My bag has a Bais Yaakov Convention key chain on it, a gift from my older sister. And my best friend is walking next to me, wearing blue jeans
My phone pings, startling me out of my statistics-induced haze. It’s another text from Talia.
I’m not going on the date. Nothing to wear. And the Jailers won’t give me money to buy anything.
I smirk and then sigh, passing a hand over my eyes. The girl has many nicknames for her parents; “the Jailers” is one of the nice ones. A paradigm of kibbud av v’eim she’s not, but her family life is difficult, and if anyone needs to get married and fly the coop, it’s her.
Be there in 20, I shoot back. I throw open my closet and pull out my three new dating dresses. It’s all right, I already wore them on dates one, two, and three with Yehuda. I smile at the thought and then grab my car keys.
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