Free Dreidels on the Brain by Joel ben Izzy Page A

excited, and clearly hadn’t heard a word.
    â€œWell, I don’t think we should count on Forentos,” he said. “Everything takes time—and there are plenty of fish in the sea.”
    â€œOh,” said my mom. “I see.” I could hear the disappointment in her voice, followed by my father’s footsteps walking slowly back to the den, then a very long sigh.
    That was it. I had no choice. My dad may pick on Howard. And he may slurp loudly. But he is
not
a loser.
    I took one last look at the board. Then, with my right foot, I kicked the bad leg of the table. For a few seconds it hovered there, on three legs. Then, almost in slow motion, it tilted, and fell. The board and pieces tumbled to the floor.
    â€œWhat happened?” said Kenny, looking up just as my dad walked in.
    â€œI—I must have bumped the leg of the table.”
    My dad looked at the pieces all over the floor.
    â€œToo bad,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a good game.”
    Beyond him, in the living room, I could see the menorah. The candle next to the shammes had melted into it and both had burned down into a puddle of wax. Only the ugly green one remained.

THE THIRD CANDLE: The Difference Between My Grandmother and Houdini
Tuesday, December 14
    This Kchanauakh was supposed to be about miracles. No miracles so far—just chopped liver. Make that Chopped Liver Royale.
    It’s strange how you can worry about something you
think
is going to happen, but then, what
actually
happens turns out to be much worse. This morning I woke up believing I was in trouble for snort-honking at Mrs. Gabbler. Now I’m wishing that’s
all
it was. That I’d gone into Mr. Newton’s office and he had given me a lecture: “I am afraid, Joel, that honking at Mrs. Gabbler is a very serious offense—and it calls for serious punishment.”
    Then he would have pointed to the paddle, hanging by a leather strap from a nail in his office. “We’re not allowed to use this anymore—except in extreme cases. Like this one.”He would have taken it down and—whack! It would have hurt, but it would have been over.
    Now, instead, I get to spend the week dreading something far worse.
    Thanks a lot, God.

    Walking to school this morning, I wanted nothing more than to be invisible. And sometimes I can
pretend
I’m invisible. But not today, on account of the frost. Or, rather, the
lack
of frost.
    One of the great things about frost that I didn’t mention yesterday is how it gets everywhere, even on the windows of cars. Today, although it was really cold—and still between 29 and 30 on the barometer—there wasn’t any frost, so I couldn’t avoid seeing my reflection in the car windows I passed. And I did not like what I saw.
    At this point, I’d better tell you what I look like, especially if we’re going to spend all of Chanyukah together. Mr. Culpepper says that along with “setting the scene,” it’s the writer’s duty to “vividly describe the main character early on.” That’s me, and I should have done it sooner, but I wasn’t sure you’d stay. It’s not that people start to cry when they see me, like that kid did in Thrifty’s when he saw my dad. But I am seriously funny-looking. To define something by its antonym—like
miracle
and
chopped liver
—I can tell youabout Chris Carter, who came to our class at the start of this year. Tall, straight brown hair, big smile, perfect mouth and nose—an All-American boy. That very first day you could see girls whispering, and though you couldn’t hear, you knew they were saying, “He’s cute!”
    If you can picture Chris Carter, then imagine the opposite. That’s me. I am not “cute,” and never will be.
    First, I’m short. That, in itself, isn’t so bad. But I also have braces, and everything about braces is crummy. When you smile,