentioned something I particularly didn’t like. Finally we all stood.

“Well, Rebekah, I’m looking forward to working with you.  I’ll see you next week.”

The rabbi held out his hand. I stared at it for a second, and then my gaze flitted to my father. He gave me a warning look. I placed hand in his and briefly shook it, letting go quickly. He coughed uncomfortably and showed us out.  I waved goodbye with the Bible. My dad ushered me out quickly.

---

“Ready to go?” I asked, resigned to my fate. It was Sunday. It was time to meet with our favorite rent-a-rabbi.  I started out the door, and then paused when I saw no one was following me.

“Come on, let’s get this over with,” My mother sighed. 

“Tell her, Benjamin,” My mother said softly. I raised my eyebrow.

“What? What’s going on?” I asked. My dad came to stand in front of me.
“You won’t be going to see him anymore,” He explained. Excitement surged through me, but was quickly quelled at the look on my Dad’s face.

“Someone put a bomb in his car,” He explained gravely. I gaped at him, trying to piece together the image of the man I’d met at the chabad and the amateur footage of explosions from the news, but I can’t.

“Is he...okay?” I questioned cautiously. My dad nodded, and I felt myself let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“He’s okay,”
---
A few weeks later, Dad and I were driving in the car.

“You know,” He began, “I got a text from the rabbi recently,” I glanced up in interest.

“Really, what did he say?” I asked curiously. Dad grinned, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes.

“He said he missed working with you. He liked that you were a challenge.” I laughed a bit. That’s one way to put it, I supposed. A challenge was when someone fires a rocket into your country or puts a bomb under your car. If only the rabbi’s biggest challenge in life was me. The next time we met, I decided, I would try to be more open. Or,  at the very least,  leave the Bible at home.