Rochelle Whitman always sat behind Rachel Weiss. Every class they shared, it was Weiss, then Whitman. For three years: Weiss, Whitman. Every day, Monday through Friday. And never Whitman, Weiss.
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Things were probably different for you. For most people they were. But the school I was in was old. And it was small. Like some dried hag of a thing, it had its ways and, well, if the rules there did not arrive with the Hebrew children, they were still hard and fast. There’s a chance stone wouldn’t have been rigid enough. Rules cast in steel, brass-hard habits. You adapt or you live bruised. Or you do both.
