Libby’s voice, so calm and methodical moments ago, was now high and tinged with something he refused to call anxiety

K

osher Korner was empty at 9 a.m.

Akiva stood in the doorway awkwardly for a moment. It had been years since he’d eaten in the hole-in-the-wall bagel shop. Back in ninth grade, he would stop in to Kosher Korner on the way home from yeshivah every day to buy a glazed doughnut with chocolate sprinkles. It was the only bright spot during that horrible year in a new school without a single one of his friends from elementary.

Until he’d met Baruch Abrams one day on the basketball court. He didn’t need to buy a doughnut ever again after that.

A smiling waitress plonked a tray of fresh doughnuts down on the counter and began to unload them into the glass display case. He almost left then. This was stupid.

He should have taken Baruch out for drinks at the Plaza, like Daddy had suggested. Break the news surrounded by luxury, take the sting out of his words with a nice red.

But he knew Baruch would rather do it this way.

Akiva walked to a side booth, sliding across the greasy bench until he reached the window. He looked out.

Baruch was just pulling up, his nondescript silver Sienna clean but slightly scratched. He got out of the car and studied his reflection in the car window for a moment, adjusted his jacket.

Akiva looked away, embarrassed for his friend.

He remembered all those years ago, the tall redhead turning to him as he swished the ball through the net, saying, “Nice shot. Money or yichus?”

You needed one or the other to attend Beis Michoel.