by Hopen, David
I finished quickly. Pleased with what I dredged up, I spent a few minutes translating my hieroglyphics, hoping the graders would be able to decipher my penmanship. Then I waited, listening to Amir scribbling feverishly behind me.
Soon, Dr. Flowers sprang from her desk, calling time. Niman, sitting in front, tried erasing a smudge, sending Dr. Flowers into a rage.
“But I—I wasn’t writing,” Niman protested, her voice small, helpless. “Just erasing.”
“Not after I call time,” Dr. Flowers snarled. “Expect a notice of ineligibility from the College Board. Now get the hell out!”
During our ten-minute midway break we congregated in the bathroom to illegally debate answers, Amir looking sick every time he and Evan disagreed. Verbal was easy, though in a moment of distress I confused mausoleum with moratorium. Math was not. Starving and generally depressed about my college prospects, I guessed on several trigonometry questions. I tried calming myself by cursing Bearman for his unhelpfulness and reminding myself that the mere fact that I was here had to constitute some moral victory, given that my Brooklyn friends would never take this test. This did little to boost my spirits.
“What’s the lowest you can get?” Oliver asked on the way out. “I’d like to know.”
* * *
NOAH WAS DRIVING ME HOME from school on Monday when his phone rang.
“Babe?” Noah yelled, too loudly, into the speakers. “Hey, you’re on with Drew.”
“Oh—hi Ari.”
I felt the need to clear my throat, as if that’d help solidify my presence. “Hey Rebs.”
“You guys still in the car?”
“Yeah, just left,” Noah said, speeding ahead of a slow driver. “What’s up?”
“Listen, did either of you know what today was?”
“Uh, I know it’s not our anniversary,” Noah said, giving me a fist bump. “So I’m definitely in the clear.”
No laughter from Rebecca. “Evan didn’t say anything?”
Noah raised the volume slightly. “About?”
Rebecca coughed on the other end. “Apparently today would’ve been Caroline Stark’s birthday.”
Noah and I got quiet after that. “Oh,” Noah said. He started driving a bit slower.
“I think it’d be a good idea if Ev wasn’t alone right now,” Rebecca said. “He could probably use you guys.”
“Yeah, I’ll call him,” Noah said. “See if he wants to come over or something.”
“Actually I think he’s at Grove Street right now.”
Noah frowned. “Grove Street Cemetery?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re saying what?” Noah asked. “We should just show up there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s best?”
“Wait,” I intervened, “Rebs, how do you know this?”
“Sophia told me. This was her—idea.” She paused, apparently taking a long sip of water. “I guess she remembered from before or Evan told her or something . . .”
We hung up, dialed Amir and Oliver. Neither had heard anything about this from Evan but both wanted to come along. Noah turned the car around and went to retrieve them. Oliver, to our surprise, was waiting outside his house with a bouquet of orchids.
Nobody said much on the drive. The sun hadn’t yet set but it was noticeably cooler out. The cemetery was a short distance away. There were only a few cars in the parking lot; operating hours, it seemed, were ending soon. Amir spotted the Aston Martin in the far corner of the lot, under a palm tree, parked as unobtrusively as an Aston Martin could be parked.
It was a large cemetery, overrun by Bucida buceras and Ficus aurea. The front gate had Hebrew words carved into it:
אֲנִי מַאֲמִין בֶּאֱמוּנָה שְׁלֵמָה שֶׁתִּהְיֶה תְּחִיַּת הַמֵּתִים.
I believe with perfect faith that there will be a revival of the dead. We wandered until we found a figure reading with his back against a tombstone. We approached slowly without calling out, so as not to startle him. Perhaps he didn’t hear us, perhaps he only pretended not to, but he didn’t glance up in acknowledgment until, at last, we stood over him.
“Hey, bud,” Noah said. “We figured you could use some company.”
Oliver walked over to the plot, placed his flowers. The tombstone was large but unassuming—dark granite, with Caroline’s Hebrew name written in elegant lettering. Oliver placed his hand on Evan’s shoulder and then returned to where we stood.
Evan studied our faces. He was clear-eyed, he was calm, there was no evidence he’d been crying. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself, opting instead to nod. “You have no idea how much I miss her,” he said, finally, breaking his gaze from our direction. “Every—every minute of every day.”
We four sat on a bench, facing Evan in silence. Implausibly enough, he looked genuinely grateful for our presence. There was nothing else to say: I was floored he had, even momentarily, actually allowed us to see him in a state of weakness and knew he had no intention of sharing anything further. After a few minutes, Evan went back to reading—a tattered copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. A framed picture had been set down beside the tombstone: Evan, no older than five or six, with his arms around his mother, bearing those same burning-blue eyes. I couldn’t help but think about how it takes something as true and irrevocable as death to finally lay down our masks. I kept staring at that picture until I felt a hot pressure building in my eyes. I blinked it off and looked away.
* * *
I TOOK THE FLOOR FOR the first time all season Tuesday night against Plantation. It was a ludicrously lopsided game, with Noah dropping twenty at the half. By the start of the fourth we led by nearly thirty, at which point it became socially unacceptable to continue to play our starters, and so, after giving me a worried look, Rocky cursed under his breath and threw me into the game. I was thrilled, though embarrassed by the way the starters, joined especially by Eddie and Cynthia, cheered too effusively when I checked in. Oliver, decisively high, made a point of getting me open looks, and the result was the best scoring output of my brief and unremarkable career: eight points, on four of seven shots. After the buzzer sounded, Rocky begrudgingly permitted Noah to hand me the game ball.
Despite enduring the slog of games in which I made no appearance whatsoever, my mother was absent that night, due to the elementary school’s parent-teacher conferences. (My father, as far as I knew, had no clue I even had a game.) Even more depressing was the fact that Sophia, who attended only our biggest games, given her lack of interest in basketball and her considerable extracurricular commitments as president, wasn’t present, for I’d been hoping, at long last, to demonstrate to her some shred of athletic competency.
During Rocky’s postgame rant I learned that, in addition to holding the same title in scoring and assisting, Noah was now Kol Neshama’s all-time rebounding leader. His family was heading to a late-night celebratory dinner. Amir, as such, offered me a ride home with his mother and Oliver.
Mrs. Samson was short, with heavy features and hardened eyes and her hair in a neat bob. I couldn’t tell whether she spoke with an Israeli or Colombian accent. I thought back to what Oliver had told me about the Samson family dynamic and felt a peculiar surge of admiration for the job she did raising Amir.
“So, Amir,” Mrs. Samson started as soon as we were on the road, “what was with that embarrassing shot?”
Amir looked up from his phone, giving Oliver an anticipatory glare through the rearview mirror. “What now, Ma?”
“The third quarter—look at this schmuck! Estúpidamente! A curse on your household!” She swerved to avoid a driver drifting out of his lane. “In the third quarter you took a dumbass shot in traffic.”
“Why are we discussing this?” Amir asked. “Did we not win by a million points?”
She released her right hand from the steering wheel, swatting in Amir’s direction. “You think that’s how your ancestors fled persecution? With that atti
tude?”
Oliver leaned over toward the front seat. “Mrs. Samson, if I may, in your son’s defense . . .”
“Don’t start, you shovav.” She slapped now at Oliver’s hand. “Sit quietly or I’m calling your parents.”
“You’ve been calling my parents nonstop for, like, fifteen years,” Oliver said. “Haven’t you noticed they stopped answering the phone?”
She turned her eyes on me in the rearview mirror. “Ari, forget that loco next to you, he’s trouble.”
“He keeps me on my toes,” I said.
“So nu? I hear a lot about the impressive new friend. How do you like school?”
“It’s great,” I said politely, “thank you.”
“Yafeh meod. And next year?”
“Ma,” Amir demurred, though without much force, “leave him be.”
“Next year remains to be seen.” I moved uncomfortably in my seat, shivering slightly from the air-conditioning. It was the first time I’d actually sweated in a game-worn jersey.
“You know where you’re applying?”
“No,” I said.
“He’s as lost as I am, Mrs. Samson,” Oliver said.
“Nobody in the history of Zion Hills is as lost as you, Oliver. So listen, Amir, I was talking to Sabba. We think we should speak to his friend with the connection to the editor at Haaretz—”
“Ma, I told you I haven’t yet finished that other project.”
Mrs. Samson, realizing she was about to run a red light, slammed on the brake. “But I told you to finish! I told you Sabba wants to go to his friend and his friend can go to MIT—”
Oliver pulled out his iPhone and began videotaping. He didn’t even bother containing his laughter.
We pulled up to my house. I sprinted from the car, ears ringing, the game-used basketball tucked proudly under my arm.
* * *
“SO,” KAYLA SAID THE NEXT DAY, throwing open the classroom door, hair bouncing wildly, “you’ve managed to survive the wicked SAT.”
I plopped my textbook on the desk. “You’re late.”
She took the seat beside me in the empty room and pulled out her lunch, one of those Greek salads she always ate. “When did you start keeping time?”
“I’m very reliant on my tutor,” I said. “Sue me.”
“Can’t blame you, not when your tutor is this good.” She leaned back in her chair, put her feet up on the desk. She wore beat-up Converse sneakers, streaked with yellow and red designs she added herself with markers and splashes of paint. “Debrief me on the test.”
“It was okay.”
“Okay? Not exactly what a tutor dreams of hearing.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “You weren’t my SAT tutor.”
“That’s right. You decided to pay that maniac instead.” She dug into her salad. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t think it was disastrous.”
“Yeah, well. When are you taking it?”
“I’ve already dealt with it.”
“Figures. And I suppose you did quite well.”
“Of course I did.”
“Such modesty,” I said. “That’s great, though. Where are you applying?”
Kayla shrugged, chewed a mouthful of lettuce.
“At least I’m not the only one without direction,” I said.
She laughed, flicking a piece of a tomato in my direction. “Oh, I definitely know what I’m doing. I’m just not telling you.”
The door swung open. In walked Remi and Sophia. Remi, registering the scene before her, blinked in amusement. “What’s this?”
I straightened quickly, as if I’d been caught doing something illicit. “Hi.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Sophia smiled slightly, raised a brow. “I left a folder here from second period.”
“Not at all,” I said, “we’re just, uh, studying.”
Remi raised her iPhone’s camera and snapped what I hoped was a selfie. “Are you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“For what exactly?” Remi pressed, surveying whatever picture she had taken.
Kayla cleared her throat. “Geometry.”
Remi had her hand on her hip. “That right?”
Sophia grabbed her folder from a nearby desk. “Look at you, Hamlet. So studious. Can’t get enough tutoring, can you?”
“It’s just—” I said, paling.
“Right,” Sophia said, exiting. “Best of luck to you both.”
“Eden,” Remi said, hovering at the door.
“Yeah, Remi?”
“You have a tomato slice on your lap.”
* * *
“RAV SHIMON BEN YOCHAI TAUGHT that God provides three gifts to Israel, all of which are received through suffering.” It was late morning on Monday and we were sitting in Gemara, the room warm and drowsy. Even Rabbi Schwartz looked to be struggling to stay awake. “Anyone know what these gifts are?”
“Cars, money and Hamptons mansions?” Donny said.
“Life, liberty and the pursuit of a good SAT score?” Noah said.
“Sex, drugs and rock and roll?” Gabriel said.
Rabbi Schwartz gave us the impression he might very well break down and weep. “The answer I was looking for, actually, was Torah, the Land of Israel and the World to Come.”
A soft knock at the door. Rabbi Bloom stood quietly, eyes narrowed. “Rabbi Schwartz,” he said, “hate to interrupt, but I need to borrow a few of your students.” He motioned politely to Evan, Amir, Noah and me. We followed in silence, avoiding eye contact with each other. We hadn’t done anything wrong, at least as far as I was aware. I feared he’d somehow learned about the exploits at my house, though this seemed implausible, albeit petrifying.
He sat us around his conference table and offered tea. Only Evan accepted. I’d become strangely accustomed to the inviting solitude of my secret morning meetings with him—perusing his library, discussing poetry, philosophy, politics—which he’d ended only a few days earlier with the assurance that we’d find time in the near future to continue such conversations. In those meetings, moving from Kierkegaard to the likes of Blake and Aristotle, I discovered a real teacher, the rebbe I’d never found back home. The thought of reverting to quiet bystander, secondary, as always, to Evan and the others, was unbearable.
Rabbi Bloom took his seat at the head of the table. “I had an idea over the weekend and I want to hear what each of you thinks.”
His door flew open without a knock. Oliver meandered in, whistling, those horn-rimmed glasses rendering him sharp-eyed.
“Mr. Bellow. Glad you could join.” He motioned for Oliver to sit beside me. “I was just about to explain that I began this year with no small problem. I anticipated that, as seniors, you’d enjoy feeling, shall we say, unfettered.” His gaze rested on Evan, though Evan didn’t blink. “As it turned out, I was painfully right. Now I’m in something of a bind, because there’s a pattern emerging here. Each troubling incident—what occurred at the Silver residence, for example, or the egg assault, to name a few—features this very cast of characters.”
“Wait a second,” Amir cut in, “we weren’t all—”
Rabbi Bloom raised his hand for silence. “We can all agree, Mr. Samson, that certain individuals might incite more than others. But in that same vein I think we can similarly agree that the five of you, relative to the rest of your peers, constitute a common denominator. Others in my position—indeed, others in this very school—would not tolerate such alarming behavior. Many, in fact, would recognize this pattern and promptly nip it in the bud, here and now.”
I looked, out of the corner of my eye, at Evan. He seemed perfectly calm, as if this speech were intended for someone else entirely.
“College, to be frank,” Rabbi Bloom continued, “is the last thing I want to hold over your heads.” I winced, realizing that, save for Oliver, who cared so little that he hardly counted, I alone did not have the comfort of knowing I’d inevitably attend some spectacular school. As if reading my thoughts, Rabb
i Bloom turned to me. “Mr. Eden and I have been meeting on occasion. I’m not certain you’ve realized.”
Amir frowned. “You have?”
“Yes,” Evan said, smiling. “We’ve obviously noticed.”
“And you’ve been curious about these meetings, Mr. Stark?”
“Nope. I have a solid sense of what you’re doing.”
Rabbi Bloom traced the corner of his desk with his hands. “Your friend is a hungry thinker, I’m sure you know. I’ve been offering him enrichment.”
Amir looked aghast. “Enrichment?”
“Rest assured, Mr. Samson, it’s purely extracurricular. But what I want to do now is extend an invitation to the rest of you.”
I scratched my chin, realizing why Rabbi Bloom had abruptly canceled our meetings.
Noah chugged a red Gatorade. “An invitation to do what?”
“To join. You’re all capable thinkers, arguably our finest—”
Amir looked at Oliver, blurted out a laugh. Oliver, in turn, offered his middle finger. “If this were really for our finest thinkers,” Amir said, “then you’d bring in the actual top five instead of . . . this lovely assortment.”
“This guy,” Oliver sighed. “Always with the rankings. Ever met someone prouder of being second best?”