In the alley, he unlocked his bike and looked over the delivery sheet. He was supposed to start at the docklands and work his way back to City Hall—likely because, from Western Union’s point of view, a cable that halted a thousand dollars’ worth of cargo was more important than some bit of business from Albany. Toby, however, saw things differently. It was nine o’clock already, and once the morning barges were past Sandy Hook, it didn’t matter how late the cable was. On the other hand, the civil servants of New York were a highly distracted lot, and delayed messages often worked out in their favor. If Toby went to City Hall first, he might still make a few tips for himself.
He stuck the delivery sheet and the envelopes in his satchel, and pedaled away south.
* * *
Kreindel stood alone in the Asylum hallway while the other girls of her dormitory arrayed themselves before and behind her, two by two, for the walk up the street to P.S. 186. As usual, no one wanted to be Kreindel’s partner. The trips to and from school were precious opportunities to talk openly with a friend, to giggle and gossip out of the monitors’ hearing—so why stand next to Kreindel, who never did any such thing?
A few final girls straggled into place, and Rachel Winkelman at last came to stand next to Kreindel. Perpetually late to the line, Rachel was Kreindel’s partner more often than not. The girl glanced across at Kreindel, and took in her expression. “What’s got your bloomers in a twist?”
“It’s none of your business.” In Kreindel’s opinion, Rachel Winkelman was a fat-headed sort of girl, more interested in simpering at boys than doing anything useful. To make matters worse, Rachel was also one of the very few Asylum residents who gave no consideration to Kreindel’s status as a true orphan. She thought Kreindel was a condescending know-it-all, and was glad to say so to her face. Their walks together were rarely pleasant.
The monitors took their places at the front and rear of the columns. The bell rang, and the boys began the procession, oldest to youngest. Quickly Rachel pulled a lemon-yellow ribbon from her pocket and tied it into her hair. It was strictly against the uniform code, and Kreindel wondered where she’d found it. The boys marched by, Rachel making eyes at her favorites, until it was the next dormitory’s turn—at which point Rachel undid the ribbon and pocketed it again, before the monitors could notice. At last the youngest of the boys went past, and the girls were allowed into the sunshine, their double line spreading along the sidewalk.
“Heard you quit Hebrew,” said Rachel once they were out of their monitor’s hearing.
Kreindel’s frown deepened. “Who told you?”
“Harriet. She heard you in the office.” Rachel smirked. Harriet Loeb was her best friend; the two were thick as thieves. “So what’d they give you, more boot-shining?”
“No, cooking.”
“Hah! Well, don’t go ruining it like you always do.”
“I don’t intend to ruin anything,” Kreindel told her. “If they’d just give me an independent study—”
Rachel burst into cackles.
Kreindel’s face turned hot. “Well, why shouldn’t I get one? I just want to learn Hebrew the way it’s supposed to be learned! Why’d they have to go and change it, anyways?” She cringed as the word anyways escaped her mouth, with its crude and sibilant s. It was difficult to keep her English free of the Asylum vernacular, and she felt each anyways and nohow and ah, quit it as a small act of self-treachery.
“I thought Orthodox girls weren’t supposed to learn Hebrew,” Rachel said.
“It’s not a sin or anything. It’s just . . . not usual.”
“Yeah, not usual. Just like you.”
They turned the corner at 141st and approached the squat bulk of P.S. 186. “And besides, I don’t see why I should have to take cooking lessons,” Kreindel muttered. “It’s just food, anyone can do it. I cooked for my father when I was only—”
“Aw, my father, my father,” Rachel cut in, eyes rolling.
Another Asylum girl might’ve delivered a reply with her fists, monitors or no. But Kreindel said only, “He was a brilliant man, and you will show him respect.”
Rachel smirked. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll tell everyone what you and Harriet get up to in the toilets after lights-out,” she said, and climbed the steps to the school as Rachel stood stricken and red-faced at the bottom.
* * *
The Asylum’s weekly Girls’ Instructors meeting was held in the women’s staff room: a dispiriting place, perpetually stuffy and overheated, crammed with mismatched chairs. Charlotte Levy arrived early, found a seat in the back, and exchanged polite smiles with the others as they trickled in. At last the headmistress arrived and called for attention, and began her list of announcements. The ceiling in the sewing room had developed a wet spot, and would soon be repaired—but if the rains returned, would Miss Rothstein be willing to share her Stenography classroom? Miss Rothstein graciously agreed. A new instructor had been found to replace the girls’ choir director, who had departed recently . . .
So it went, a lulling litany. The radiator hissed; eyes drooped. The woman in front of Miss Levy began to snore lightly. Miss Levy coughed; the woman straightened in her chair.
“Which brings us to a new subject,” said the headmistress. “The last few years have seen a much-needed revitalization of the Asylum’s curricula, and I commend you all for it. But as a consequence, we have a small crisis on our hands—namely, the state of our storage rooms.”
Everyone winced.
“The rooms have gone neglected for far too long—and with the recent addition of so many old textbooks and other materials, it’s become impossible to find so much as a pencil. I’ve decided the time has come for a good old-fashioned spring cleaning. Each of you will pick a responsibility,” she said, holding up a sheet of paper. “I’ll work with you
