"Aviva vs. the Dybbuk" 
by Mari Lowe, Chapters 15–19

“Ema,” I whisper, and Ema gives me a tremulous smile.

“Nothing makes up for missing machanayim tomorrow,” we both say together, and we laugh, giddy with excitement.

But I feel a sudden wave of compassion for her, and it's been a good enough day that I say, “Do you want to help us out?"

Kevin presses another button, playing a maniacal laugh he’d found on his phone.

"Thank our daughters for doing such a stellar job," Mrs. Eisenberger says.

But she gives us another rare smile, the kind that has students jockeying for her approval in eighth grade.

"It reminds me of the pranks we used to play on the girls for Purim," Mrs. Eisenberger says reflectively. "Remember that pop quiz you gave?"

"She would pull off so many pranks on her students because no one could read her deadpan. They always took her a little too seriously."

The dance floor is already loud, the winning team moving in an exuberant circle as other teams begin to join them, and Ema isn't cut out for that kind of noise and enthusiasm.

And Ema takes my hand with some trepidation and walks with me to the dance floor.

We let hands go to fall into the familiar steps to every Bas Mitzvah dance, our feet moving nimbly without ever quite matching the persons beside us.

Instead, I bask in the glow of Ema's smile, of my classmates as they mouth so much fun! and that was amazing! to Kayla and me as they dance past.

The police officers are still arrayed around the shul, the cars off and the lawn well lit, but it isn’t them that we see right away.

But with them goes the sense of majesty and holiness that has always suffused the shul, the feeling of being a part of something mighty and good.

He’d revel in this confusion, would lurk in hiding to mock the good people trying to fix what he destroyed.

I pick up loose papers and destroyed siddurim, carrying them carefully to the unobtrusive door at the corner of the women's section of the shul.

The dybbuk pursues me, silent again, and I can feel his malice filling the passageway.

I slam the door closed and I scream at the top of my lungs, scream and scream a piercing shout that is too high and shrill for me to recognize.

I race up the empty steps of the mikvah in my soaked dress and matted hair, hurtling from the pool and toward the door to outside, still screaming as loudly as I can as police officers and volunteers alike all rush toward me, the lawn outside the mikvah brighter than it’s ever been at night.

My voice is garbled as I shout, still high and panicked.

Mrs. Feigenbaum has hobbled over, leaning on her cane as she joins us.

I remember Mrs. Leibowitz saying, a few hours and a lifetime ago, It's okay to need your mother, and how it felt almost illicit to acknowledge.

I tremble, staring in horror at the dybbuk sitting opposite me, and Ema says beseechingly, “I spoke to professionals, and they told me to let it be. That this was how you were going to process your trauma, and you would age out of it once you were older. I should have—I should have gone back for more advice years ago, but I...but then you described the dybbuk to me and I—”

“I did...I did all the things he’d done?” I wonder, disbelievingly, desolate.

Outside, I can hear the lilting sounds of davening from the shul, louder than usual through the broken windows.

I don't know if I expect to see him or not, and I feel an odd flicker of apprehension when there's movement behind me.

Grief hangs around this place like a shroud, and Ema puts a hand on my arm and I exhale.

Ema’s never spoken this honestly to me before, and I feel new tears spring to my eyes, a relief from a tension that was so ingrained in my life with Ema that I didn't notice it until it left.

“I love you,” she says fervently, and we stare together at Abba's headstone.

Machanayim doesn't seem nearly as important after last night, but I still feel a pang when the ball bounces off the dryer and disappears into the room.

Principal Axelrod is standing in the doorway, her eyes light and her smile warm as her familiar perfume wafts through the room.

“Shoshie, I am in awe of what Aviva and Kayla accomplished last night,” she says without preamble.

“You know, Aviva, you have all this energy inside of you, and it isn’t always...ideal for a classroom,” she finishes delicately.

“I think exceptions can be made after the work you put into the Bas Mitzvah Bash, don’t you?” Principal Axelrod says serenely.

With another smile, she saunters down the path from the mikvah.

In the bleachers, students are shouting names and an impromptu school cheer.

She has a boot on one foot, and she's leaning on a wheeled contraption that supports the foot so she can stand.

We exchange a single ecstatic glance.

“The dybbuk isn’t real,” I say. “I just—I just found out last night. Ema says I kind of conjured him out of nowhere to deal with...with Abba.”

She shrugs off the revelation, and her hand lands in mine, squeezing it firmly.