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?”
She saw them hitting me. Saw me slumped like a wimp, short and small, while those bigger boys punched me. Shame curdles in my belly. Blood heats my cheeks. I’m white enough to blush, but too black to blend.
“I said I’m fine.” The words leave my mouth sharp as needles, pricking us both.
“But, Ezra—”
“Kimba, just stop.” I run my hands over my hair, my fingers tangling in the thick, tight curls.
My yarmulke lies on the sidewalk, marred by a dirty sneaker footprint. I bend to pick it up and twirl it like a basketball, watching it spin and spin on my finger in the silence that stretches thick as taffy between Kimba and me. A creaky, familiar song breaks the quiet, and both our heads turn toward the sound. The old ice cream truck comes into view, making its slow way up the street.
There are so many things I could say to Kimba. I want to explain how splintered I feel sometimes—how there’s something always moving inside me, searching for a place to land, to fit, to rest. I want to tell her it’s only ever still when I’m with her—that she’s my best friend in the world, and I’d rather get punched in the stomach every day than move away and not have her anymore. But that’s too many words that don’t even come close to telling her what I feel.
“Ice cream?” I ask instead, keeping my gaze trained on the rickety neon-painted truck wobbling toward us.