Sons of the 613 Read Online Free Page B

club. It’s a false syllogism to suggest that indicates I’m in—”
    â€œDid you just say ‘syllogism’?’”
    â€œWhat? No. Maybe.”
    â€œThis is exactly my point. You’re in the chess club—”
    â€œI’m
not
in the chess club.”
    â€œâ€”and you use words like ‘syllogism.’”
    â€œWhat, I’m not manly if I use big words?”
    â€œYou still play D&D.”
    I don’t have an answer for that. He sits back and crosses his arms, triumphant: check and mate.
    It’s true. Danny, Steve, Paul, and I have been playing faithfully for four years, introduced to it by the assistant librarian. The librarian vanished after a few months, at which point our parents sat us down individually for awkward conversations about whether or not he’d ever done anything that made us feel
uncomfortable.
That’s when Josh taught me the term
pedophile,
which he described in traumatic detail. But the four of us keep playing secretly. When we talk about it at school—if ever—we use code. We all instinctively understand where D&D players are ranked in the junior high school social hierarchy and that it’s probably time to hang up our dice. Still, you don’t just walk away from an honestly earned level-nineteen half-elf cleric.
    â€œIsaac,” says Josh, “you can’t keep being a nervous little kid who runs to Mom for everything.”
    â€œI don’t run to Mom for everything. Sometimes I run to Dad.”
    â€œYou know why you’re such a smartass? Because you’re weak, and scared of everything. You want to keep being a scared smartass?” he says. “Huh?” he adds when I don’t respond.
    â€œHold on, I’m trying to think up a smartass answer.”
    He snorts and sits back in his chair. “You’re smarter than me, Isaac. You’re certainly smarter than I was at your age. And you know what you’re like? All those supersmart, weakass Jews who got slaughtered by the Nazis.”
    There it is, finally. I’m surprised it took him so long to get to it. Josh, who my dad says always wants to refight the Second World War. Josh, who transformed himself into SuperJew—the single most effective thing he ever did to annoy my parents—and who used to go around Edina wearing a yarmulke. A black one with skulls and crossbones on it.
    â€œThe world doesn’t need any more weak Jews.”
    I’m not sure what an appropriate response is to that, so I say nothing. I sip at my lemonade, avoiding his gaze, watching a squirrel skitter nervously along the branches of the tree that rises above the deck, the leaves making shooshing and rustling noises as he agitates his way along. I can feel Josh watching me.
    â€œHow’s your lemonade?” he asks.
    â€œFine, I guess.”
    â€œGood.”
    He takes another drink of his lemonade, observing me, thinking. He’s silent long enough that I finally look over at him. His expression makes me even more nervous.
    He finishes his drink and puts his glass down, then turns in his chair so that he’s square to me. “Isaac,” he says, “we’ve got a very short time until your bar mitzvah.”
    â€œI
know.
”
    â€œAnd you know what we’re going to do?”
    Oh no.
    â€œJosh, all I need to do is memorize my haphtarah.”
    â€œWe’re going to make you into a man.”
    â€œJosh, no. Please. I just want to go and watch my haphtarah DVD—”
    â€œYou know, in primitive cultures, the boys would have to go on a quest or pass some sort of painful challenge before they could be declared a true man.”
    â€œThat’s fantastic, Josh.”
    â€œThey’d put them out in the wilderness to fend for themselves, to fight other villagers—”
    â€œWe live in the suburbs.”
    â€œThere’s ritual tattooing . . .”
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œ . . .