There’s nothing like a Goldberg and Goldstein who are best friends. You know the type? Friends since the nursery at the hospital. With the same birthdays, living on the same block – can you even imagine us not getting mixed up? I mean, come on. Basi Goldberg and Batsheva Goldstein both living on Glengyle and in seventh grade.
Batsheva and I
decided that this would be the best summer of our lives. As best friends, I’m sure
you can imagine we have had our fair share of fun times and great summers. Like
last year, when we decided to make a camp. Did you know that choosing a name
for your camp is almost as important as the counselors that you hire? The two
of us hacked the system and figured out the method to the madness. You ready?
Nursery through second-grade age: Camp names must include a food. Camp
Sprinkles, Camp Ice-Pop, Camp Mac’n Cheese, Camp Cupcake. We stayed up late
wondering why there are no boy staples in the mix, like Camp Deli-Roll or Camp
Kishke or Camp Cholent – but I digress!
Elementary-aged
camps all include adjectives. Right after Rosh Hashanah, camp flyers fly home
with names such as Camp Leibedig, Camp Geshmak, Camp Shpitzy, Camp Shtaty, and Camp
Kef! Camps pop up left and right, honing in on all different types of people,
It’s not like the olden days when the only three options were Camp Shalom, Camp
Bais Yaakov, and TA camp. No, No. Now there is even Camp Covid, where three
years post-covid campers are still enjoying wearing double masks and standing six
feet apart while playing tag!
Batsheva and I
think some of the more appropriate camp names would be Camp Balei Gan or Camp
Tzefloygen. We understood why naming our camp, Camp A’la Maalos would be the best
option. And so, Camp A’la Maalos sprung into action. There was fun, games,
davening, parsha, and lots and lots
and lots of ice pops.
This year, the two
of us decided to go to sleepaway camp together for the first time. It took our
parents some time to get used to the idea of both their oldest girls leaving
for three weeks. As you can imagine, not having the in-house babysitter, sous
chef, pastry chef, cleaning girl, and family mascot home can take a toll on a
family. But eventually, our parents came around to it. The group bus was
leaving from the Metro…I mean Shoppers…I mean Safeway parking lot at 2 p.m. on
Tuesday, and we just couldn’t wait! The night before the bus left, the two of
us went over our camp lists for the 287th time. It was practically set in stone
that this was going to be the most epic summer ever.
*
* *
It’s three weeks later.
This was the most epic, amazing, incredible summer ever, so why do I feel so
unbelievably sad?
The bus pulled
into the Safeway parking lot at 10 p.m., and I barely managed to open my crusty
tired eyes as I walked out to greet my parents, who were picking up both
Batsheva and me. My brothers grabbed my camp duffels off the bottom of the bus
as my sister went to find Batsheva, and silence painted the solemn tone in our
Honda Odyssey as we drove the 12 minutes home. Only three weeks earlier, the
two of us had been giggling in the back row on our way to the same parking lot
with Mrs. Goldstein at the wheel. Matching crisp white Adidas sneakers donned
our feet as we exchanged snacks and listened to each other’s MP3 players. Only
three weeks later and we were practically strangers.
How did this
happen? It’s not like I intended it to.
The ride had been
long and winding, but we finally made it up to the Pocono Mountains to Camp
Machane Shir. The two of us were placed in different bunks immediately, which
threw us off completely. How could my best friend be put in a different bunk?
It didn’t even seem legal. Basi Goldberg and Batsheva Goldstein just had to be
together, but apparently, we didn’t. Because no matter how much begging,
pleading, and coaxing each of us did, the head counselors would not change our
circumstances.
I loved my bunk
right away, although I missed Batsheva terribly. We found each other at lunch, shiur, and swimming for the first few
days, but it got to the point where I had made some more really good friends I
wanted to chill out with. Batsheva, on the other hand, always looked miserable.
I caught sight of her sitting alone through the window of her bunkroom,
listening to music on her bed instead of coming to night activity on the second
night. For a moment, I hesitated, debating whether to go in and sit with her so
she would not feel so alone. On that gorgeous breezy night, under the blanket
of stars, I was about to go have fun while my best friend retreated under her
actual blanket. Lifting my hand to knock on the bunkhouse door, I suddenly felt
Leba and Rachel, laughing from behind, grab my arm and practically lift me off
my two feet carrying me to night festivities. We had night races, a popcorn
party, and a dance off – and by the time my head hit the pillow that night,
memories of Batsheva sitting alone in her bunkroom were gone.
I’m not gonna lie,
after about a week, I was in a new groove and settled. Batsheva on the other
hand, never seemed to get used to the circumstances. I’d see her on the
sidelines during sports, eating alone during lunch, reading under a tree
instead of swimming – and now that I think about it, I rarely caught a glimpse
of her at night activity. The weirdest part of it all was her response to my
many attempts to include her.
“No,” she’d say,
“You made new friends. Go without me” or “I’d rather be by myself.” Other
times, when I motioned with my hands for her to come sit with us, she’d roll
her eyes, scrunch her nose, and do that thing with her mouth that she always
does when something grosses her out.
And so “go without
her” I did. I threw everything I had into making this the best camp experience
ever, while my bestie sat under the proverbial cloud of doom and gloom. Now,
three weeks later, we are thrown back into the reality of our past life, but
nothing is the same. I’ve grown, thanks to the yellow camp potato mush, pickle
chips, and soursticks. I’d gained a few pounds but lost a great friend. Try as
I might, there was nothing I could do to ease the pain Batsheva had gone
through these past three weeks, watching me have fun while she remained stuck
in the mud.
*
* *
Two weeks went by
post-camp, and I hadn’t heard a word from Batsheva. I spent most days catching
up on summer homework, calling friends from camp, and working at a 9:00 to 2:00
counselor job. Then one day, as I walked past the overgrown hedges on both
sides of my home walkway, I saw a note sticking out of the mailbox, and this is
what it said:
Dear Basi,
I don’t have the guts to call and tell
this all to you in person, so I figured a letter would do. You really make me
feel horrible. How dare you? Being in the same camp as you was a disaster. Did
you really think you could ghost me like you did without consequences? Do you
really think making new friends and pretending I did not exist was a long-term
good idea? Have you even thought of the repercussions? No, you didn’t. Clearly.
Well, now you’re probably sitting home alone wanting to hang out, but trust me,
our friendship has sunk, officially. See you in 8th grade, or not.
Batsheva
I read and re-read the letter, analyzing
every painful word. How could I be so horrible? I was a terrible person. No. I
was worse than that. I mean, I know I tried hard to include her whenever I
could, but maybe I did not try hard enough?
The pit in my
stomach would not go away. Ignoring it was not an option; I so badly wanted to
defend myself. I wrote a response letter to Batsheva about 1,000 times in my
head but could not bear the thought of putting my thoughts to pen and sealing
it. I thought about it during the day and dreamed about it during the night.
Conversations and responses rang in my head from morning until night, having
nobody to say it to. Until one morning my mother caught me by surprise. She
said she had noticed how off things have been, and she wanted to talk over ice
cream. So, we went to Cocoachinos, got milkshakes, and I told her everything. I
told her how I tried so hard to include Batsheva but was pushed away. I told
her how badly I wanted to make the most of my summer, and making new friends
was part of the equation. I told her how I could not understand how something
completely out of my control was now being turned around and blamed on me. I
told her about the letter. Well, you know what she said?
* * *
Funnily enough, it
all went back to where it all started: Safeway.
My mother
explained how, before Safeway was Safeway, it was Shoppers. Before Shoppers was
Shoppers, it was Metro. Before Metro was Metro, it was Farm Fresh. Before Farm
Fresh was Farm Fresh, there was Pantry Pride and Food Fair. The store has
traded grocery store chains over the past decade more times than my mom could
count, and since she was a kid growing up here in Baltimore, it had even more
names than she could remember. News flashes would ring that the Smith Avenue
grocery store was now a new one! ! New name but the same place, next to the
most overpriced gas station in Pikesville. It always had the same layout: the
same floral section to the right when you walk in, and produce beside that,
followed by the rows of kosher refrigerated items and the $2.99 grapejuice on
sale during the Pesach mad rush.
“It’s the same,
but it’s not anymore,” my mother explained. “The same goes with friends. They
are the same people we knew and loved, enjoyed every minute with, and those
memories can always be cherished. But we move on, and we change. We grow into
different versions of ourselves, and circumstances show sides to our friends
that we may never have been able to see before.
“You may have
loved the customer service at Shoppers and hate it at Safeway. This is
confusing because it is really the same store. You must realize that it does
not mean the experience at Shoppers did not exist; it merely means it existed
while it lasted, and now it is under new management. You must look at Batsheva
as if she is now under new management, and the friendship just does not serve
you and is not healthy for you anymore, based on your experiences. The good
news is, you have lots of new friends and a chance, in eighth grade, to spread
your wings to include others into your life.”
It was cool, the
analogy. Hard to accept, but true. I would get over this. As we slurped the
last drops of our milkshakes, I smiled, and then my mom said, “Hey, why don’t
we stop at Safeway before we head home. I think we need some more ice cream,
don’t you think?”
And with that, we
left.
