Dovi realized at that moment that his father had come for the sole purpose of asking this question

This must be what it feels like to win a lottery, Dovi Korman thought as he tried to keep himself from smiling.

A thin boy with hair so blond and wispy his scalp was visible between the strands, his skin fair and somewhat blotchy, people often concluded he was as sensitive as his appearance.

He wasn’t.

Dovi sat in the passenger seat of his father’s Range Rover, holding the package his father had brought from Lakewood. The smell of the pastrami sandwich and fries was pungent enough that Dovi could see the black and white tiles of Deli Time, Shmilu behind the counter in his red apron, singing along with the Simchas Beis Hashoeivah album that played on a loop through the speakers over the counter.

Toward the end of second seder, someone had tapped Dovi on the shoulder. “Korman, I think your father’s outside.”

Dovi had seen Tatty’s car at the edge of the parking lot and jumped in. Now he was sitting quietly, waiting for an explanation.

“I had a meeting in Caldwell, figured I can’t not go ten minutes out of my way and see you,” Tatty was speaking quickly, “and I bought you this before I left Lakewood, it’s not hot anymore but it’s better than yeshivah supper, I’m sure.”

Dovi accepted the bag, and Tatty said he’d been meaning to ask Dovi a question about bein hazmanim, it was just a month away, he wanted to take a family trip and needed to know if there was a free Shabbos between the end of the zeman and camp. Was yeshivah ending Thursday or Sunday?

“They didn’t tell us what day the zeman ends yet,” Dovi said, “but I’ll check and get back to you, Ta.”

It was quiet, then Tatty asked if Dovi was sure he wanted to stay next zeman, did he ever think about switching yeshivos?

Dovi realized at that moment that his father had come for the sole purpose of asking this question, and he waited before answering.

South Plainfield had been his father’s idea, the right yeshivah for the right type of boy from the right type of family — Lakewood but not Sixth Street, yeshivish but also balabatish, money but not over-the-top loaded. Half his high school class had ended up in South Plainfield, and Dovi had followed along.

He’d spent most of the year there wondering about what life would be like in a yeshivah he liked, a yeshivah with different boys, saying different stories in the dormitory. But Dovi Korman wasn’t one to rock the boat, and his father liked the rosh yeshivah (if South Plainfield had a board, Dovi thought, his father would surely have been on it) and his mother liked the fact that the Pollacks and Lendlers also sent their sons there. He wasn’t miserable and he wasn’t lonely.

He just wasn’t happy, and when his father spoke, it was like out of a daydream.

“Why wouldn’t I stay here, Ta?” Dovi asked. “What makes you think I’m not happy?”

Tatty busied himself with straightening the mounted cell-phone holder on the dashboard.

“No reason, the Rosh Yeshivah says you’re doing wonderful. It’s just that Rabbi Wasser — remember him, Reb Sholom, your old rebbi? — is opening a new yeshivah and I know how much you liked him. That’s all. Just mentioning it.”

Rabbi Wasser.

Dovi knew that if he would smile, his father would be suspicious. He had to play this right. Dovi thought about all the successful rebbeim he’d ever known — confident, eloquent, dynamic rebbeim. Rabbi Wasser was unlike any of them, as if he knew that he’d have to work three times harder to reach the talmidim.

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 787)