Do Everything I Say, by Annie Wexler

"Do everything I say," says Judy Moore, my best friend who lives next door to me in our little town in rural New Jersey. We are both seven and it is almost Christmas, and snowing.

"I will be baby Jesus and lie here on this blanket which is my bed of straw in the manger. Now you start by looking up at the stars and wandering."

"But it’s morning," I say, "there are no stars."

"Well then, just wander."

"Where do I wander to?" I ask.

"Just walk to that big pine tree and then come back and bow down and kiss my feet."

"But you’re wearing boots."

"Well then just touch my feet and give me presents."

She’s getting very bossy.

"What kind of presents?" I ask.

"You’re the wisemen," she says, "you have to know."

So I touch her feet and then give her a bunch of red berries from the holly bush and two big pinecones.

"Now tell me I am God," she says, "and then I’ll get up."

"But you’re not God," I insist. "God is up in the sky."

"Well then I’m God’s son."

"But God can’t have a son, he isn’t married."

"He does have a son and I learned that in catechism, so there."

"Okay," I say. "But now get up, it’s my turn to be baby Jesus."

"You can’t be baby Jesus," she says, "because you’re Jewish and the Jews killed Jesus."

I run home crying, and my mother says it’s not true and not to pay attention to Judy.

"But I want to go to catechism," I whine, "so I can play baby Jesus and get presents."

Not long after that we left our wonderful house in the country and moved to a suburb with a large Jewish population. Suburban life wasn’t nearly as much fun as playing in the woods and running in the fields. No one ever asked me to play baby Jesus again. I missed my friend Judy for years and years.