About the B'nai Bagels by E.L. Konigsburg Read Free Book Online Page B

The thought of missing made me nervous. “Why don’t you guys use a softball then? That’d be playing it safe. That’s what you should do.”
    “We can’t afford to do that. The minute we use a soft ball, the fielding gets sloppy.”
    “I get it,” I said and smiled. But it wasn’t exactly a smile of relief.
    Playboy
finally broke up the game.
Playboy
being the magazine that Franklin P. Botts carried under his arm when he arrived and stood waiting by the fence. The kids crowded around him, and he collected a nickel from each of them. I didn’t have any money with me; you’re not supposed to take money to synagogue on Sabbath. I stretched my head to see if I could get a peek at the fold-out center picture. I knew what she wasn’t wearing, but I couldn’t get close enough to see anything important. I guess Cookie didn’t have any money either.
    She told me, “Botts went to camp. Overnight camp. Some rich relative, an aunt or something, sent him. When he came back, he taught us four dirty songs and started buying
Playboy
. His Little League coach benched him four games last year, one for each song. And this year that coach didn’t bother to pick up his option. But Botts doesn’t care as long as he gets his price. He always charges admission. Some of the kids buy so many looks that they could havebought the magazine in the first place, but I guess they’re always afraid to bring it into the house.”
    “Oh, I’d take a look if I had the money. But you can’t take money to synagogue on Sabbath. Synagogue!” I yelled. “What time is it?” No answer. “What time is it? Somebody, what time is it? Somebody? Anybody?”
    Botts yelled back, “It’s five after eleven.” He had a watch.
    “Oh, boy. Oh, boy,” I muttered as I grabbed my jacket off the fence. The prongs tore the lining a little. “Oh, boy,” I said again as I began to make a dash for it. I had meant to ask the time when I arrived so that I could gauge how long the return trip would take, but I had gotten involved and forgot all about it.
    Cookie ran after me carrying my shoes. “What’s the matter?” she called, “you turn into a pumpkin or something at five after eleven?”
    Botts laughed. “No, a bagel!” Everyone else laughed, too, although I’d bet that half of them didn’t know what a bagel was.
    “His ma’s the manager of our team, the B’nai Bagels,” he said, laughing. Getting up from the center of his group, he yelled to me, “What does b’nai mean, anyway?”
    I answered, walking backwards so they could hearme, but so that I wouldn’t lose more time getting home. “
Sons of
. It means
sons of
in Hebrew.”
    “Then we’re all Sons of Bagels?” one of the twins asked, smiling to his brother.
    Cookie was still running alongside me; she kept tossing that hair out of her eyes. “What’s a bagel?”
    “What I’ll turn into in about ten minutes.” I turned around and began running sincerely.
    I arrived home before the mail and stashed my shoes and mitt in the shrubbery in front of the house to retrieve later. Aunt Thelma’s car was in the driveway. I don’t know why she even has a convertible because she doesn’t like her hair to blow. She must like to put the top down to air out the upholstery.
    They were having coffee at the kitchen table when I walked in. The dining room table was covered rim to rim with the records of last season’s games: Mom’s homework.
    “How were services?” Mom asked.
    “The usual,” I answered. I glanced up at the light fixture before hurrying upstairs to hang up my jacket before the lining got discovered.
    “Why,” Aunt Thelma asked as I got to the stairs, “do you allow that boy to wear tennis shoes to Sabbath services?”
    I was grateful that I was upstairs and out of sight.

    “Allow? I don’t allow,” Mother answered. “He just wore them. Better that he should wear sneakers to synagogue on Saturday morning, Thelma, than that he shouldn’t go at all. I’m sure the