Shlomo was fairly certain that Reb Zalman had no idea what a crazy chill meant, and he was impressed that his stepfather smiled and nodded
Shlomo Bass was driving ahead of the other boys, directing his mother’s Nissan Quest down New Hampshire perfectly within the speed limit while Lorb and Wagner followed, too close for comfort on the slippery road.
They honked at every opportunity, causing him to simultaneously bristle and also smile as joy spread inside of him. Look at me, he thought, ripping along with my friends. He wished someone could see him, anyone would do, just to get this fact — Shlomo Bass was hanging out with his boys — on the record. True, he was in another car, an outsider even as he was an insider, and technically, they weren’t really friends, but it was something. They were in his yeshivah and this would be the closest he’d ever gotten to them, or to any bochur, other than speaking in learning. And even that, he had to admit, hadn’t gone that well. Lorb had once asked him for help with a Rashi, and read the roshei teivos as a single word.
“You don’t know that this stands for ve’af al gav?” Shlomo had asked, regretting his tone as soon the words came out, but Lorb had shrugged. “I didn’t. Now I do,” he had said, making Shlomo feel even worse.
At the corner of Oak Street, Lorb and Wagner pulled over, then suddenly shot ahead of Shlomo, sending a spray of water at his windshield. It scared him. He could see them laughing and he tried to mirror their expression, so they would see he was enjoying their little game.
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