The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green Read Online Free Page A

late—Torah, Torah, Torah . . .” Rabbi Mizrahe’s one of the younger teachers at Eliahu but no less pompous and pasty. Squat and balding with absurd physical strength, he’s five foot two-ish but has the calves and forearms of a carnival freak. He’s got the long beard, the dark velvet yarmulke, the ribboned
peyos
and the longest, yellowed tzitzit on thisGod’s earth. I have him every day for Talmud and Hebrew, and on Tuesdays and Fridays he’s my math and English teacher. He seems to truly despise school-aged children but because I read Hebrew better than most he saves his sharpest belittling for my classmates. He could care less that I haven’t done a math assignment all year or that I spell like a chimpanzee. He calls me up to the front of the room when he’s tired of his “lesson plans” and has me read in Hebrew from random spots in my siddur. He’ll let me go a half hour or more, his feet up and crossed, his eyelids fluttering shut. From that close to him I can smell tobacco in his greasy hair and muddy coffee on his breath. And nose hairs. My God. A few come out of one nostril and curl into the other. No really.
    “
. . .
tziva lanu Moshe!” Rabbi Mizrahe tosses his books and cigarettes on his desk and exposes every filling he’s ever had with an endless yawn. No tooth is spared. In nine seconds the song will begin again from the top. It’s like being stuck on an orthodox carousel. “Torah, Torah, Torah, Torah, Torah, Torah, Tor-ah, tziva lanu Moshe.”
    Rabbi Mizrahe moves toward the lineup and touches each of Gary Kaplan’s tassels. Gary sings along to “Torah Torah” but stops completely when the rabbi steps past him. I feel a sour and tingly stomach-burning climb up my throat. I try to swallow but I have no spit. Michael Bornstein is next. His yarmulke needs centering but his tzitzit has never hung better. And then I see him. I see my brother. He’s hopping in the hallway, trying to find me. I shake my head. “Too late,” I say without sound. Too late.
    As the rabbi moves closer, our eyes meet. I sing with him, “. . . tziva lanu Moshe.” I watch his fingers touch Ari’s tassels. I watch him finish and step up to me.
    “Excuse me, Rabbi Mizrahe,” says Asher.
    The rabbi stops his song and turns to the door. Asher keeps his eyes from me and takes a step closer.
    “I need to tell my brother something. May I see him for a second, please?”
    Rabbi Mizrahe faces me and nods his head. Asher steps up and grabs me by the elbow. He leads me back toward the door.
    “Do
not
. . . leave this classroom,” the rabbi says. “Torah, Torah, Torah . . .”
    Asher holds my shoulders and turns my back to my classmates. He reaches in his pocket for his balled-up tzitzit and crams it down the front of my pants.
    “No time to put it on,” he whispers. “Untuck your shirt and let the fringes just hang over your belt.”
    “No, no way.”
    “You either try it or you
don’t
. I’m not gonna stand here all day.”
    “Wait,” I say, but he yanks up my shirttails.
    Asher grabs the tzitzit and slides it around the waist of my pants. He then adjusts the tassels so they droop from all four sides.
    “It’s crooked,” I say.
    His eyes slowly shut. “I’m gonna
kill
you. It’s
fine
. I’m leaving you now.” Asher turns for the door and stops. “Thank you so much, Rabbi.”
    The rabbi glances over his shoulder, the song still flowing from his nearly closed lips. “Wait,” he says, and approaches us.
    “I . . . really have to get back,” Asher says, his thumb toward the hall.
    “What is happening over there?” he says, his head on a tilt.
    Asher moves for the door.
    The rabbi steps up to me and reaches for my two front tassels. Asher steps into the hall. “I’ll see you later, J.” RabbiMizrahe reaches for the two rear tassels. He gives them each a squeeze and walks to the door.
    “Asher!” the rabbi says, and motions my brother back into the room with his finger. Asher taps his watch and