Passover, he realized, probably was imminent. It had a way of moving around the calendar which Lewyn had never really understood, but it was （duh!） always close to Easter, and Easter was soon—the following Sunday, he was pretty sure. He’d had no intention of attending a Seder at Cornell. As a family they’d always gone to his mother’s sister on the Upper East Side for a massive catered do. Still, none of the Oppenheimer triplets, he was quite sure, knew the words to “Dayenu” beyond the word “Dayenu” itself （which, come to think of it, Lewyn could only vaguely define）。 He hadn’t been near any of the Jewish organizations on campus and had never once considered muscling in on one of the Seders that were surely being planned for Cornell’s many Jewish students. Was he supposed to invite himself now? And with four or five muscular Christians in tow, to boot?
“I wasn’t planning on going,” he stalled.
“Why not?” Jonas said. He looked kind of excited. “You should go! It would be so cool. We’d love to come.”
But I didn’t invite you, Lewyn thought.
Obviously they didn’t understand that you couldn’t just walk into a Seder. There were memberships and wait-lists and fees and probably approvals of some kind. Or wait … was that even true? Maybe it was only true of Manhattan, where you had to join a temple, get a ticket for High Holy Days, join a standby list. The Oppenheimers were members of Temple Emanu-El on Fifth Avenue, but they had never, you know, gone, apart from that. “I haven’t made any arrangements,” he shrugged.
“Well, make ’em, dude,” said Jim, who was looking a lot better after his smoothie and breakfast sandwich. “My mom is going to have a total fit when I tell her I’m going to a Passover. You should have heard her about all the Jews up here. She wanted me to go to Michigan. I said, Yo, there’s lots of Jews at Michigan, too. Cornell’s the fucking Ivy League!” He laughed. The others, to their credit, looked uncomfortable. A moment later they took their trays and departed, leaving Lewyn in a not entirely unpleasant state of excitement. I mean: Why not?
He thought of what Harrison might say. He thought of what Sally might say. But really, where was the harm? Would it be so terrible to actually go out and join a club that he kind of already belonged to? No one back in Brooklyn had called to ask whether he was planning to come home for the Oppenheimer Seder. And anyway, wasn’t he here, at college, to partake of that wondrous cross-cultural diversity he’d been raised to revere, indoctrinated to revere at Walden Upper （and Middle, and Lower）？ What could be more cross-culturally fecund than bringing a gaggle of Christian frat bros to an ancient ritual delineating the “special relationship” between God and His Chosen? It was almost, when you thought about it, a chance for a bit of Tikkun olam. And how hard could it really be to find an adventurous and open-minded congregation on campus with a few Haggadahs to spare?
Not hard at all, it turned out. A belated look through the spiritual （subset: Jewish） offerings on the Cornell website revealed three separate imminent Seders, one each for the Conservative and Orthodox groups （sure to be as alien to Lewyn as to his new pals） and a combined third for the Reconstructionist and Reform groups. When he left an apologetic message for the Center for Jewish Life, a girl named Rochelle called him back on the room phone and said that everyone was welcome the following Wednesday evening at six. All she needed to know was: How many vegetarian and how many gluten-free?
Jonas and his friends dressed for the occasion in sport jackets and khakis and combed back their hair. They looked eager and uncomfortable in equal parts when they appeared in the doorway, and Lewyn figured he should probably upgrade his own clothes. Turning his back to them, he shrugged off his detectably funky T-shirt and put on a button-down and the blue jacket his mother had made him bring to college. Then they set out together.
The combined Reform and Reconstructionist Jews of Cornell were gathered in Anabel Taylor Hall, the mid-century appendage to Myron Taylor Hall, a faux-gothic building of Ithaca stone opposite the Engineering Quadrangle. Lewyn and his goyish party stood for an addled moment in the doorway: five believing Christians and one nonbelieving Jew, taking in the extent of their own overdress.