Numbers

Ever since I can remember, I saw the numbers. They aren’t big. They aren’t small. But they are everywhere.

It was the first day of school. School was never my favorite place to be, but I did well enough and had a nice social group. Some would call us cliquey; I just thought of ourselves as good friends. I never felt like I could call anyone my “best friend,” not until this year, at least. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My favorite subject was always math. Perhaps it was because I had been seeing numbers my whole life. Perhaps it was just because Hashem had granted me a math brain, or perhaps the teachers just liked me! But, suffice it to say, I was busy counting on my fingers and toes when all most kids wanted to do was play Roley Poley.

I was very little when I’d first tried to close my fists around the numbers. They sat gently, by each person – little digits right by their hearts. They evaded my grasp and merely faded away, reappearing when my fist was removed from them. I didn’t have the numbers. It was strange because everyone had numbers – but I myself seemed to have none.

Once I could speak, I would tell everyone their number – read it off like an immigrant learning to read a new language – slowly and clearly. Of course, everyone just laughed at the funny girl who would say random numbers. But then they stopped laughing. “That’s not normal,” they’d say when they thought I couldn’t hear them. Eventually, I stopped reading the numbers, but I would tell people about them.

“Did you know that you have a number?”

“What?”

“A number. You see – right there.” I pointed to her heart.

“I…I don’t….” A stammer was all she could manage. Her face was construed in a confuzzled expression – eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open, and head tilted to one side.

I had been taken to every eye doctor within an hour radius. We’d even traveled quite far to see specialists. I could always read all the little lines of letters and see the different colored butterflies. I had 20/20 vision. The doctors were at a loss. My parents were at a loss.

And I kept seeing the numbers.

Eventually, I learned to stay quiet. But the numbers were always there, in the background. My eyes, instead of focusing on a person’s face, would often focus on the numbers first. No one believed me. It was like an unspoken topic, but no one dared to mention it and open up a can of worms.

By now, I had learned to live with the numbers. For a long while, I could barely see anything but the black digits, but over time, they became nothing more than floaters in my vision. I guess you can get used to anything in life. Even though they blurred with the rest of the picture in front of me, I knew they were there. They were always there – in sharp, clear black lines. The numbers endlessly scroll, never staying stagnant. They continuously move either up or down. Everyone’s numbers are different – even Social Security wouldn’t be able to keep track of them. The numbers seem to have no end or beginning. No one is at zero, and there seems to be no limit as to how high the numbers could go. I’ve seen numbers that are dozens of digits long, yet they are few and far between. It’s a mesmerizing scene, watching the numbers. If I ever space out, instead of counting ceiling tiles, I watch the numbers.

But like I said, most of the time, I can ignore them. When you’ve had something for so long, eventually, it fades into the background.

*  *  *

It was the start of eleventh grade, known to be the hardest year of the entire school experience. You’re not quite the senior, yet but you’re no longer a newbie to high-school work. It’s the year where college thoughts begin – APs, SATs, ACTs … and all the other rhyming and non-rhyming tests that the school tortures us with.

My friends and I weren’t what you’d call the academic type, but I’d never been sent to the principal. With my blond hair and innocent, blue-eyed expression, I could talk my way out of anything. College was not in my future plans, so I signed up for some easier classes and, of course, gym.

Nobody liked gym. It wasn’t the teachers’ faults, but getting high schoolers to get up and play a game was almost a lost cause. All we ever wanted to do was to sit, talk, and chill. When I opened the gym doors for the first time on that first Tuesday of school, I discovered that none of my close friends ended up in the same class as me. That was fine, I reassured myself, I had lots of “friendlies” here. But, as it so happens with the nature of gym, if you don’t have a close circle of friends to talk with, you end up alone. It’s not so easy to just plop down on the ground with a new group of friends on the first day of school.

And that was how I found my first best friend ever.

She was new to the community. I’d never seen her before. She plopped herself down next to me without a moment’s hesitation.

“Hey! What’s your name?”

“Neshama.”

“Neshama – that’s a cool name.”

“They say I see into the neshama of a person.” I chuckle at my own quip. She laughs out loud, and a real smile breaks out on my face.

“Want to walk around the gym with me?”

I look around at the cliques of friends sitting, chatting with each other, catching up on their camp adventures and vacation extravaganzas. Then I look at me, sitting alone, and at this new girl who’d just joined me. I didn’t even know her name yet, but I responded, “Sure.”

We totally hit off. She was sweet and funny and had a brilliant mind as well. It had been a long time since I’d felt so comfortable with someone. My friends were great, don’t get me wrong, but this girl and I were like two peas that had come from the same pod. Every afternoon, we waited for our gym break, and we got to know each other quite well within those 43-minutes-and-17-second periods. It wasn’t long before we were studying together and going out for pizza on motzei Shabbos. My friends embraced her into our group, and she joined our lunch table, but no one was as close to her as I was. DMCs, hour-long phone calls, and seatmates in class – we were inseparable within just a week of school. By the way, her name was Atara.

*  *  *

Rosh Hashanah was approaching; my Jewish calendar pinned to my bulletin board was reaching its last page. We had an entire 14 days of school before Rosh Hashanah – many more days than usual – and the only topic the teachers talked about was about the High Holidays. Every class was another mashal: “So there once was a king, and he had a son….” This about Rosh Hashanah. That about Rosh Hashanah. This about Yom Kippur. That about Yom Kippur. Some even threw in Sukkos just to add a bit of meat to the cholent. I was never as prepared for the coming days as I was this year. I appreciated it, but, like I said before, I wasn’t exactly the “academic type.”

It was three days before Rosh Hashanah, and I walked into my first period class. My teacher strode in moments after me and started speaking almost immediately. “Yom Kippur is that time when our deeds our examined – who are we?”

“I don’t know about you, but my name’s Neshama,” I whispered to Atara.

She held back a giggle.

“Some people take on extra chumras during the Aseres Yemai Teshuva to show Hashem – this is the real me! There are seven days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur – one for each day of the week. Everything you do on Monday is telling Hashem – this is how I want all my Mondays to look for the rest of the year. And then ….” Her voice seemed to fade away into the cloud of air as my ears slowly closed to her droning tone.

While everyone around me was dutifully taking notes, I stared at all the little black numbers surrounding me. They scrolled up and down – never stopping. As always, there were “the highs” and “the lows.” Some had dozens of digits, while others had just a few. At one time, I felt like I understood the numbers, and began predicting what numbers people would have. But then there would always be someone who totally surprised me, and my pattern would dissipate like smoke over a bonfire. It was always out of my grasp – I could never seem to make sense of it. It wasn’t by age or date of birth, and it had no relation to the age of parents or siblings. It didn’t relate to intelligence level or talents or abilities. The numbers seemed to relate to absolutely nothing. I stared at my teacher’s numbers now, slowly climbing higher. Then they dipped down but seconds later started climbing up again.

There were times when I wondered if it was all just in my own head. No one else could see the scrolling black digits resting on every person’s heart; I’d established that a thousand times over. It was only me. Perhaps it was all just a mirage.

*  *  *

“Imagine if you could see the results of your actions.”

I perked up at the statement, coming out of my daydream.

“Think of the butterfly effect,” my teacher told us all. I’d heard of that before. They say (though who the “they” is – I have no idea) that the flutter of a butterfly’s wings in Africa can eventually culminate in a devastating hurricane in Texas. The idea, of course, is that tiny, seemingly insignificant actions can have outsized consequences.

“Imagine if you knew, after speaking a word of lashon hara, that five years down the line, that person would lose his job based upon what you once said.”

Atara scoffed next to me, rolling her eyes. “Seriously? Five years down the line?” she murmured. But for once, I didn’t respond with another jive at the teacher’s words. I was thinking about what she had said. Thinking long and thinking hard.

It was third grade, and I had cheated on a test. I was never the perfect child, but since that fateful test, I never cheated again. It had just been a little cheat. We were taking an Ivrit test on 20 new words we’d learned that week; it was a list of animals. I couldn’t remember the Hebrew word for sheep. My seatmate was so close to me and had large, dark handwriting. I even tried not to look – but I saw it and wrote the answer.

I felt so guilty about it that I told my teacher the next day. She commended me for being honest, and we had a little chat about what really matters, grades or emes. Somehow, a girl in my class had heard my confession, and for years after that, I was known as the “cheater.” She spread the news like wildfire, and I’d been ostracized. I remember the pain so clearly. I still feel the hurt and wish I could speak to the one who told others that I cheated. I knew the feeling of having something affect you years later.

I listened intently. “Imagine,” my teacher continued. “You smile at one person. One point for you, kevayachol (so to speak). But what you don’t realize is that that person goes and smiles at another person. So your points compound – and all of a sudden you have so much schar (reward), and you don’t even realize the impact of your little actions!”

So much schar…a lot, high…vs. low? My eyes suddenly went wide as black digits flash in my mind. I shut my eyes tightly and breathe deeply. I felt a shiver run through my body – because I knew. I knew what the numbers meant.

*  *  *

On Rosh Hashanah I could hardly concentrate on my own davening. I only saw the scrolling black digits surrounding me. I watched them, mesmerized. Without trying to, I saw into the inner recess of each person’s soul. I’d never felt so scared in my life.

The next few days in school were different. Now that I knew what the numbers meant, I started to realize who my friends were, specifically Atara. Her numbers were low. Very low. I couldn’t imagine why she would have such low numbers, but even after Rosh Hashanah, while most people’s numbers climbed very high, hers still were very low. I realized that I shouldn’t associate with her. I started to seek out those with higher numbers and dismiss those with lower numbers.

In gym, Atara came over to me, hands folded across her chest. “Tell me, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean, what’s going on?” I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, but my eyes couldn’t help but fixate on her numbers – her low, low numbers.

“All of a sudden, I’m not your friend.” Her voice was sharp, but I saw a tear glistening in the corner of her eye. She quickly brought her hands to her eyes, wiping them surreptitiously.

“No, it’s not that,” I said, but only halfheartedly. Because if I were being honest, that’s exactly what it was. I didn’t want to be her friend anymore. How could I associate with someone…with someone so low?

She stared at me piercingly and then marched off. A group of chatting girls on the other end of the gym made room for her to slide into their circle. I saw them all whispering, and when they thought I wasn’t looking, they cast furtive glances in my direction. I nodded to myself. They were just proving my point. Obviously, I shouldn’t associate with such low people.

I quickly became the judge and jury of every person. I could see each soul’s status – the scrolling black digits that rested on every person’s heart.

My friends noticed a change in my behavior, and over the course of the week, they clumped together and left me outside of the circle. My parents also inquired as to what was going on, but I couldn’t tell them. Who would believe me? And in any case, I couldn’t let anyone in on my secret.

By the time Yom Kippur came, Atara and I weren’t speaking. I couldn’t help but watch her numbers as she left to her carpool. I took a breath through clenched teeth.

As the chazzan sang Kol Nidrei, each time louder than before, I thought about Atara. I wondered where she was and if she was in shul right now. We had lost such a friendship, so quickly. I’d never called anyone my best friend before, and then, just like that, it was gone. It was all because of the numbers – the swirling black numbers.

I started to see black, all the numbers around me congealing into a dark fog, blocking me from seeing anything else. Tears began to spill from my eyes, and I buried my face in my siddur. A war was happening in my mind. No! I screamed. Who am I to be the judge of everyone around me? Who am I to see a glimpse into the soul of another person? Who am I to see their successes or failures? And who am I to make judgments based on the small glimpse into their souls?

And for once, I begged Hashem to take the numbers away. Only Hashem can be privy to that information. Only He is able to judge where a person is and where his or her potential lies. Who am I to decide where a person has been, and how far he has come? A person’s journey cannot be reduced to mere numbers. For reasons I don’t understand, Hashem had granted me the gift – or was it a curse? – of seeing the numbers. But now that I knew what the numbers meant, they were unbearable. Hashem – please take them away!

When I went to shul the next day for the Yom Kippur davening, I had the most beautiful gift of my life. On this day, when everyone enters their own private teshuva and confesses to Hashem, I saw no scrolling numbers on anyone’s hearts. I didn’t know how high or low the numbers were after Yom Kippur, and I felt as though a weight had been lifted off my chest.

I made it up to Atara with apologies and her favorite chocolate and vanilla banana split with caramel syrup and colored sprinkles. It took a few days, but we got back to how it had been on the first day of school. My friends also welcomed me back. They didn’t ask what had transpired – they were good friends and good people.

I now look around with no more black in my vision and realize that once the black has been removed, everything seems so much brighter. The numbers had been like a dark fog spread across my sight, tinting everything in a gloomy tone. The sun shone brightly, and there were no little black lines to distill the light.

My few days as judge had been some of the worst and best days in my life. I know I will never forget the little black lines – they were in my life for so long, and I don’t want to forget them. I want their message to stay with me for the rest of my li