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moved into our old apartment with Dad. All of Appleton heard the screaming that night. And that was the end of my New York bar mitzvah. Even worse, I suddenly wasn’t allowed to invite a single member of Dad’s family! Furthermore, she would not accept one penny (“NOT ONE PENNY!”) from my father for the party. He could keep his tainted money. She would do the whole thing herself!
    The situation sucked. And I had no one to talk to. Bill was too busy sucking face with Nina to talk about anything else, and Steve seemed distant the couple of times we spoke, like I was already some landmark on the road fading from sight in the rearview mirror.
    â€œBy the way,” he told me the last time we talked. “Aaron Siegel’s bar mitzvah’s a week before yours.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “So?”
    Aaron Siegel was the richest kid in our class. He was having his bar mitzvah at the Pierre Hotel, and his father had hired Beyoncé to sing the Hatikvah.
    â€œWell, the week after, his dad is flying some of the guys down to their condo in Florida. Isn’t that cool?”
    You know in books where they say a person’s skin goes cold? Well, that’s what happened to me. Like ice. Nobody was going to miss out on a free trip to Florida—especially not if the option was to take a plane and a bus to attend my bar mitzvah in nowheresville Appleton.
    â€œYeah,” I choked. “Cool.”
    â€œIt’s just that I’m really torn about what to do,” Steve began.
    I cut him off. “Don’t worry about it, dude,” I said. “Have fun.”
    â€œFor sure?”
    I don’t think I had ever heard anyone sound so relieved.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “For sure.”
    â€œThanks, dude,” he said. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
    I sort of knew that we wouldn’t—not soon anyway. He had New York things to do. And me? I had this:
    Â 
    Please join us for a reception afterward:
    Â 
    The Methodist Church
    Main Street, Appleton
    Basement Community Room
    Â 
    So for a quick recap, here’s how things stood:
    I wasn’t talking to my dad.
    I was grunting monosyllabically at my mom.
    I was drifting apart from my New York buddies.
    I was being bar mitzvahed by a rabbi we found online.
    I was celebrating in the basement of a church.
    Could anything possibly go right?
    Â 
    Thank god for Simon, that lovable, slobbering monster of a dog. It was because of him that I finally made a friend in Appleton. It was week two of my sentence in Hoosier jail. Simon and I were outside one morning playing fetch with one of Pam’s naked figurines. After a few throws, Simon jumped the picket fence and dropped the statue in front of this skinnyish girl with her face buried in a book.
    â€œHey there, doggie!” she said.
    Simon started licking her hands and barking. She scratched under his chin, then looked my way.
    â€œYou must be Evan,” she said.
    â€œI must?”
    â€œPam told me you were here.”
    She wrestled the figurine from Simon’s mouth,cocked her arm, and hurled it into the woods. Then I noticed the book she was reading—most girls are reading books about horses or guys named Chad; this girl was reading The Corrections . I was impressed—not only was this girl well-read, but she had a major league throwing arm.
    â€œDid I just throw a naked lady?” she asked me.
    We both started laughing.
    As Simon tore after the figurine, I took a closer look. I had expected every girl in the Midwest to be some blond, blue-eyed, corn-fed beauty, but this girl wasn’t that at all. She had long brown hair that fell straight into her face. Her eyes were small and kind of close together, like she was scrutinizing you. Her knees pointed in toward each other. On the plus side, she had a very nice, welcoming smile. Not to mention the beginnings of a real figure. My hormones gave her a tentative thumbs-up.
    â€œWhat did