It’s not far, she thought to him. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.
* * *
The frankfurter cart was right where the boy had said it would be. Toby bought two, heaped the buns with mustard and sauerkraut, and took the first bite. Sure enough, the sausages were darned good, even worth the ride.
He leaned his bicycle on its kickstand, looking around while he chewed. Had he ever been this far north before? The tenements here didn’t look any more spacious than his, but they still felt different—as though they’d been allotted more sunlight in their windows, more sky above their roofs. The day was growing warmer, and children streamed past him on the sidewalk, the boys in short pants and the girls in gingham one-pieces, all heading toward Colonial Park with nickels for shave ice and Coca-Cola. They didn’t look as dirty as the kids at home, maybe; but a few hours at the park would set matters right.
He finished the frankfurters just as a small procession approached on the sidewalk. At its head were two girls roughly his age, one taller and light-haired, the other small and dark. Behind them, like ducklings, came twelve younger girls walking two by two. All wore the same uniform: grayish-white blouses and stiff brown skirts, threadbare stockings, scuffed shoes. There was no badge or insignia, but none was needed: they had to be from an orphanage.
A distant bell rang at the back of Toby’s mind. Had someone mentioned an orphanage, once? He tried to remember, but it evaded him. One of the girls in front, the taller one, wore a lemon-yellow ribbon in her hair, garishly bright against her drab uniform. As they passed the frankfurter cart, the girl with the ribbon caught sight of Toby watching—and flashed him a smile so baldly flirtatious, complete with eye-batting and hair-tossing, that he couldn’t help but grin.
At once the girl with the ribbon reddened and turned away. Beside her, the dark-haired girl shot her partner a look of exasperation—and then, as they went past, turned back and directed at Toby a glare of pure, withering anger.
At once Toby felt as small as a mouse. He hadn’t meant anything by it, just that the girl with the ribbon was trying awfully hard. But maybe she thought he was looking down on the lot of them. He watched as they marched on toward the park, wanting to go after them and apologize, but that would probably make it worse—
From the direction of the park there came a loud, wet splat and an outraged shriek.
The tenements just west of Colonial Park were home to a group of young boys known throughout the neighborhood for their unparalleled skill at making trouble. The boys had been playing in the alley at 145th, growing ever more bored and restless, until someone spied the twin lines of Asylum girls, heading directly their way.
At once the plan took shape. They ran to the garbage bin behind the grocer’s on Edgecombe and returned with crates full of ammunition: wilted cabbages and mushy potatoes, onions gone dark with mold. Snickering, they stacked the crates, chose their weapons, and hunkered down, a shooting gallery awaiting its ducks.
Rachel, in front and the tallest, was an easy target. The first volley, a cabbage, hit her square in the cheek and exploded, covering her hair and its ribbon with shreds of muck. She staggered sideways, screaming in horror.
The barrage began, a fusillade of rot. The girls fled in all directions, tripping and crying, arms over their heads. Crowing with glee, the boys came out from behind their crates and advanced toward the mouth of the alley, ready to chase the girls back the way they’d come.
Kreindel alone did not panic. She had no reason to; for she had Yossele. She only needed to call him forth. She turned to face the boys, fists clenched in righteous fury—
In the basement, Yossele came alert and rose to a crouch, clay muscles bunched and ready—
—just as a boy on a bicycle raced past her into the alley.
The assailants scrambled back behind their crates as he swept his bicycle into a skid, blocking their exit. He leapt off the bicycle and stalked toward them, pushing up his uniform sleeves. Kreindel realized it was the messenger-boy, the one who’d grinned so rudely at Rachel.
It wasn’t much of a scrap. The other boys were younger and smaller; most of them ran off, rather than fight. Only the two biggest stayed behind—and Kreindel watched, stunned, as the messenger-boy pummeled them both and then chased them down the alley, disappearing behind a corner.
His bicycle lay in the alley before her, abandoned.
Yossele hesitated, confused.
His master had nearly called him. He’d been ready, so ready—but then someone else had arrived at her side instead. This irritated him, though he wasn’t certain why. Kreindel was safe, nothing else ought to matter—and yet he felt resentful, neglected. He sank back, watching.
Kreindel bent down and lifted the bicycle carefully by the handlebars. She’d never touched a bicycle before; it was heavier than she’d expected. The rubber grips on the bars were still warm from the boy’s hands.
Footsteps, in the alley. It was the messenger-boy, sporting a cut on one eyebrow. He seemed surprised to see Kreindel there, waiting with his bicycle.
“I wasn’t stealing it,” she said quickly. “Just moving it out of the way. In case they came back.” She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks.
“Thanks.” He took the handlebars from her.
Flustered, Kreindel looked around. A silent, staring crowd of Asylum girls and neighborhood children had gathered at the alley entrance. Even the frankfurter vendor had come to investigate.
“You okay?” the boy asked her.
“I think so.” She brushed ineffectually at the slime on her uniform, then went to her charges and counted them. There were many tearstained faces, and a few scraped knees—but
