Free Cannie Shapiro 02 Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner

to the kitchen and started unloading the dishwasher. "You got a letter," she said casually.
    "Oh yeah?" The mail was stacked on the kitchen counter, and on top of the stack was a giant glossy black envelope with my name-- MISS JOY SHAPIRO KRUSHELEVANSKY --written on the front in fancy silver script.
    I stared at it. "What is it?"
    My mother poked at the envelope with a spatula, making it scoot along the countertop. "I don't know," she said.
    The envelope, which was the size of one of my school folders, felt like it was made of thin glass or plastic, not paper. The return address--written on the back, in the same calligraphy as my name and address--was from the Pokitilow family in Cedar Hill, New Jersey. Tyler's bar mitzvah, I thought, and tore the envelope open. A piece of cream-colored paper with a silver border that looked like a cross between a diploma and a diner menu slid into my hands. Black and silver ribbons were laced through the top of the invitation, and they fell against the printed part in long curls, like pigtails.

    WITH GREAT HAPPINESS,
    BONNIE AND BOB POKITILOW INVITE YOU
    TO ATTEND THE BAR MITZVAH
    OF THEIR SON TYLER BENJAMIN ON SATURDAY,
    APRIL 21, AT TEN O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING
    TEMPLE BETH ISRAEL, SHORT HILLS, NEW JERSEY
    LUNCHEON AND DANCING TO FOLLOW
    SHORT HILLS COUNTRY CLUB.

    "Huh," said my mom, who'd sneaked up behind me and was reading over my shoulder. I turned away fast, picked up the giant envelope, and shook it gently. More pieces of paper rained down onto the counter: a small envelope with another card that fit inside of it ( THE COURTESY OF A REPLY IS REQUESTED BY APRIL FIFTH ), a map of how to get to the temple and the country club, another little card on which I could check off my selection of beef or salmon for lunch. All the pieces of the invitation also had the address of Tyler's bar mitzvah website at the bottom. As I smoothed the ribbons, my mother read it out loud: "'www.Tylersbigbash.com.' Well. Hmm." She ducked her head, and I could tell she was trying not to say something, or laugh. She turned away to pick the kettle up from the stove and fill it at the sink. "Want some tea?"
    I shook my head, went to the refrigerator, and poured myself more juice. She flicked the burner on and put the kettle down. It hissed as the flame burned away the water that had collected on the bottom. "Your April's pretty free," she said.
    I sipped my juice and thought it over. Bonnie Pokitilow was Bruce's first cousin. She had pale, freckly skin and curly hair like mine, only hers was a brown so dark it was almost black. I see her, and her husband, and my cousin Tyler, who's about my age, at my grandma Audrey's house for Passover and at the birthday parties Grandma Audrey used to have for me when I was little. Tyler and I don't really have much in common. Last Passover, he spent the entire night in Grandma Audrey's living room reading Harry Potter and watching old professional wrestling matches on his hand-held.
    I wondered who I'd know there. Then, as if reading my mind, my mom said, "Bruce would be there, with, um, Emily, and their kids, and your grandma Audrey. If you wanted, I could give you a ride."
    I hoisted myself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. I didn't want her doing me any favors. As far as I was concerned, she'd done enough to me already.
    My mother squirted honey into her tea and shook some Wheat Thins onto a yellow plate. "You'd probably sit at the kids' table, with Tyler and his friends, and his sister, um..."
    "Ruth," I said. My tone made it clear that my family, my biological family, Bruce's side of the family, was also none of her business. But either she didn't catch my dirty look or she decided to ignore it.
    "Ruth. Right. It might be fun," she said in a perfectly neutral voice.
    I shrugged again and arranged the pieces of the invitation in a neat stack.
    My mom looked at me. "You know that your invitations won't be quite as..." She paused, and I could tell she was picking