President's Day

It’s President’s Day in Lemuel’s kindergarten class.

I have the day off, but he doesn’t, and he tugs on my hand as we enter his classroom, which is festooned with three thousand hues of rainbow. According to Lemuel, Ms. Rackle is a real stickler on decorations. For Christmas, her desk is draped with silver tinsel and the ceiling is threaded with reindeer lights. For Valentine’s Day, there are pastel origami hearts on each student’s desk. And for today, the tiny flags of hundreds of countries wreathe the room like the crowning jewels of the world.

Lemuel shoves his Thomas the Train backpack into his cubby and runs onto the fuzzy alphabet carpet to meet with his friends, who are collectively freckled and short. I recognize one or two from our synagogue, and a few others from Lemuel’s preschool last year. Some of them will be prime ministers, presidents, and kings today, but some of them will be citizens. I wish my elementary school had given me the chance to lead a pretend nation. The image of a six-year-old me with a tiara and a scepter flashes through my mind.

Mom and Dad couldn’t take Lemuel today, so I am here, and as far as I know, I’m the only big sister in attendance. Ms. Rackle talks to some parents near her desk, her lips laughing around each syllable. The classroom’s fluorescent lights catch on Lemuel’s shiny tuxedo, polished to an eccentric blue sheen, his hair slicked with gel from a brother long ago lost to college bustle. I kind of wish Adam was here, but it’s impossible. He’s hundreds of miles away.

Ms. Rackle calls the class to attention, and I can tell Lemuel is about to explode right out of the seams of his skin. His face splits with excitement as the citizens assemble with their assigned rulers, and he jealously guards his fellow students like a mother hen with her chicks.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” I hear him saying. I can’t help but smile.

Ms. Rackle is a big woman, draped in a muumuu and sporting bangles on her wrists and neck. Her hair is braided back in a doughnut bun, and when she smiles, her lips sparkle like chrome.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, her voice low and deep, “you may begin.”

There’s a burst of chatter as elation fills the room like a balloon. Across the fuzzy carpet, make-believe governors, seneschals, premiers, queens, and heads of state meet and shake hands, some smiling, some even curtsying. This must be looked forward to as much as prom is in high school.

I watch Lemuel especially. He straightens out his tie and wrestles a handshake out of a girl in a pomegranate pink dress. Her olive skin is beautiful, contrasting against the magenta shade, and her hair is covered with a flowery hijab.

“I bid you good morn, Queen Aya. Let’s discuss matters of state,” Lemuel says in his high-pitched voice, trying to sound formal. I almost laugh, but I don’t, because the look in his eyes is so genuine it could move a mountain.

“Yes, let’s,” the little girl agrees, and I hear the edge of a lisp in her voice. “I find that I don’t agree wif your trade polithies. My people want more bananas, and yours are too expenthive.”

Lemuel throws a look back at his adoring entourage, who are either shaking their heads or looking at each other.

“My people, when we sell bananas, do we sell them at the right price?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” someone pipes.

“Well, I don’t really think so — my mom buys bananananas that are only fifty cents and ours are three hundred dollars per bundle.” The dissenter is a little boy with red glasses. He is immediately elbowed by his friend.

“Don’t be stupid — they’re not called bananananas, it’s bananananananananas.”

“Ms. Rackle, he said stupid!”

Ms. Rackle can’t hear them, and eventually the two bickerers settle down. They’re whispering to each other when Lemuel speaks again.

“I do not agree. Our bananas are very reasonably priced, and anyways, your apples cost an arm and a leg!” He beams, and I remember that Adam’s the one who taught him that idiom.

The girl scoffs. “Those apples are the lifeblood of my cithizens. We live by their exports. And anyways, those apples are quality apples! If I were you, I’d be thanking my lucky sthars that I even have them.”

“Well, I demand you take down your prices.”

“Not if you do it first!”

“No, you.”

Aya smooths her iridescent dress, and I watch in fascination as she meets Lemuel’s eyes. They fit their roles surprisingly well.

“Let’s not wasthe our time on something so trivial. We can bargain prices later. Can we talk about the amount of pollution that’th allowed to happen?”

“Oh yeah. Ban plastics.”

“Ban farts.”

“Limit showers to twenty minutes.”

“No littering in the ocean.”

“People who don’t care are going to jail.”

The citizens are nodding along in their tiny uniforms, as if they can’t believe no one’s thought of this before. One of them wrinkles her nose, and another is dragging a recycling bin for a prop.

“Oh, and another thing. We need to stop the war between your people and my people,” Lemuel says. I tilt my head. This ought to be interesting.

“Yes, whath the heart of the conflict again?” Aya asks.

“I don’t remember. I just know that your people are killing my people, and my people are killing your people, and we’re losing a lot of people. It’s not fair. Maybe we can work it out another way?”

Aya smiles, her lips like rose buds on her tanned complexion. “Rock paper scissors.”

“I propose a better solution. How about we forgive each other?”

There’s a moment of silence. Not the fragile, paper bird type of silence, but the moonlit lake, contemplation kind.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I’ll forgive you first, here.” Lemuel reaches out to grab Aya’s brown sugar hand, his skin pale against hers. “I forgive you. Now you do it.”

The citizens standing behind Aya are leaning out to see what their ruler will do. I can see the top of someone’s ginger hair bobbing behind her, its owner seeking a better view. She folds her fingers into Lemuel’s, and I don’t even hear a breath of hesitation in her voice.

“I forgive you.”

“I think that’ll do.” Lemuel nods briefly. “I am honored with this meeting. Hope it happens again.”

“Me ath well.” She curtsies low, her head dipping, and Lemuel bows. Ms. Rackle is talking with a group of countries in a part of the room, and chatter is filling my ears from all directions, but I can’t focus on that now. I can’t focus on anything at all but for the little Jewish boy and the little Palestinian girl inclining their heads towards each other in a gesture of respect.

Lemuel grabs my hand when President’s Day festivities are done. Ms. Rackle is besieged with hugs and a dozen little children clamoring about their respective countries. Lemuel shouts a goodbye, waving his tiny hand as we exit his classroom. He skips as he walks, his Thomas the Train backpack glittering blue in the hallway lights. His gel has worn off, and his hair flops around like the pages of a book.

“Did you like it, Adinah, did you?” he asks me. His voice is filled with light.

I think I almost cry.