“I barely know your sister,” I say with a shrug. “But okay.”
“Let’s keep it that way, Fraction.” Paul laughs.
Fraction. A new one, more inventive than Zebra or Oreo, but just as insulting. Lava percolates in my belly while Big Boi is reduced to a defiant murmur in my ears.
“Yeah, let’s keep it that way.” Robert thumps my forehead and snatches my yarmulke. “You don’t need this messing up your ’fro, do you, Stern?”
“Stop playing.” I reach for the cap, but Robert tosses it to Paul.
Paul’s smirk spreads into a full-blown grin when he catches my yarmulke and twirls it on his finger. “Look, it’s spinning like a basketball. You like basketball, right, Stern?”
All three of them are taller than I am, but I’m the one who would play basketball? I’ve never played in my life. I roll my eyes, but stretch for the yarmulke. Paul holds it over his head out of my reach and tosses it to Michael.
“Give it to me,” I say, my words rattling against the cage of my gritted teeth.
“Take it from me,” Michael counters, his frown lifted, but meanness still shadowing his eyes.
“That’s the problem, right?” I ask, settling back onto my heels, no longer reaching for the yarmulke. “You think I’m going to take something from you?”
“What?” Michael’s spiteful smile slips.
“Yeah,” I say, stepping closer to him until only an inch separates our noses. “You hate that I speak Hebrew better than you do after months when you’ve been learning for years. And you hate that your sister likes me. Well, you can sleep at night because I don’t like her back.”
He pushes me hard enough that I almost fall, but I catch myself before I hit the ground. My hands slam into the concrete, palms scraping, but keeping me from landing on the sidewalk. My will and body overrule the wisdom of my mind, and I spring toward him without thinking, without weighing the odds. Three against one. I shove him back.
“This little shvartze pushed me,” Michael spits, his glare reigniting.
Shvartze.
I’ve lost count of how many times Big Boi and Dre used the N word on the Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik album blaring through my headphones, and it slid right past my ears, a stingless barb never meant to harm. But hearing it wrapped in Yiddish from these boys who have everything and want me to have nothing? It’s not the same. Coming from this boy, so proudly wearing his resentment and superiority, it’s a knife hurled right through my insecurities. It’s a slur that slices through every part of me, not just the black part.
Michael shoves me toward Robert, and Robert shoves me to Paul; they’re tossing me between each other in a game of keep-away.
Keep your head down. Keep your head down. Keep your head down.
I try my best to grab hold of my father’s warning, but my hands are raw and my ego is bruised and I’m tired of everything. Caution slips through fingers greased with rage. When Paul pushes me again, I slam my hand into Michael’s face. Blood gushes from his nose.
“Shit!” Michael cups his face, blood running between his fingers. “You’ll be sorry you did that. Hold him.”
Robert grabs one of my elbows and Paul grabs the other.
“Hit me now, shvartze,” Michael growls through the blood streaming over his lips. The first punch to my stomach steals all my breath, pain radiating from my middle. I slump for a second, giving the two boys holding me all my weight while I try to breathe. Another punch comes harder than the first, or at least more painful, and I wheeze, all the air trapped in my throat. When the third punch comes, I’m glad I can’t breathe enough to speak because I’d beg him to stop.
He draws his fist back, ready to go at me again, but Robert drops my elbow and yelps. Paul drops the other, crying out in pain.
Michael looks over my shoulder, eyes widening. “What are you—”
Before he can finish that sentence, someone pushes past me. A clarinet case slams into his chest once, twice, three times.
“L-l-leave him alone!” Kimba screams, whirling, hitting the other two boys again with her clarinet case. Paul’s face contorts with rage and he lunges for her, but on instinct, even through my breathless pain, I manage to step between him and her, bearing the brunt of his weight with a grunt. Kimba hoists the case high with both hands, poised to lower it like a hammer onto Michael’s head.
“Tru, no!” I catch the case before it lands, pulling it out of her hands and letting it drop to the ground. I loop my arms around her small, wriggling body. She strains toward Michael’s face, her fingers outstretched like claws, her face twisted in anger.
“What’s going on down there?” Our neighbor Mrs. Washington, a few yards up toward our houses, stands on her front porch, hands on hips, wearing an apron with her frown.
“Let’s get outta here,” Paul hisses, grabbing Robert’s arm and taking off.
Michael walks backward, keeping his eyes trained on me, and points one long finger. “This isn’t over, Fraction! Stay away from Hannah.”
He turns and sprints after the other two boys, rounding the corner and disappearing.
“Y’all all right?” Mrs. Washington yells.
“Yes, ma’am.” I make my mouth smile and, letting Kimba go, I wave. From her expression, I can tell Mrs. Washington doesn’t believe me, but with one last piercing look, she goes inside.
“Dammit,” I say, trying out one of the curse words I use when my mother’s nowhere around. “She’s gonna tell my parents.”
“I’m gonna tell them,” Kimba says, her expression squished into a frown.
“Oh, that’s just great. Yeah, tell them I got beaten up by some white guys from synagogue. As if my mom’s not already just looking for an excuse to pack us up and move whether Dad has a new job or not. She’d send me to live with Bubbe in New York. Is that what you want?”
Kimba blinks at me, tears gathering to a shimmer over her dark eyes. “Y-y-you…”
She closes her eyes and presses her lips together, the frustration of not getting the words out clear on her face like I’ve seen it a hundred times before.
Take your time, Tru.
“You think she’d do that?” she asks more slowly after a moment, a tear streaking down one smooth brown cheek. “Take you away?”
I can’t stand to see her cry.
“Don’t… Don’t cry. Nah. I’m just…no. Probably not. Let’s just not tell her. Everyone’s not like them. It’s not a big deal, okay?”
“It is a big deal.” She balls her small hands into fists at her side. “They punched you in the stomach.”
She steps close, lifting my T-shirt. “Are you hurt? Did they—”
“Stop.” I catch her hand, pushing it away from me, pushing her away. “I’m fine.”
We’re not babies anymore. Not little kids on the swings. Our parents sat us down last year and explained we’re too old for sleepovers, and when Kimba tries to lift my shirt to make sure I’m okay, I know we’re getting too old for a lot of things.
“They hurt you,” she whispers, letting her hand drop. “Are you sure you’re all right?”