Dear Frank,

I hate you. Don't take it personally. Right now, there are more things in my life that I hate than I like. Sorry, will explain myself later. I hear Sidney coming, and I don't want her to know about this.

Dear Frank,

It's me again. I guess I should introduce myself. (I can't believe I'm doing this.) Formally, my name is Benjamin Stein. Okay, Benjamin Milton Stein. My family calls me Benjy. Kids in school call me Stein.

You probably didn't even know you had a name. I gave it to you. See, some person I don't know, some great-aunt of my mom's sent you as a bar mitzvah gift. You are not the worst gift I've gotten. It's sort of a three-way tie between you, cuff links with my initials on them, and some 900-pound book in Hebrew. (Some relative in Israel sent that with someone who was coming to the United States, and my parents and I had to drive to some stranger's house to pick up the gift that came "all the way from Israel.") This book is huge and I can't understand it. Sure I studied Hebrew in Hebrew school and have learned my part for my bar mitzvah. But a whole book in Hebrew? Who are we kidding here? The words don't even have vowels in them! You are supposed to figure out what it says by the letters that are in it and the context.

"Context" is a big word this year. My English teacher is drilling it into us. She's big on vocabulary. That's why you have your name.

"Frank" was one of our vocabulary words. You know, "frank," meaning "honest" or "open." So when I opened you up, it just popped into my head: If I actually wrote something in the diary, it should be frank.

Benjy, aka Stein

Dear Frank,

I forgot to explain about Sidney. She's almost 7 and annoying. When I saw you, I said, "I don't want a dumb diary."

Sidney said, "I like it. I want a diary. Can I have it, Mom, please, please, please, pretty please?"

"It has my initials, not yours," I reminded her.

"I don't care. It's soft and I could write a whole book in it maybe." She was stroking the leather the whole time, as if it were some pet.

I guess it was mean, but I didn't want her to have my bar mitzvah gift. I'm the one who is studying my Torah portion. I'm the one who has to write a speech and stand up in front of all these people. So I didn't feel like sharing, and I said, "Never mind. I'll keep it."

I took you upstairs and buried you in my sock drawer. And then I just decided to try writing and well, uh-oh, Sidney is coming.

Frank,

Went to Jason P.'s bar mitzvah, and the party was at night in a country club and it was so fancy. It was hard to tell who were the guests and who were the waiters, because they all wore tuxedoes. Mom asked me to describe everything.

Like: "What was the centerpiece?"

Me: "What?"

Mom: "Decorations in the middle of the table?"

Me: "Every table was a different football team with all kinds of things from that team." I suddenly realized Jason had a theme-football. Andrew had a theme-bikes.

Me: "Mom, we forgot to find a theme."

Mom: (Laughing) "Not really."

Me: "You picked a theme without asking me?"

Mom: "Your theme is 'bar mitzvah.'"

Me: "Funny one, Ma. Everyone's theme is bar mitzvah!"

Mom: "Yes, but we're not going to cover it up with other themes. We're going to keep it simple and warm."

I started worrying a lot. What if this bar mitzvah is so unlike all the others that my friends make fun of me? Well, maybe not Zane, he doesn't say mean stuff, but everyone else and people I barely know and girls. There are girls coming to my bar mitzvah, including one whose name I won't write down in case this falls into the wrong hands, but trust me, she is cute. And I wouldn't want her to think I come from a family that does everything wrong.

Me: "We're still having a band and all?"

Mom: "Of course. Stop worrying, it will be great."

Problem: What if Mom's idea of great and my idea of great don't match? Mom likes marmalade.

A worried Stein

Frank,

I am writing this under the covers, with a flashlight. That's why this may look like someone else's handwriting. But it is still me. Or maybe this is the new me, the me WHO IS GOING TO CANCEL HIS BAR MITZVAH. Yep, you heard it first, loud and clear. I have two major reasons. Two great reasons:

1. The minute you get bar mitzvahed, you become a man, according to Jewish tradition. I am not interested in that deal at this moment. It doesn't look like a fun thing, which is sort of related to reason two.

2. If we cancel this thing, my parents will save a lot of money. See, tonight I overheard my parents:

Dad: "Eileen, what are these balloons going to be made out of? Gold?"

Mom: "Lower your voice, Howard, you'll wake the children. And trust me, this is the lowest price. You should have heard what they wanted for flowers."

Dad: "You know, this whole thing is getting out of hand. It's like we're dealing with Monopoly money. Real money is not so easy to earn, you know."

See, Frank, when I am a man, I will have to make money to support my family, like my mom and dad. And that's scary. What if I have a bunch of kids and have to make a zillion bar and bat mitzvahs? There is only one thing to do: We cancel mine, and then my parents don't have to pay for it, and I don't have to become a man, overnight, when I'm not ready at all. If I don't cancel, I'll probably have to go to work immediately.

B.

Dear Frank,

At breakfast, I suggested we cancel my bar mitzvah, or at least postpone it indefinitely. My parents laughed. Dad actually spat out his orange juice and had to change his shirt.

Ben

Dear Frank,

Discussed the situation with Grandpa. He listened intently when I told him I was thinking of calling the whole thing off. Then when I explained why, he burst out laughing.

"You won't need to go to work so fast, Benjy," he said.

"Your parents make enough of a living to afford this. So don't worry, all you have to do is learn your part."

I felt better, but learning my part is not so simple. Not only do I have to read this thing in a whole other language, but I have to chant it-sing it this way here and that way there. And singing is not my best thing.

Benjy

P.S. Grandpa called me last night and said he forgot to tell me something. Seems we had a whole bunch of ancestors who had to have bar mitzvahs late because of persecution in Europe, pogroms, fleeing the Nazis, even one cousin of Grandpa's who had his bar mitzvah as an adult in Israel after years in a concentration camp. Pretty scary stuff. After I got off the phone, Dad noticed I was sort of sad. I asked him if he knew about these people in our family.

Dad took me to the attic and showed me some tattered photo albums of all these people who are somehow related to me-men with long beards and stuff!

"This," said my father, "is a bit of your, our, family history. And Grandpa told you the truth. Not everyone could just study freely and go to temple and study our tradition."

Frank,

I think Sidney has worked out some kind of surprise for my bar mitzvah party. I heard her say to my mother, "Tell me again how I know when it's my turn." I think she is up to something. She has two favorite songs-"Little Rabbit Foo Foo" and "Miss Lucy Had a Baby." Either one would be EMBARRASSING. Ugh, more things to worry about. Bye, Frank.

Benjy

Hey, Frank,

Mom wanted to talk about two terrible words-"candle lighting." See, at your party, they wheel out your cake, and it has candles on it and you call up people to light them. It is an honor to get called up.

My mother has made up poems for everyone at the candle lighting! Like: "This aunt is truly great and not just because she's almost eighty-eight!"

This stuff is so corny, and I'm supposed to read it! Oh, boy, am I going to be the laughingstock of the seventh grade. I'll probably be so nervous that I'll drop a candle and everything will catch on fire.

Frank, there are just two more days, and I'm not sure I can make it.

Frank,

It's Friday morning, about 4:30 a.m. The last time I woke up this early I had a 101-degree fever and threw up on the way to the bathroom. I feel sick all right, but not with fever. I had the most awful nightmare. I was in temple, in my bar mitzvah suit. When I got up to chant, all that came out was weird stuff, like, "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy, was he?" My bar mitzvah speech, where I thank the rabbi, the cantor, my parents, and my teachers, came out: "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood?"

Frank, I'm not scared anymore. I AM TOTALLY TERRIFIED. Zane told me his cousin Harry fainted right in the middle of his bar mitzvah. I'll be lucky if that's all I do.

Fuzzy Wuzzy

F.

It's over. It was unbelievable. I made a mistake or two chanting, but no one seemed to notice. The rabbi and cantor praised me and shook my hand, and then everything was a blur. Didn't drop candles. Did do limbo. Sidney sang a homemade song about how I am a great brother! YOU KNOW WHO came right up to me afterward and said, "Your sister is adorable, and you must be one great brother." And she called me Ben, not Stein. Everyone seemed to have fun. Even Dad and Mom-they danced and hugged and looked proud and happy. Frank, you won't believe this, but it was the best day of my life. If this is what it's like to be a man, I think I can handle that, too. Wish you could have been there.

Benjamin Milton Stein