Mommy looks at me, but says nothing. I shrug and keep reading until my name is called
“Pride,” I say baldly.
“Principles.”
“Pride.”
“Principles.”
Okay, we can do this all day. “Naftoli,” I explode, “just admit it. You couldn’t stay in yeshivah longer than five seconds because of pride. You felt that they didn’t really want you back, so you bolted.”
I cross my arms and flip my ponytail over one shoulder in the universal sign of “I’m always right.”
Naftoli imitates me rather well, adding an eye-flutter to the image. “Hate to break it to you, Bellka, but you’re way off. I mean, yeah, I have pride, I’m not going to lie. But the fact is that it boiled down to principles. One of the teachers made a speech about protektziya and how basic rules don’t apply to everyone, and I was out of there.”
Ouch. “Oh boy. Tuls, that’s really hard,” I say softly.
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