The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green by Joshua Braff Read Free Book Online Page A

his fucked-up hair.”
    “I’ll fix it,” I say, pressing it down.
    “Good. You should. Looks ridiculous.”
    Asher lifts his book bag higher on his shoulder and exhales the autumn air. He glances at his new route to school and then down at me. I don’t know how he stays so calm. We’re just a couple of Heebs who can all of a sudden wear our “play clothes” to school. Hi, my name is Jacob. I can recite the book of Esther and say the Hebrew blessings over bread, wine, and macaroons. Want to come over?
    “Okay, Alfalfa,” Asher says, and walks away from me across the street. “Poor Alfalfa . . . poor, poor Alfalfa. Remember that episode? With the fish?”
    I step to the curb and watch him go.
    He stops when he gets to the other side and faces me. “Good luck,” he says under his breath, and heads down the sidewalk.
    “What’d you say?”
    “I said good luck.”
    I watch him go a few more steps. “Good luck too . . . to you. What time does the junior high let out?” I yell at his back.
    “Same as yours, I guess.” He cuts through some hedges and walks down Bristle Street. He looks back at me just before he turns the corner and I wave on my toes but don’t think he sees.
    I glance down at my new white sneakers and feel homesick for the yeshiva I hate. I think of the long bus ride, my brother’s shoulder against mine and how greedy and blind I was for not seeing what I had. I tell myself I’ll see him later, in a few hours, not that long. A group of boys my age walk across the street toward the school. They’re shoving each other and hurling acorns at mailboxes. I step slowly down the sidewalk, giving them a chance to get ahead. And then I follow them. All the way to class.
    T HE THING I notice first about the fourth grade at Fillmore Elementary is death and God—or the amazing lack of them. A whole morning goes by and there’s no talk of plagues or slavery or the smiting of anyone, and not as much as a peep on sacrificial slaughters or pestilence. By lunchtime we do some vocabulary flash cards, learn how the Sioux liked to dance, and watch a cartoon filmstrip on magnets. The magnets have googly eyes and giant ears and wear top hats with daisies on them. And they really like to dance. Just days earlier, Rabbi Hadad, a nearly seven-foot Moroccan Torah teacher with a limp and special shoes was quizzing us on the lessons of the Tanakh. Pointing like a game-show host, the rabbi would give us the opening line and place his hand behind his ear for us to finish it in unison.
    “He who fatally strikes a man shall be . . .”
    “Put to death!”
    “When a man schemes against another and kills him treacherously, the man shall be . . .”
    “Put to death!”
    “He who insults his father or his mother shall be . . .”
    “Put to death!”
    “Whoever lies with a beast shall be . . .”
    “M ICHAEL THE MAGNET has a magnetic personality. Just watch how Sammy Steel and Ira Iron come running when Michael says hello.” [
beep
]
    “Say, Sammy and Ira. What do you say we make a connection? A
magnetic
connection that is.”
    “Sounds
mag
nificent, Michael.” [
beep
]
    “Great. Let’s dance!”
    T HE CLASSROOM is huge and bright and has a living gerbil named Rerun in the science corner. The floor is carpeted and there’s a locker in the coatroom that has my name on it in glitter. My teacher, Mrs. Carnegie, is a lanky redhead with freckles on her lips and earlobes. When she smiles her top lip disappears and you can see her tan gums way up high in her mouth. It makes her teeth look enormous but she seems really happy. She has me come to the front of the room when I first arrive and asks each of the students to say their names. There’s Kristen, Barry, Jackie, Paul, Kara, Glenn, Cecil, Andre, Tara, Andy, Gary, Kyle, Dana, William, Jon, Cadence, Jill, Maggy, Thomas-not-Tommy, Rob, Nicholas, Lisa, Dee, and Patty. I wave to each as they say their name and feel Mrs. Carnegie’s hands squeeze my shoulders. They all