Free Now You See Me... by Rochelle Krich Page B

Shankman.”
    “He probably e-mailed her someone else’s photo. That’s what they do.”
    “But Dassie met him twice before Sunday,” the rabbi said. “If it was Mr. Shankman, she would have told Sara.”
    “Not if he convinced Dassie that she couldn’t trust anyone with their secret. Actually, that would make the whole courtship more exciting. Forbidden love?”
    “You have this all worked out,” the rabbi said, impatient. “But I didn’t hire Mr. Shankman. And he knew that it wasn’t my decision to fire him.”
    “Why was he fired?”
    “You haven’t changed, Malka. Sorry
—Molly.
Always tenacious. Anything else?”
    “You should call the police, Rabbi. The more I think about the note—”
    “You’re going to show it to your detective friend. Let’s see what he finds out. I think this man is playing with me, Molly.”
    I frowned. “What makes you think so?”
    “Just a feeling.” Again, he glanced over his shoulder. “Is that it?”
    He was either eager to get rid of me and my questions, or anxious to join his wife and brother-in-law. Maybe both.
    “I’d like to ask Aliza another question. Is she home?”
    “She’s probably in her room. By the way, I talked to her about the IM thing. Thanks again for telling me.”
    “No problem.”
    At least I’d accomplished something.

Chapter 11
    Aliza was at her desk, applying pink-beige polish to her nails.
    The mounds of clothes on the beds had disappeared.
    “Nervous energy,” she said, following my eyes. “We’re all waiting for Dassie to show up, or at least
phone.”
Aliza capped the nail polish bottle and opened a bottle of topcoat. “I thought that was her phoning half an hour ago, because my parents were so stressed right after. But my dad said it was a parent. They’re always calling him at home.”
    “It must be tough to be a principal. My mom teaches high school English, and she often gets calls from parents at home, too.” “Emergencies” that are rarely that.
    “My dad loves his job. Well, he’d love it more if he wasn’t worried about losing it.” She looked up at me, her teeth catching her upper lip. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
    “I won’t tell,” I promised. “Why would your father’s job be at risk, Aliza? He was a wonderful teacher. I’m sure he’s a terrific principal.”
    To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure why I cared. Despite my sympathy for the rabbi during this crisis, I was still nursing a fourteen-year-old resentment. And though in my adolescent fantasies he’d never been the object of my revenge (I’d reserved that role for Rabbi Ingel, had pictured him being fired after confessing publicly that he’d maligned me), over the years I had often imagined Rabbi Bailor begging my forgiveness. But now I felt an inexplicable need to defend him against his detractors.
    Aliza nodded. “My dad loves connecting with students, bringing them closer to Judaism. Most of them love him. And he’s being honored in January at a Jewish educators’ conference in New York.”
    “So what’s the problem? If you can’t tell me, that’s cool.”
    “It’s not a secret, really.”
    She busied herself applying topcoat. I sensed that she was deliberating, and didn’t push.
    “My dad and the secular principal don’t get along,” she finally said. “Dr. Mendes wants to get as many kids as possible into the Ivy Leagues. My dad encourages them to go to Israel, at least for a year. She thinks he tells them to focus on Jewish studies at the expense of secular subjects. Which isn’t true.” Aliza examined her nails and frowned. “My dad says you have to try to excel in
all
your studies. According to the Torah, wasting time is a sin.”
    That was the Rabbi Bailor I remembered. “You said
most
of the students love him?”
    “A couple of months ago my dad wanted to expel a senior. Dr. Mendes didn’t agree, because the student is planning to go to Harvard, and they didn’t have proof. His dad and brother went to