“No,” Sophie agreed. “You weren’t.”
They didn’t hug. Not yet. But Elena followed her to the dessert table, and they shared a piece of chocolate cake, standing side by side, while the DJ played on. -No estas invitada a mi bat Mitzvah-
Sophie Abramson had planned her bat mitzvah since she was nine. Not the Torah portion—that came later, with the sweating and the cracked voice and the tutor who smelled like dill pickles. No, Sophie had planned the guest list . In a pink marble notebook, she’d written names in order of importance, with little stars next to the ones who would get handmade invitations. “No,” Sophie agreed
Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. But Elena followed her to the dessert table,
“You’re being stubborn,” her older brother, Josh, said from the couch, where he was pretending to do homework but was actually watching her.
Her mother, ever the diplomat, sighed. “Sweetheart, people say stupid things. Maybe you should talk to her.”
“ No estás invitada a mi bat mitzvah ,” Sophie said, practicing her Spanish for the bilingual theme her parents had chosen. You are not invited to my bat mitzvah.