"How to Spot a Jew"

The McGee’s apartment mirrors ours with the exception that theirs keeps on going. There are a lot of dark wood and shag carpets of midnight blue and lime green which makes our place look almost cheery in comparison. Judging by the fedora hat with yellow feathers on the kitchen counter I wouldn’t be surprised if the interior design was all Mr. Grape-McGee’s scary doing.


Seth is staring at me across the kitchen table and isn’t trying to be subtle about it. I’m sure I look like a science experiment gone wrong. It is awkward to sit so close to a handsome boy. His small features make my wide nostrils seem larger; his wavy brown hair that shines under the kitchen lights seems to mock my Velcro-like, hay-colored locks. I feel an irrational desire to punch Seth’s beautiful face but there’s the smell of fresh marinara sauce and warm Italian bread keeping me in my seat.


“Bon appetit,” Mr. McGee says and places a heaping bowl of spaghetti and meatballs before each of us.


“Oh wow, this is amazing, this is absolutely amazing,” Jack says, his free hand flying everywhere for emphasis. “Isn’t this amazing?”


“Yes, yes it is honey,” mom says, and I know she is remembering that the last homemade meal we’ve had is the one dad made.


“You don’t cook do you?” Mr. McGee says more than asks, ripping off a piece of bread and dipping it into his sauce.


“Mom’s a sandwich girl,” I say and revel as her perfectly composed face lights up like Rudolph the Reindeer’s nose.


“Well that’s not always true Amelia, I do cook sometimes,” mom says, laughing just to deflect any potential judgments.


“Yeah, mom makes Spam, right mom?”


“Smooth Jack,” I say.


“I don’t get it, aren’t you guys Jewish?” Seth says, finally taking his long-lash eyes off of me to question my mother.


“And you think your old man here doesn’t have social skills? Jesus Christ,” Mr. McGee says, shaking his head.


“Why do you think we’re Jewish?” I ask.


“Well for one thing, there’s a mezuzah on your door and then there’s your last name. Anything that weird sounding is usually Jewish,” Seth says, neatly slicing his meatballs into pieces small enough to feed a baby.


“I beg your pardon?” mom looks to Mr. McGee, who is hanging his head down at the table, for an explanation. “Are you aware that you are raising an anti-Semite?” mom says, slapping her fork down on the table.


“See, now I know that you guys are Jewish,” Seth says, and dabs a napkin at the corners of his mouth.


“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. If I were a dog my hackles would be up.


“Amelia Bedilia,” mom says and gives me an eyeful of warning.


“Is that your name for real?” Seth says, farting out laughs in between. I roll my eyes and Jack, the essence of social retardation, says, “Yes and I’m Jack from Jack in the Beanstalk,” and smiles proudly.


“Oh that’s the best,” Seth says through hysterical fits of laughter.


“You sure you’re not looking to get their butts kicked on the playground?” Mr. McGee asks and then seeing the expression on mom’s face quickly adds, “Okay, put a cork in it kid. The lady’s lost her sense of humor and if she doesn’t want to find it we can’t make her.”


Mr. McGee continues to eat his dinner and smiles at Jack who bobs his head up and down in happy, ignorant approval. Mom smacks her lips several times and I can’t decide if I want to stay a little longer just to see mom all ruffled like this or leave pretty boy anti-Semite and his second grade humor.


“Mr. McGee, I’ll have you know I have a fine sense of humor and I would appreciate it if you would take some responsibility for your son’s narrow-minded opinions,” mom says, throwing her napkin over her bowl.


“Ms. Fluchter—”


“Mrs. Fluchter,” mom corrects.


“Of course you have a sense of humor.” He smiles and it makes me think of a Ronald McDonald clown, with freckles. “Listen, if my son is prejudiced against Jews, he’s a masochist.”


“You’re Jewish?” I ask.


“Nah, I’m a fair-weather friend Catholic, half Irish, half Italian, half crazy,” Mr. McGee says and gulps down the last of his lemonade. “Seth’s one of those Chosen People.”


“You mean a third each. You can’t be half because it would be over one-hundred percent and you can’t have over hundred percent of anything so it’s a third each.” Jack looks at me as if I am his dog trainer and he’s expecting a treat.


“You gotta smart kid. I would have named him Clark Kent—Superman’s alter ego—instead of Jack and his little beanstalk, but everyone has their own taste.” Mr. McGee looks at each of us. “Anyone for seconds?”


“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” mom says and follows him to the kitchen counter.


“Enough with these apologies, you don’t want more to eat so you don’t want more to eat,” he smacks the side of his mouth and winks again. “Look, we all have mishigas in our lives. It’s hard to know what you’re seeing at times, right?”


Mom opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out. I like her this way. She is frazzled, out of control—the way she needs to be but never is.