Authors: Mark Goldblatt
“How would you make it a real test?”
“I’d mix it up,” I said. “I’d sometimes make bad things happen to good people, and sometimes make good things happen to bad people. That way, people have to decide for themselves if they’re going to be good or bad. It’s a much harder choice if you don’t know for sure what’s going to happen.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Haftarah is a miraculous thing, isn’t it, Mr. Twerski?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you
think
I mean?”
“I don’t know, Rabbi.”
“Maybe that’s what you should study.”
“If I don’t know what you mean, how can I study it?”
“That’s your problem, Mr. Twerski. Not mine.”
He pulled open the middle drawer of his desk and began scrounging for another pen. I turned and left his office.
The thing with Beverly Segal wanting
to race me was kind of humorous the first few times. I didn’t mind, because I figured she knew, deep down, what the result would be, and it was just kind of a humorous thing between us. But after the way she slaughtered Eric the Red, I’m not so sure. I mean,
I
know what the result would be. But I’m not so sure she does.
It’s not humorous anymore because she’s not letting it go. She stands at the bus stop every morning with her hands on her hips, looking real smug, with her head tilting downward to the left, and with her grin tilting upward to the right, and she stares me down. I’d walk to school just to avoid that look on her face, but Quentin
still doesn’t have the breath for it, so there’s nothing to do except ignore her.
But now even ignoring her isn’t working. The bus was running a few minutes late this morning, and I was huddled with the rest of the guys, trying to stay warm, and she came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. “So how about it, Twerski?”
“No, Beverly. I’m not racing you.”
The guys started laughing, since they knew she was getting on my nerves.
“C’mon, Julian, you look real cold. You need a quick run to warm you up.”
But then Lonnie spoke up for me. “He’s got no reason to race you, Segal.”
That caught her by surprise, I think, the fact that Lonnie got involved. She stepped back, and I thought that was the end of it. But then, a few seconds later, she said, “What about you, Fine?”
“What about me?” he said.
“Do you want to race?” she asked.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“You think it’s funny?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
“Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk!”
Lonnie’s eyes got narrow, but a second later he cracked up—which was a relief, because no one had ever called
him a chicken before, and I didn’t know how he’d react. If you think about it, though, how could he
not
crack up? Calling Lonnie chicken is like calling Wilt Chamberlain peewee.
“Okay, Segal,” he said, “I’ll race you.…”
“Finally!”
“The day after you beat Julian.”
That made the rest of us laugh.
“Psych!” Eric yelled, which must’ve felt good after his race with her.
But then Beverly glared at him, and he clammed up real fast.
“What about you, Shlomo?” she said.
Shlomo waved his hands in front of his face. “Uh-uh. No way. You’re faster.”
That made the rest of us laugh harder, and it even made Beverly smile, so I thought
for sure
that would be the end of it and we could just get on with our morning. But then Howie stopped laughing and said, “I’ll race you.”
It was kind of stunning to hear Howie say that, on account of how long he’d been sweet on Beverly. I mean, that crush lasted from the start of third grade until the end of sixth grade. Even now, a half year after I’d told him to forget about it, that she didn’t want to be his girlfriend—which the entire block, except for him, knew—he still couldn’t look her in the eye. Except here he was, standing
at the bus stop, looking her in the eye, looking her
right
in the eye, and telling her he’d race her.
It definitely caught Beverly off guard. The expression on her face changed. The sarcasm went away, and her nose wrinkled as if to say,
You
want to race
me
? She didn’t say the words, but you could tell she hadn’t figured on Howie being the guy to step up. Plus, Howie was pretty fast. It was always close between him and Lonnie about who was the second-fastest guy on the block. Lonnie was shiftier and harder to catch, but Howie had beaten him by a hair the two times they’d raced.
“Are you sure you want to, Howie?” she said.
“What’s the matter, Segal? Are you chicken?”
“I’m not chicken! I want to race Jul—”
“Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk!”
She shook her head. “All right! You’re on!”
Howie said, “See you in Ponzini after school.”
I admit it: I was curious to see Howie race Beverly. I wouldn’t have given Beverly a chance until I saw her race Eric. But with how bad she beat Eric, I honestly didn’t know who’d win between her and Howie. Of course I knew if Beverly won, she’d nag me even more to race her. Which I wasn’t going to do. Which I’m
not
going to do. What I mean is even if she wasn’t a girl, I wouldn’t race her, because it’s not close. I’ve played tag with her a
hundred times, and I can catch her from behind without breaking a sweat, and she’s
never
caught me, not even once—except maybe in wolf tag, when she had three or four guys helping her chase me down.
None of us talked to Howie about the race beforehand. You could tell it was on his mind during the bus ride home. Beverly was sitting near the front of the bus, by herself, in the third row of seats, and we were sitting in the back, and Howie kept glancing up at her when he thought none of us was watching, even though all of us were watching every move he made.
She got off the bus first at the corner of Parsons and waited for us. As I hopped down the last step and onto the sidewalk, she shot me a look that said what Eric had said to me after their race:
This whole stupid thing is your fault
. That ticked me off, because, yeah, you could say it was my fault for not racing her, but it’s not like she
had
to keep bugging me to race her. So I was rooting for Howie even more after she shot me that look.
The walk to Ponzini was real quiet. It felt mechanical, like we were robots doing what we were supposed to do, what we
had
to do, and there was nothing else to say about it. No one knew about the race except the six of us and Beverly. She didn’t have time to bring out her cheerleaders. Or else she didn’t want to bring them out, maybe because she knew how emotional the thing was for
Howie. Three years is a long time to stay sweet on a girl, especially if you don’t have the nerve to talk to her, and then to find out that she’s known you were sweet on her the entire time, and that the entire block has known the entire time—I mean, it’s just hard.
Without even looking at one another, Beverly and Howie took off their coats and walked side by side to the far end of Ponzini. That was where the starting line was—the first fence post. The rest of us waited at the finish line, which was the end of the fence, by the garage door.
Then Lonnie shouted, “On your mark … get set … go!”
The race wasn’t as close as I thought it would be.
Howie got off to a good start. He definitely reacted quicker to Lonnie’s voice, and he might have been ahead for the first couple of steps—it was hard to tell because they were running toward us—but Beverly passed him after that, and when Howie caught sight of her, his arms started to flail, which is never a good sign. She had him by six steps at the finish line … and she was coasting. Not that she was rubbing it in. She wasn’t waving at us or making a show of winning. She just wasn’t running full speed.
By the time Howie crossed the finish line, he looked killed. He shrugged as he walked over to us, but his eyes were blank, like there was no one home in his head. It was
painful to see, how blank his eyes were, how glazed over and flat they looked. It made me mad, and for a second I thought maybe I
would
race Beverly, then and there, and I’d beat her worse than she’d beaten Howie, even worse than she’d beaten Eric. But then I noticed the look on
her
face, and I realized she felt bad too. She was standing ten feet past the finish line, alone, staring up at the brick wall of the apartment building. She couldn’t bear to look at Howie. She couldn’t bear to look at any of us.
Then, out of nowhere, Quentin said, “I got next.”
The rest of us stared at him in disbelief.
“C’mon, Quent,” Lonnie said. “You know you can’t—”
“No, I can do it,” Quentin said. “I want to race her.”
Beverly had turned around and was shaking her head. “I won’t do it, Quentin.”
“You want to race everybody else. Why not me?”
“Because …”
“Because what?”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She couldn’t answer him.
“Because you’re still sick,” Lonnie said.
“But I’m not sick anymore! Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“Because it’s too soon,” I said. “You still can’t walk from your house to the bus stop without catching your breath. Maybe in a month or so—”
“I’m not a baby, all right? I know what I can do.” He turned to Beverly. “I want to race you. I want to race you
right now
.”
“No, Quentin, I’m not doing it,” she said.
He lowered his head and said in a soft voice, “I’m
begging
you, Beverly.”
The way he said that, the way he said the word “begging,” he put her in a real tough situation. How could she say no? On the other hand, how could she say yes? She looked at me, like I might have an answer, but I had nothing. I looked straight down at the ground.
“You really think you can do it?” she asked.
He nodded at her. “I’m sure of it.”
“And you swear you’ll stop if you start to feel sick?”
“I swear.”
Beverly took a deep breath, then said, “Let’s race.”
As soon as she said that, Quentin peeled off his coat and dropped it to the ground. He kept on his ski cap, though, because of the wig, and I was thankful he kept it on, since it was real cold out. But I still had a bad feeling watching the two of them walk together toward the far end of Ponzini. Except if you didn’t know Quentin was sick, there was no way to tell anything was wrong. He’d been home for four weeks. He looked skinny, but not skeleton-skinny like that first day back from the hospital. He was walking all right too,
keeping up with Beverly, and she wasn’t slowing down on his account.
Lonnie started to inch forward as they were walking. It took me a couple of seconds to realize what he was doing. He was changing the finish line, bringing it closer, shortening the race.
He turned to me and said under his breath, “Jules, why don’t you make sure it’s a fair start.”
I nodded and began to trot after them. Beverly heard my footsteps coming up behind them, and she turned around. She looked real relieved. “If you tell me you want to race too, I’m going to slug you.”
“I’m just making sure no one cheats.”
She laughed. “You think I have to cheat to beat this guy?”
“I know
you
won’t cheat. I’m not so sure about Quentin.”
That made Quentin laugh.
They got to the starting line and turned around.
I said, “On your mark …”
But Quentin held up his left hand. “Hold on a minute.”
“Are you out of breath?” I said.
“I’m just revving myself up.”
Then Beverly said, “Quentin—”
“I’m fine!”
Nothing happened for maybe ten seconds.
Then Quentin said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
I said, “On your mark …”
The two of them crouched over.
“Get set …”
Beverly shot me one last, desperate look.
“Go!”
It was a fair start. Beverly reacted quicker, but Quentin’s first step was longer, and for the first few steps, the two of them were dead even. Then, though it didn’t seem possible, Quentin started to pull in front. His head was down, and his arms and legs were churning, and maybe ten steps into the race, he had Beverly by a full step—and not because she wasn’t trying. Her head was down too, and she was leaning forward, running as hard as she could.
Then, without warning, Quentin stopped running.
Except
stopped running
doesn’t get across how sudden it was. One second his legs were working, and the next second they were buckling under him. I’ve never seen a guy go down like that. It was as if he’d been hit across the chest with a baseball bat as he was going full speed. That was where he grabbed too—his chest. He seized up in the middle of a stride, grabbed his chest, and stumbled forward until he dropped to his hands and knees. Beverly
caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, and she stopped running too, and the rest of us ran toward the two of them.
By the time I got there, Beverly was kneeling alongside Quentin, who was lying facedown and not moving. Tears were rolling down her face, and she was screaming, “What happened? What happened?”
But she was getting nothing back. He was breathing, but he was just lying there. She reached down to grab his shoulder, but then she didn’t touch him. You could tell she was afraid to lay a hand on him. I was too. I slid down next to her, but I had no idea what to do.
Lonnie ran up behind us and yelled, “Get his face out of the dirt!”
I leaned forward, but I couldn’t roll him over. I couldn’t make myself do it.
“All right, get out of the way!” Lonnie yelled, and he knelt down on the other side of Beverly. He grabbed the back of Quentin’s shirt and rolled him over onto his back. You could see Quentin’s eyes fluttering even though his eyelids were still closed. Then Lonnie got down on his stomach and said into his ear, “Quentin? Hey! C’mon, wake up! Do you know who I am?”
Quentin’s eyes slid open, and he took a deep breath. “Are you God?”
As soon as he said that, he started to laugh, but then the laugh turned into a cough, and the rest of us sat there and listened to him cough for the next half minute.