Tatty usually liked making barbecues, but this time he was nervous because Tante Hindy was coming with her new husband. Yoni didn’t really remember Uncle Baruch: he had died when Yoni was only six, but Tante Hindy had been coming over at least once a week since then and Yoni liked her. He hoped she’d be happy with her new husband, whose name was Ephraim but Yoni wasn’t sure if he was supposed to call him Uncle Ephraim or not, Mommy hadn’t answered.

Yoni didn’t know much about him except he sometimes had his picture in the newspaper and he traveled a lot. Mommy had laughed like crazy one night when Tante Hindy said, “Look, what can be so bad, if it works, great, and if not, well, he travels a lot.”

Tatty tucked himself in when he saw them parking, putting on his jacket, then taking it off. “Esther, what if he starts mechaneching us, watching the way we talk to the kids?”

She laughed. “Relax, he’s a normal person, you don’t have to be so intimidated. You do insurance, he does chinuch.”

Ephraim— Tatty called him Reb Ephraim— was a large man with a trimmed gray beard and serious air, but he apparently liked hot dogs. Tatty was so proud of the Texas ribs he’d spent all afternoon preparing that Yoni felt bad that Reb Ephraim was clearly more into the hot dogs. Tante Hindy noticed, and made a big deal over the ribs, but Yoni could tell that Tatty felt silly. He wondered if Tatty didn’t like Reb Ephraim after that, because a week later, Reb Ephraim and Tante Hindy came over again but Tatty wasn’t even home.

“Sam has a meeting in the city and he felt like he doesn’t have to be here every time they come,” Mommy was saying on the phone, “he says they’re not in sheva brachos anymore. Baruch, alav hashalom, was so comfortable here, he didn’t care who was home, he would take a sefer, the newspaper, and plop down on the couch. No,” she caught herself, “I’m not getting sad. Ephraim is wonderful. Okay, let me go make a salad.”

Reb Ephraim seemed happy to hear Tante Hindy and Mommy laughing together, and he came into the playroom, where Yoni and the other kids were in the middle of a game of Ping-Pong. He took off his jacket and asked if he could play. Uncle Baruch would never have done that.

“Let him cut the line,” Mordy whispered fiercely to Yoni, but Reb Ephraim heard and said, “No, of course not, I’ll wait my turn. Who am I after?

After that, Reb Ephraim and Hindy came often. Tatty seemed to have gotten over the ribs, but he wasn’t really comfortable with his new brother-in-law. Once, on the way home from shul, Yoni heard Tatty telling Mr. Hauer, “Look, I sell insurance, he’s like some kind of super-chinuch consultant, always lecturing and flying here and there. He doesn’t care about the Giants. We do our best.”

That winter, Yoni was sent home from school early lots of days. Sometimes he didn’t mind, but on Mondays and Wednesdays they had gym, and he hated missing it. He tried extra hard to be good, but telling himself not to act silly usually made him more jumpy.

During lunch one Wednesday, Yanky Weil snatched his schoolbag. It was only a joke, but Yoni’s sandwich sailed across the room, slipped out of the ziploc bag, and landed on the floor. Yanky was laughing but Yoni didn’t think it was fair that he had no lunch now, so he grabbed Yanky’s orange—also a joke, right? — but Yanky’s friend Moshe Dovid jumped on him from behind. The rebbi shouted at them to stop, but Yoni didn’t want to fight, he wanted the orange, and he couldn’t even hear what rebbi was saying.

There was blood pouring out of Moshe Dovid’s nose when the menahel came hurrying in.

“You need to learn to control yourself,” the menahel said sadly before calling Mommy to come get him.

“I like coffee, but imagine if I’d simply go into the bagel store and grab a coffee without paying.”

Yoni didn’t really get the mashal and, anyhow, he was having trouble with his zipper. He hated when that happened: if he pulled harder, it would break more. Mommy was nice when she came, but once they were in the car, she sighed, which was worse than screaming.

“Yoni, the menahel feels that you’re giving up too easily,” she said. “He’s sure you can do better if you expect a little more from yourself.”

At the Rosh Chodesh assembly a week later, he was sitting behind Mechy Lerner, in the sixth grade. There was a guest speaker, a short man with a funny accent, and as he spoke Mechy’s neck seemed to be growing bigger and bigger, like it was the only thing in the crowded room. Yoni found himself fantasizing about flicking Mechy’s neck; he imagined the satisfying thwack it would make. Besides, Mechy called Yoni’s friend Chaim Tzvi a fatso all the time, and since that whole stupid story by the fake fire alarm, he thought it was funny to call Yoni “One-Shoe Feder.” He had it coming.

The speaker was winding down when Yoni’s finger shot out; Mechy jumped, dropping the open can of soda on the floor and screaming, “Ouch!” Yoni kept his head down, sure he could avoid detection; he looked up only to enjoy the slow smile spreading across Chaim Tzvi’s face.

The menahel came down from the front of the room. He scanned the seats until he found Yoni.

“Come here,” he said. This time Yoni had to stay home for two days. The menahel was “beyond disappointed.” He had thought Yoni was finally learning to control himself, to think before acting.

Reb Ephraim and Tante Hindy came that night, and again, Tatty was working. Soon, Mommy said on the phone, Reb Ephraim would stop following Tante Hindy everywhere like a piece of Scotch tape on her shoe and she would be able to come hang out without him; they were still new at this.

Yoni played Ping-Pong with him, and when Reb Ephraim wondered if it wasn’t too late— how would Yoni wake up for school the next day?— Mordy called out that Yoni had no school. Reb Ephraim asked why, and Mordy told him.

Yoni felt silly. After all, Reb Ephraim was also a rebbi type.

“It’s not like that,” he assured Reb Ephraim seriously. “The menahel wants me to succeed, he wants what’s best for me.” Secretly, though, he wondered if the menahel had thought wearing one shoe was best for him. When he’d gotten those blue sneakers, he was so excited he wore them to sleep, but now, since the shoe story, it hurt him to look at them.

Reb Ephraim put down the Ping-Pong paddle and went upstairs to talk to the adults.

One night, Reb Ephraim came to the house alone, and he sat with Tatty and Mommy for a long time. Yoni tried listening from bed, but he couldn’t hear anything. Something about it made him feel weird, and he wondered if he could make one of those listening devices using Styrofoam cups he’d read about. He would lie down at the top of the stairs, letting the second cup drop just over the kitchen door and—

“Yoni?” They were calling him. “Come downstairs a minute,” Mommy called. Her voice sounded strange. Yoni hadn’t really gotten into pajamas because he’d picked up the world record book and gotten engrossed. He quickly changed into pajamas and went downstairs.

Reb Ephraim winked at him. “Yoni, would you like a little adventure?”

PART 2

“They need another twenty chairs in Convention Center B.” Pedro from Meetings and Events cursed darkly and got to work. “Two hundred chairs I set up last night, now they need more,” he muttered as he headed to the hotel basement.

Jamie from Guest Services nodded. “It’s like a rabbi party in there, how do they know which black hat to take home at the end of the day is what I’d like to know.” He peered into the large room, where dark-suited men filled the rows and aisles. The room was completely silent as an elderly rosh yeshivah addressed the crowd. A large banner covered the wall behind him: Third Annual Tristate Menahelim’s Conference.

The rosh yeshivah finished and the emcee, a nervous young man who gripped his sheaf of index cards so hard his knuckles were white, returned to the podium, barely able to contain his excitement about the key note speaker.

In the rear, a white-bearded menahel from Monsey turned to his younger colleague.

“You don’t want to miss it, he’s the best there is. He really gets chinuch.”

“So how come I never heard him speak at any other convention?”

The older man sighed. “Nebach. His wife passed away two years ago and he was all broken up, he didn’t really get around. Now he got married again and he’s back in business. My shvogger heard him in Chicago last week and said it was amazing.”

“It’s more than that,” a red-bearded chassidish menahel turned around helpfully. “It’s also that he’s the final word on placement for every chinuch position in North America, so he really has more power than anyone else when it comes to positions. You want him to know who you are, you know?”

“Creating the Right School Culture,” Reb Ephraim read the words slowly. “That’s the topic we’re meant to address. I’ll beg your indulgence and veer from the topic for a bit, touching on a side issue that’s somewhat relevant to what we do.” He removed his glasses and took a step back—polished, relaxed, and confident.

“With your permission, I’d like to talk about… children.” He paused for effect. There was some nervous laughter: he’d come highly recommended and anticipation was high.

“But rather than addressing it myself, I’m going to invite a guest lecturer. I’m sure you’ll find it enlightening.”

Reb Ephraim walked a few feet and opened a door in the rear wall. A young boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, came out. He wore a black and red plaid shirt and large blue yarmulke. His glasses were slipping down his nose and a string of tzitzis flapped behind him.

“Rabboisai, please welcome my friend. His name is Yoni.”

Reb Ephraim affixed a small microphone onto the boy’s shirt. There was a moment of complete silence, then hearty applause. In the back row, the old menahel from Monsey turned to his left.

“Ephraim Gordon hasn’t lost his touch. Whatever he’s doing, it’ll be interesting.”

Yoni seemed to freeze for a moment, but a reassuring look from Reb Ephraim, who was seated at the side of the podium, calmed him down. The boy frowned and surveyed his audience. His gaze lingered for a moment on a certain menahel in the fifth row, four seats from the right. The menahel’s mouth was open, his face painted with astonishment.

“Good morning everyone. My name is Yoni. We’re going to have a great day together.”

Yoni held up a black-and-red plaid arm. “First, a few rules. It’s nine forty-five, we’re going to be together until ten thirty, when there’s a break. I’ll ask you to sit straight and turn off your phones, so we can really do this right.”

He paused, then stared down someone in the second row. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

He squinted and read the name tag. “Yeshivah Ohr Tzvi. Can I trouble you to turn it off please?”

The menahel hesitated. Rabbi Gordon, seated protectively behind Yoni, nodded and smiled.

“Thank you,” Yoni bowed. The principals smirked but played along. The kid was cute.

Yoni paced up and down the aisle, as if checking that phones were off. “I’ll also ask for complete silence.” His smile was charming. “Okay, thank you. Let’s move on. The respect, of course, isn’t for me but for what we’re learning.”

Yoni returned to the front and reached into a large box. “This,” he held up what appeared to be a sleek skateboard, “is a new hoverboard.”

There was some whispering and Yoni suddenly looked uncertain. He turned to Reb Ephraim, who smiled at him then turned back to face the audience. Yoni went on.

“It will be interesting, and anyhow, we only have,” he looked up at the clock, “forty-three minutes until the break. Back to the hoverboard. Maybe you’ve seen them around, they’re pretty popular. Today, we’re going to learn all about them, how they work, how to ride them, but also the history and background.” He snapped his fingers and Jared from Meetings and Events, waiting in the back of the room, walked up and down the aisles, distributing handouts. Voices rose and fell.

“Okay,” Yoni’s childish voice wavered, “we really need silence.” In the fifth row, four seats from the right, the menahel wondered where this was headed.

“Okay, ten minutes are up, you should have been able to read the handouts by now. Let’s start by seeing how well you,” he grinned and looked to the fifth row, “how well you focused,” he drew out the last word. Most of the attendees smiled, but the menahel grimaced, slinking a bit lower in his seat.

“Turn over your papers please. Now, let’s start with you, Yeshiva Ketanah of Howell, tell us please, who holds the Guinness record for furthest distance on a hoverboard? How far? Remember,” he said helpfully, “this is simple information, it’s just a question of focus.”

The menahel, a slight fellow with a wispy blond beard smirked but then, putting on a serious face, tried, “Um, a Russian guy, I think—

“Come on,” Yoni said gently. “I know everyone here is capable of remembering. It’s nothing complicated. Anyone want to try answering?” He looked around.

“Yes, Talmud Torah Shevilei Chachmah, go ahead.”

“Catalin Alexandru Duru traveled 275 meters on a flying hoverboard.”

“Good, good, see what focus does?” He spread his arms apart and beamed.

“Okay, who wants to tell me the name for the hoverboard developed by the ARCA Space Corporation?”

Five minutes later, Yoni said, “Okay, enough with the questions. Those of you who had a hard time should learn to be more focused.”

Most of the men in the audience were smiling. All of them wished they could sneak a look at their phones. It was getting hard to sit for so long. Yoni winked at a menahel half-standing in the third row.

“You all know the schedule. There’s no reason for breaks. Anyone who has a real medical reason to leave in middle of a session should have brought a doctor’s note. We’re all here to learn, aren’t we? And you can’t learn anything standing outside in the hallway,” he imitated a voice that no one recognized. Almost no one.

The menahel shrank even lower in his seat.

“Okay, now we’re going to have fun, like I promised.” Yoni turned on the hoverboard. “It looks scary, but it’s really all about focus, anyone can do it.” He hopped on and did a quick loop around the front of the room.

“See?” He looked around. “Who wants to go first?”

An athletic looking menahel with a teenage physique jumped up.

“Me.”

“Okay, very good, Zichron Sholom, let’s see.”

The good-sport menahel made it half a foot before falling off, laughing.

“Good for you, you tried,” Yoni said. “Now let’s get someone new up here, someone who thinks he can’t but has no idea what he’s really capable of.

“You know why someone would think that?” It sounded like he was imitating someone again. “Because he didn’t even try, that’s why. And of course, there’s no such thing as ‘I can’t’— only ‘I don’t want to try.’” His eyes flickered to the fifth row. “Right?” There were no takers.

“Okay,” Yoni said. “I’ll do it one more time, explaining how it’s done. After that, I expect some volunteers to come forward. It’s not like it’s so hard, I’m not asking you to do it with one shoe on and one shoe off, right?”

The menahel felt himself go cold.

It couldn’t have been more than three months ago. The whole school had lined up outside during a practice fire drill. It was taking a long time and everyone knew there wasn’t a real fire. The menahel was annoyed at the atmosphere, the way the boys seemed to think it was a joke, seeing it as extra recess rather than a serious and potentially lifesaving lesson.

“There’s nothing funny about a fire,” he intoned; a fact with which the children didn’t disagree. He grew more irate by the moment as he looked around at the commotion; the boys were unruly, forming circles rather than straight lines. Of course, Yoni Feder was at the center of the action. Who else? The kid had started an impromptu game of steal-the-salami using one of his shoes for the prize. This was too much. The menahel stomped over.

“Do you think this is day camp? Pirchei groups? Do you have any idea of how serious a fire drill is?”

Yoni looked away, unsure of what to say. The other kids, eager participants a moment earlier, faded back into formation.

“You know what?” The menahel lifted the offending shoe, a dull royal-blue Nike and raised it high. “You think this is a toy, huh? So why don’t I take it back to my office.”

He waved his hands. “Everyone back inside.”

Yoni stood there uncertainly, one shoe on and one shoe off.

“Run along, back to class,” the menahel said. “You can come see me about your little ‘toy’ during recess.”

Yoni walked across the gravel yard, the tears feeling like a big balloon inside of him, threatening to blow up if he didn’t keep swallowing. He managed to ignore the kids who giggled as he walked gingerly toward the building, but it was harder when he overhead the menahel muttering to a group of rebbeim, “Life is one big joke for that kid.”

Yoni wished he could shout out that he hadn’t been trying to make a joke, that he hadn’t even planned to start the game— it had just happened somehow— but he knew better than to open his mouth. The menahel might take his other shoe.

“Okay,” Yoni clapped his hands, “it’s really not that hard. I’m just trying,” a quick look at the menahel, “to help you succeed. Nu, let’s get a volunteer quick.” He lifted the hoverboard and walked to the middle of the room. He stopped by the fifth row, on the right side.

He was speaking softly now, as if to himself. “You know, children don’t mean to misbehave, but it can be hard to learn about hoverboards if you don’t care about them.

“I think we have a volunteer,” Yoni suddenly exclaimed in a loud voice, causing heads to swivel toward the fifth row. “That’s great, we’re going to see what happens when someone just decides to focus, that he can do it after all, that it’s a question of wanting.”

He was less than a foot away from the menahel now; the menahel was chewing on his lips, his hands in his pockets, his eyes darting from side to side. Yoni held his gaze for a second. Not more.

“You know what?” Yoni turned to face the clock. “It’s really late, we’ll call it a day. Extra recess for being such a great class.”

He climbed on the hoverboard and shot up the side aisle, heading out without turning back.

“Brilliant,” the old menahel from Monsey was standing by the buffet tables, his plate loaded with rugelach. Kathy from Meetings and Events had refilled the coffee urn and a line was forming.

“Yeah,” said a menahel with a yellow tie, “what a creative idea, to send a child up there. This Rabbi Gordon is takke something.”

“And the kid was pretty cute, no?” said an unfamiliar menahel from Queens. “I wonder what school he goes to, what his name is. Anyone know?”

The older menahel shrugged, sending a hail of crumbs raining down. “No idea, mamesh no idea.”

He looked at the menahel from the fifth row, who stood there awkwardly.

“You?”

“I have no idea who that kid is,” he said, reaching for a cup of coffee.

(Originally Featured in Calligraphy, Pesach 5776)