Sons of the 613 Read Online Free Page A

New York is. But I was born here, and I’ll be honest—I like it.
    â€œYou know,” says Josh, “when our ancestors got bar mitzvahed, it really meant that they were men, that they were ready.”
    â€œYeah, and they died when they were, like, seventeen.”
    â€œThat doesn’t matter. The community saw them as men. They saw themselves as men. I don’t think you can honestly say that about yourself.”
    â€œAgain, thanks.”
    I spot a new-looking golf ball partially hidden in the lush grass. Dave Erickson must have been practicing his chip shots again, making his way from yard to yard along the creek. No one minds around here.
    â€œAnd I’m not talking about your voice being low or having hair on your balls.”
    â€œJosh . . .”
    â€œI’m talking about being a man, the things that make you a man.”
    â€œYeah, I got that.”
    I’m not exactly sure what those things are to Josh, but I’m a bit worried I might be finding out.
    An upside-down rosebush passes on my right. We’re now in our backyard. The swing set comes into view, and then the garden, and then we’re walking up the twelve wooden steps to the back porch. From my vantage point I realize that they could use a coat of paint.
    When we get to the porch, Josh flips me off his shoulder and deposits me neatly into one of the patio chairs.
    â€œDon’t move.” He heads to the sliding door and pauses. “You want a lemonade?”
    He reemerges a minute later with two tall lemonades, the condensation beading on the glasses. He hands me one, pulls a chair around to face me, and sits.
    â€œCheers.” He knocks his glass against mine.
    â€œI want to make something clear,” he says after a sip. “I’m not blaming you.”
    â€œFor not having hairy balls?”
    â€œYou know what I mean. It’s really Dad’s fault. He’s not a bad guy, but I mean, what is he going to teach you? How to identify a Bach recording?”
    I wince at the reference. Two years ago I had come home in tears, having learned an important life lesson: When the music teacher plays some classical music and challenges his students to identify it, don’t be the kid who eagerly shoots his hand up and says, “That’s Glenn Gould playing Bach’s
Goldberg Variations.
” And absolutely don’t dig yourself in deeper by adding—with the total certainty of someone who’s parroting his father—“It’s really the best rendition.”
    The teasing was vicious. It was weeks before I could walk the halls without someone sneering, “It’s
really
the
best
ren
di
tion.”
    â€œIt’s my fault,” continues Josh. “I’ve been a crappy older brother.”
    I don’t rush to disagree, and then realize that maybe now is a good time to start doing so.
    â€œNo, you’ve been a . . . good older brother. You really have. You don’t have to do anything else. Really.”
    â€œNo. I should have been there for you, and I haven’t because I’ve been so caught up in my own crap. There are things you need to know. Things I wish
I
had known. Things I wish someone could have taught me.”
    How not to get expelled?
I nearly say, but my instinct for self-preservation wins out.
    â€œI mean, look at you,” says Josh.
    I look at me.
    â€œWhen’s the last time you did any exercise?”
    â€œI have gym every day.”
    â€œI’m not talking about kickball. Or jerking off.”
    â€œI don’t jerk off
!”
    â€œReally? I didn’t know you were born without a dick.”
    â€œI play soccer.”
    â€œOkay, so the last exercise you did was last summer.”
    â€œSo what? So I’m not a jock.”
    â€œNot a jock? You’re in the
chess
club.”
    â€œI’m
not
in the chess club. I occasionally play chess. Some of the people I play with are in the chess