I step out of the office and sit on the bench in the hall.
Students pass by between classes. Nobody says a word to me. In one night I’ve gone from the most loved and pitied kid in school to the most shunned. I can’t say I blame them.
I put my head down and wait.
“That was messed up on levels I can’t even comprehend,” Judi says. She’s glaring down at me.
Last night she ran out of the gym when I tried to explain. Shouted and ran.
Now she looks down at me, her lips clenched, her hands on her hips
“You’re a son of a bitch,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
“Worse than that. Worse than anything.”
“You’re right.”
She starts to walk away. Then she comes back quickly.
“What really pisses me off is that you did it to me again,” she says. “I let you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” she says.
“You said I did it again. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Second grade, you jerk. You broke my heart.”
“You’re confused.”
“I’m not confused. I know what happened,” she says.
“Not that it matters now,” I say, “but you broke up with me.”
“That’s what you think?”
“That’s what I know. You stopped talking to me, and it destroyed me. I’ve spent the last eight years thinking about you.”
“When did I break up with you?” she says.
“After Valentine’s Day.”
“Describe it to me.”
I try to remember the exact moment, but it was so long ago. I’ve thought about it a million times, of course, but it’s still fuzzy. I only know it became the defining week of my life.
“Let’s hear it,” Judi says.
“I don’t remember every detail,” I say.
“That’s convenient, isn’t it? Since you’re the one who left me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s so true, you don’t even know.”
I try to think back to that time. Something is bothering me, some memory that I can’t quite connect to.
“We were supposed to meet on the Tuesday after Valentine’s Day,” Judi says. “After school.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“We planned it,” Judi says. “Remember the slide?”
“Oh my God,” I say.
I remember. The playground at Douglas Park. They had a new jungle gym with a slide set. There was a little secret room under the slide. Our favorite place to meet. We used to hold hands in there and talk about everything.
“We planned to have our first kiss that day,” Judi says, “and you never showed up. I waited all afternoon for you, and you didn’t come.”
How is that possible? I was crazy about Judi. I would never stand her up, even in second grade.
What was I doing that day? I try to remember.
Mom was having a big fight with Dad. He’d forgotten Valentine’s Day, and she spent the week freaking out. She needed someone to talk to. Even in second grade, I was that person. Her little man.
I wanted Mom to take me to meet Judi, but I couldn’t ask her. She was going through too much. No matter how badly I wanted to be with Judi, I wouldn’t leave Mom. She needed me. That’s what I thought.
“You barely remember,” Judi says. “It was just second grade, so what’s the big deal, right? But it was a big deal to me. A very big deal.”
“I remember now,” I say.
“You do.”
“Yes.”
“It only took you, like, nine years.”
“I’m sorry, Judi.”
She studies my face, trying to see if I’m telling the truth.
“You stood me up for my first kiss, Sanskrit. Then you pretended you didn’t know me in school the next day. That’s not the kind of thing I can forgive.”
“I was embarrassed,” I say.
And I think my mind played some kind of trick on me. It told me Judi broke up with me so I wouldn’t have to take responsibility. I spent years believing my own story.
“You said you loved me last night,” Judi says. “That’s why I was confused. But now I know that you lied.”
“Not about that,” I say.
“I see, so you only selectively lie? It doesn’t work like that. You’re a liar, Sanskrit. I can never trust you again. None of us can.”
“You sound like Herschel.”
The office door opens.
“Mr. Zuckerman,” Dorit says. “They’re ready for you.”
“Time to throw myself on the mercy of the court,” I say.
“You don’t deserve mercy,” Judi says, and she walks away.
She’s right. I don’t deserve it.
That’s exactly what the review board says when I go back in. I don’t deserve mercy, but they’ve decided to give it to me anyway.
They stop short of expelling me. They don’t want to destroy my chances for college and with it my opportunity to redeem myself. Since there are only eight weeks left in junior year, they allow me to finish them from home.
And after that?
I’m not invited back.
“You got what you wanted.”
“What did I want?” Herschel says.
“They threw me out of school,” I say. “Only in slow motion.”
He stands next to me as I sort through my cabinet. Books that belong to me in one box, books that belong to the school in another.
“I finish the year at home, take my exams early, then I’m out. B-Jew and Sanskrit are parting ways.”
“I’m sorry,” Herschel says.
“Why would you be sorry? It’s what you wanted, right? That’s why you brought Mom to the fund-raiser.”
“I wanted to make things right.”
“How do you know what’s right?”
“I pray to know.”
“I love that. I love how people do messed-up things in the world, and then they say it’s God’s will. Like you have a direct line into what’s right and wrong.”
It’s between classes, and the halls are full of students. Most of them ignore me or speed up when they see me. But a few slow down to throw me dirty looks.
Herschel says, “I don’t need a direct line. The Talmud tells us what’s right and wrong.”
“It’s all open to interpretation,” I say. “What is the Talmud but thousands of years of opinions?”
“So you think you were justified in lying to everyone?”
“It was my own business. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Not when the community is involved.”
I slam my cabinet closed.
“Let’s say HaShem exists—and I don’t believe he does—but let’s pretend for a second. Why would he want anything from you personally? What makes you so special?”
“I’m not special,” Herschel says.
“You don’t act like it. You act like you’re better than everyone. Nobody else wears payis at this school.”
“I’m trying to live a pious life,” Herschel says.
I punch my cabinet door. It makes a loud cracking sound.
“You used to be my friend!” I say. “But then you went to Israel and you flipped. What the hell happened?”
“You know what happened. I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me. You said we were wrong about things, that you found God, and I should find him, too. That’s not telling me.”
“I was at the kibbutz. You know this.”
“And God appeared to you while you were picking grapefruit?”
“Grapefruit is old school. We made fans.”
“Fans, then. They blew a God wind on you?”
“It’s not a joke,” Herschel says.
The class tone sounds, and the hall starts to empty.
“Why do you bring this up now?” Herschel says.
“Because I’m never going to talk to you again,” I say. “So we might as well get it out of the way. What happened to you in Israel? How did you find God?”