I snuck out of my seat again to pass Nicholas another note during social studies. He pretended not to notice it was right there on the floor next to his feet, even though I knew he saw it. Since I didn’t want to get either of us in trouble, I slipped out of my seat for the third time that day to take it back. At our second recess, I walked straight up to him before he even had a chance to start picking his team for kickball.
“I want to know what’s going on,” I demanded. “Why don’t your parents want you talking to me anymore?”
Nicholas wouldn’t answer. He also refused to look at me. He just stood there and dug the toe of his sneaker into the blacktop, trying to loosen a pebble.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “At least tell me why you’re going around telling other people to be mean to me.”
“I’m not doing that,” he responded, finally lifting his head.
“Then why is everybody staring and whispering? And how come Bobby and Vincent didn’t eat lunch with Frank and me like they always do?”
“Ask Bobby and Vincent.” He tried to walk around me, but I moved to the side with him, blocking his path.
“Come on, Nicholas,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Joey Simone, the biggest kid in the sixth grade, stepped between us so that he was face-to-face with me—although not quite, since I only came up to his neck.
“We’re done putting up with you,” Joey said. “That’s what’s going on.”
He pushed on my shoulders, and I knew he wanted me to push him back. But this was Joey Simone. He’d totally beat me up. I’d either get in trouble for fighting and be grounded for a month with Alice, or I’d be dead. Neither one of those things sounded fun. I tried to keep my knees from shaking as I took a step back. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, wishing my voice wasn’t shaking too.
“It means you should go live in Larston where you belong.”
Frank grabbed my elbow and pulled me out of the growing crowd before I could say anything more. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.” He dragged me all the way to the rusted monkey bars on the side of the school where no one would see us.
“Why would he say something like that?” I asked as we climbed to the top. “Do you think he found out about what happened on Saturday night? Is that why everyone’s acting weird? Is that why Nicholas’s parents say he can’t talk to me anymore? People get funny when you start talking about aliens and UFOs, you know?”
“It has nothing to do with that.” Frank swung his legs through the bars, together at first, then alternating right and left. “I heard my dad on the phone last night. Some of the guys down at the factory have been talking.”
“About what?”
“About your dad’s . . .” He stopped.
All the nasty words those ladies at Brusco’s had said came rushing back. Pity promotion. Those people can’t do anything right. “The promotion?” I asked. “The guys in the factory don’t think he deserved it either?”
Frank shook his head.
“So their kids are mad too?” I asked. “But my dad worked hard for that promotion.”
“I know, and that’s what my dad told them,” Frank said. “Those other guys are just being stupid.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” I said. “And I’ll tell you what else—it’s not fair.” I swung my legs in the exact same alternating pattern as Frank. “It’s just not fair,” I repeated.
After school, I stopped at Mrs. Albertini’s house. A lot had happened since I’d seen her last. She had on the same flower-print dress that she always wore and took me straight to the kitchen. I ate an entire slice of Scholly’s chocolate-frosted pound cake before I even said a word.
“Have you ever been to Larston?” I asked.
“Not for years.” She put her kettle on the stove for tea. “When I was a girl, my mother and I would go every week. There used to be a shop on Sandy Mill Road that was owned by a sweet old couple. My mother said they made the best borscht she’d ever tasted. Made me promise to never tell my bubbe.”
“Why not?” I asked. “And what’s borscht?”
“Oh, it’s a wonderful soup made from beets. But my bubbe thought she made the best borscht, and you didn’t argue with Bubbe. You just didn’t. It was a long drive, but every Wednesday after school, my mother and I would head to Larston. First, we’d visit my Aunt Ida. Then we’d check in on the rabbi’s wife, Mrs. Cassewitz. She always smelled like cinnamon and roses. From there, we’d go see Mr. Haber, the kosher butcher. My mother had to examine every cut of meat before he had permission to wrap it up. And finally, we’d pick up some of my mother’s favorite borscht.” Mrs. Albertini smiled. “I miss those days.”
“So you didn’t grow up there?”
“No.” Mrs. Albertini shook her head. “I grew up on the other side of the river in Oxly. My father wanted to live in Larston, but he had to travel to the city three days a week for work. We needed to live closer to the train station. Why all the questions?”
“Some kids at school said I don’t belong in Croyfield. They said I belong in Larston. I’m pretty sure it’s ’cause that’s where all the Jewish kids live.”
Mrs. Albertini sighed and poured her tea. “People can be cruel. I don’t want you to pay any attention to them. You have as much right to be here as they do. Understand?”
I nodded, but it didn’t make anything better. Not really.
“Honestly,” she continued, “all these years and nothing has changed. Not a darn thing.”
“This happened when you were a kid too?” I asked.
“Oxly was no different. I was called names I don’t dare repeat to you. My entire family was. Don’t get me wrong—not everyone was mean. Just like not everyone at your school is mean. But there were enough. More than enough. I was lucky to have a couple of good friends, Sally and Marge, who liked me for me. In fact, it was my friend Sally who introduced me to Mr. Albertini.” She nodded at his photo on the shelf over the sink.
“At least your friends were allowed to hang out with you,” I said. “My friend Nicholas—well, I guess he’s my ex-friend now. His parents told him that they don’t want him around me anymore.”
Mrs. Albertini lifted her eyes from the picture of her husband. “Sally’s parents told her the same thing. They didn’t like us, and they didn’t want their daughter around me.”
“So how did you stay friends?”
Mrs. Albertini’s attention went back to the photo. “Sally, Marge, and I used to meet in Marge’s backyard. It was surrounded by rows of tall trees, and we knew we could sneak back there without Sally’s parents knowing. Marge’s dad even built us a little clubhouse in the back corner. We hung a sign over the door that said BGC . . . Backyard Girls Club. Why, you might be the only one outside of the BGC and Mr. Albertini whom I’ve ever told about it.”
“We hang out in my backyard. Frank and me, I mean. And Nicholas, before . . . you know.”
Mrs. Albertini smiled but seemed stuck on her memories. “I’ll never forget that day in April when Sally was invited to a school dance here in Croyfield. Her date asked that she bring someone along for his buddy. Marge was out of town, so I got to go. I had to get my own ride and pretend I wasn’t with Sally, of course, since her parents didn’t know we were still friends. But it was worth it. My mystery date turned out to be none other than Gino Albertini.”
“Neat.” I didn’t mean to sound uninterested, but when stories took a turn for the mushy, I sort of zoned out.
“I should be getting home,” I said, pushing my chair back. “Thanks for the cake.”
“I’m glad you stopped by,” Mrs. Albertini said.
When she said that, I remembered the actual reason I had stopped by. “I almost forgot to tell you—my dad got a promotion.”
“Did he? I’m so glad. Please congratulate him for me.”
She smiled but didn’t seem as excited as I’d expected.
“I will. Thanks,” I said before heading out the door.
I’d just about reached my front steps when I felt a hand grasp my shoulder.