What will it look like here, at the principal’s house? What will all these new parents think of the school if the menahel’s brother drives the bus?
“Oh, Chana,” Rivky sighs, leaning back against a bookcase in her living room. “You still haven’t talked to him?”
“It hasn’t been a good time yet.” Just before Chana had left for Rivky’s house, Naftali had gotten home. His face had been tight and tension had stiffened every step, and Chana hadn’t dared bring up Rivky’s idea. “I’ll talk to him after the dinner. Unless you’d prefer that I left now—”
“No way!” Rivky says, seizing her wrist. “Come. Meet some new people.” There are about two dozen women here, milling around Rivky’s living room and foyer. They come in little groups, chatting and enthusiastic and young enough to nearly be Chana’s daughters.
Next year, some of these women will be mothers in Ari’s class. Chana pats her dress down, making sure it doesn’t bunch up near her waist, and follows Rivky to a gaggle of women. They look at Chana and Rivky uncertainly. “I’m Rivky Hartman,” Rivky says cheerfully. “I’m so glad you could join us.”
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