Moshe Page 4

boyfriend. But he's new. So stop picking on him - or you'll have me to deal with."

  There was an outburst of oohs and aahs from the other students and Moshe, head bent practically to his knees in an attempts to hide his tears, waited nervously for what would happen next. But to his surprise, James Cooy simply scoffed, "you wish you could deal with me, Dinardo. Retardo. Dumb, little Italian."

  "Say that again, Cooy," Moshe heard him reply, his tone dangerous and threatening.

  James Cooy said no more.

  "You can't let Cooy get to you."

  Moshe turned around to see who the voice belonged to.

  "Otherwise, he'll just keep on doing it."

  Moshe nodded, eyeing the boy with the oily, dark hair that was stood before him.

  "Pasquale Dinardo's the name."

  "Moshe. Moshe Silverstein."

  "You new in town?"

  The boys turned and began to walk across the tarmac. It was getting on three thirty and kids were running for their buses.

  "No. I was born in Ottawa. I just changed schools."

  "Oh yeah? Where were you before?"

  Moshe's stomach knotted. Did he tell this stranger he'd gone to Saint Mark’s?

  What if he knows people there? What if Pasquale Dinardo has friends there and he asks them about me?

  He could just imagine it.

  “Moshe Silverstein? Yeah, he used to go here. Kid was the biggest baby you ever saw. Got beaten up every other week.”

  "Well?"

  "Just some other school," Moshe croaked.

  His classmate eyed him suspiciously, but said no more about it.

  "So...where do you live?"

  "On Somerset."

  "Really? Do you know Lenny's Gym?"

  Moshe nodded.

  "I go there every weekend with my brother."

  "Oh. Do you box?"

  The boy grinned. "Sure as shit."

  "That’s pretty swell."

  "You ever tried? It's fun. And it keeps you tough. You should come sometime. Maybe this weekend?"

  Moshe felt the knot in his stomach grow tighter. What would his parents say about him going to a boxing gym?

  "I don't know..."

  "Ah, come on. It's fun. I'll give you the royal tour. Lenny's real cool. He's Jewish too, come to think of it."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. Old guy. Tough as nails. Used to be a Golden Gloves champ back in the day."

  "Wow."

  Dinardo ran a hand through his wavy, black hair. "Yeah, but anyways, I gotta jet. Got some people to see."

  Moshe nodded. "Sure."

  "I'll see you tomorrow?"

  Moshe nodded again.

  "And hey, don't let Cooy get to you. Next time just give him a good one. Right to the nose. He'll leave you alone," he added, a wide grin on his face.

  "Er...alright."

  A girl standing on the sidewalk waved and smiled at Dinardo.

  "WAIT THERE!" he yelled at her, before turning back to Moshe. "Alright man, see you tomorrow."

  "Bye."

  "Mamma," Moshe began as Marthe Silverstein filled his plate with carrots and mashed potatoes.

  "Yes, bärchen?"

  It was just the two of them for supper this evening as Friedrich Silverstein had been made to stay late at work again.

  "Do you think I could take boxing lessons?"

  "Boxing?" his mother squawked. "What ever for?"

  Moshe shrugged, not wanting to divulge his real reason. "I think it could be fun. A boy in my class does boxing. He invited me to go with him."

  "Well, you are my son and I say you aren't allowed."

  "But why not?"

  "Because," she replied tersely, setting down the casserole dish and resting her hands on her hips. "We didn't raise you to be some kind of violent animal. Not to mention, Doctor Kaczynski has said that you should avoid strenuous exercise."

  "But, mamma!"

  "No buts, Moshe. I’ve said all I had to say on the matter. Now eat your dinner and we’ll speak no more of it."

  "Boxing? But why?"

  Moshe could hear his father's voice through the wall of his bedroom.

  "That's what I said," he heard his mother reply. "He says it might be fun."

  "Fun? What kind of fun is to be had in hitting people? Where did he get this idea?”

  "He says a boy in his class does boxing."

  Moshe heard his father let out a deep sigh.

  "And what of his violin lessons? Does he not care for those? Am I wasting my money?"

  "I don't know, Friedrich."

  Picturing the look of disappointment on his father's face, Moshe felt ashamed and rolled over in his bed, wondering how in the world he was going to take boxing lessons now.

  "What's Mushy got in his lunch today? Smells funny."

  Moshe could feel the stares of his classmates on his back as he looked up from his desk at James Cooy. He had decided to heed Dinardo’s advice and not take any more crap from Cooy.

  "A cheese and pickle sandwich. Now leave me alone."

  "What did you say, Jew boy?"

  "I said leave me alone, Cooy."

  "You’re startin’ to get an attitude. You think you're tough now, hunh? You think Dinardo Retardo's got your back?"

  Moshe began to shake his head in disagreement, but before he could, the pudgy boy lunged forward, seized his desk with both hands, and tipped it sideways. Moshe, arms flailing, was unable to extricate himself in time, crashed sideways to the floor. Stuck in his desk and pinned to the floor, he looked up at his aggressor.

  "Whatcha lookin' at, Jew boy?”

  “Nothing.”

  Cooy shook his head as though what he’d said disappointed him. “You know, my father went to Germany to help your people and died because of it. So how come you're here? You should be dead too," he spat, landing a kick to Moshe's unprotected stomach.

  The boy winced painfully and shut his eyes. When he opened them, Cooy was standing over him, a mischievous look on his face.

  "Jews belong in the garbage," he said, before tipping the contents of the green, metal wastebasket that usually sat beside Mrs. Braithwaite's desk directly onto Moshe's head.

  "Ewwww!" he heard several of his classmates sing aloud.

  Moshe, covered in the remnants of student lunches, moved his head sideways and searched the faces of his classmates. Would one step forward and help him? Dinardo was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't been in class that morning.

  "Don't expect anything from them, Jew boy," he heard Cooy say from behind him. A second later Moshe felt another swift kick connect with his exposed back.

  Ouch.

  Opening his eyes once more, he saw his classmates returning to their conversations, resuming their lunches, unaffected by his lying helpless on the floor.

  "These stains on the back of your shirt, bärchen...what are they? This looks like," Marthe Silverstein paused as she held up Moshe's shirt for closer inspection, "tuna?"

  He'd tried to wash his clothes in the bathroom at school. To rid them of the assortment of egg shells, gum wrappers and leftover lunch that James Cooy had poured on him. Evidently, he'd missed a few spots.

  "I'm not sure, mamma."

  "Moshe..."

  "Really, mamma. I don't know."

  Marthe Silverstein eyed her son suspiciously.

  "Okay...but you tell me if something happens at school. Okay?"

  "Yes, mamma."

  How could he go back? How could he face his classmates after what had happened? He was ashamed. Embarrassed. Afraid. Though they were the ones who had left him there. Lying on the floor. No one moving to help him. Acting as though nothing had happened.

  "Can I help you find something today, young man?"

  Moshe looked up to see the same middle-aged woman who he'd seen earlier seated at the front desk.

  "No, thank you."

  "Alright...you don't have school today?"

  Moshe looked around the library. There were women with their young o
nes reading in the corner. Old men scanning the newspapers. Anxious looking university students poring over textbooks. But no kids.

  "Er...no…it's a holiday."

  "Oh?"

  Moshe nodded. "Yeah."

  "Are you in the Catholic or the public system?"

  "The public."

  The librarian nodded and gave a knowing smile. "You public school kids. Always getting those extra holidays."

  Moshe gulped and smiled nervously.

  "Alright," she sighed. "Let me know if you need help finding a book. At least you spend your holiday doing something productive. I'll bet the same can't be said for your peers," she added as she turned and made her way back towards her desk.

  Moshe gave her another nervous smile before returning his attention to the blank, white wall in front of him.

  Now what?

  He checked his watch. It was going on noon. Just a few more hours and he could go home.

  And what about tomorrow? And the day after?

  Saddened by his predicament, the boy rested his head on the table and closed his eyes, hoping the afternoon would pass quickly.

  "How long do you think you can keep this up?" Pasquale Dinardo asked as he handed Moshe several sheets of paper the following afternoon.

  "As long as possible."

  "How you going to keep your parents from finding out you're skippin' school?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Well you'd better think fast. 'Cause they'll call your parents. Believe me. I skipped a few days last year to go to Montreal with this girl I was sweet on and they called my dad…and yeah, it wasn't pretty. I got the belt pretty good that night. Couldn't sit for a week."

  Moshe grimaced sympathetically.

  "What you need to do is write a fake note. From your mom like. And bring that to the office. Say that your grandma died or something and that you need a few weeks off to mourn. That usually works. You just have to make sure you can copy your mom’s her handwriting."

  "I never thought of that. You know a lot about this stuff."

  The olive-skinned Italian grinned. "I guess.”

  Moshe glanced around the courtyard, keeping an eye out for teachers.

  “Keep in mind