The letter. That reminds me of the letter I mailed Ima yesterday— and the newspaper again. I wonder when she’ll get the letter. I wonder if she’ll write back.
Today’s practice is more annoying than usual, because Faiga hasn’t shown up. Yuck, I hate being so reliant on her, but she’s my only play friend, maybe my only friend in the school. And now I have no one to sit with, or laugh with, or anything, while I’m waiting to say my next, “Oy, Mama,” or pretend to cry into a handkerchief.
Also, without anyone to talk to, my thoughts keep jumping back to the newspaper article, the crisis in India, frightening images of my parents and siblings stuck in a war zone… and I can barely focus even when it’s my turn to get on-stage.
Miss Muller is standing in for Faiga, which is disconcerting, especially when she puts her arm around me for that line about Hashem watching over us. I have to resist the urge to take a step back.
Seriously, I thought practice couldn’t get any worse.
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