I hadn’t seen my friends in two weeks. That summer of 1959 had been filled with swimming at the Hillsdale municipal pool, bike rides to Gillis Creek’s swimming hole, many movie nights and uncountable days hanging out at Ava’s or in The Cave. I had nothing to do. So I read, played my violin, taught myself how to play guitar and was just generally restless. Sally Anne was hanging out with her friends, Sean Patrick with his, and Al was doing daily doubles with the Hillsdale High football team during the day and cruising around with his friends at night. Mama and Papa were working, as usual, and I was restless. This might have been a good time for the fannings to appear . . . but no luck. They came without any particular rhyme or reason.

Not just restless, I was expecting something to happen. I woke up with the expectation of something momentous happening that day. At the end of the day, nothing momentous, all evening, nothing. Night came and went, nothing. Finally it was the night before the first day of school. Everyone had returned the day before and I’d spoken with my friends on the phone in the morning before the rest of the G4 mothers had taken their kids out shopping for school supplies. My brothers and sister were out celebrating their last day of freedom. My parents were working and I was waiting . . . for what? I was clueless. But I had a feeling it was something big.

As I walked into my Fifth Grade classroom the next morning I saw Steve sitting in the back row, already claiming a desk for himself and another for me. Ava and Maria were in front of the desk talking and laughing with him. “Hey, what are you all doing here?” I said, pointing at my friends.

“What the f-, what are we – What are you doing here?” Steve was pointing back at me.

“How did you get into my Fifth Grade class?” I asked them.

“You – you must leave at once,” said Maria. “You’re not welcome here..”

“No, you leave.”

“No, you leave.”

“No, you leave,” by then we were crowded around each other, pushing each other’s hands and arms and laughing.

“Mmm, I really missed you guys.” Steve said, looking a little sad.

Ava was consoling him. “It’s okay, Steve. We’re all here now. You can breathe . . . I mean, you can breathe, right? Do you need me to give you mouth to mouth?” she said approaching him like she was going to grab his face.

Steve was laughing, pushing her away, happy again . . . or at least, not sad. Then he looked up suddenly and stage-whispered, “Mickey, new girl alert.” He was discreetly pointing up to the front of the room.

I looked up and saw a skinny white girl with shortish, curly red hair who was standing, her back to me, writing her name on the board. “Rivka Koen” it said. She turned around and for the briefest moment it seemed to me like light was emanating from her face. I shook my head and the light was no longer there, but I couldn’t look away. She saw me looking at her, staring really. She stared back and then slowly smiled at me then seemed to remember she was missing a front tooth and self consciously brought her lips together and looked down. I still couldn’t look away. I thought, What color is her hair? It’s not bright red like Sally Anne’s or dark auburn like Mama’s. There’s . . . some blonde in it or something . . .

“Mickey O’Taney!” Mrs. Angevine was loudly calling my name and it felt like not the first time she’d said it. 

She called me up to her desk.

“This is Rivka Koen. Did I pronounce it right, dear?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Angevine, that’s just fine,” Rivka answered with a closed mouth smile and a decidedly Slavic accent.

“And this is Mickey O’Taney.”

We both started to reach out to shake hands, then, simultaneously, self consciously thought better of it, but then decided to go ahead and at least touch hands, which produced an almost visible static electric shock, which caused us both to pull our hands back reflexively and gasp. We looked at each other, surprised, and both briefly chuckled silently.

“Mickey, I want you to briefly show Rivka around the school. Just the high points. Don’t make a day of it. Understood?”

“Absolutely, ma’am. My pleasure. Right this way, Rivka,” I said with a broad smile. As we were walking through the room on our way to the door, the members of the G4 were looking at us and smiling. As we got closer and Rivka’s view of them was blocked by me they all made kissing faces and I gave them a serious stink-eye.

In the hallway. “Shall we proceed?” she said, smiling with her lips together.

“Yes, we shall. Mmm, Where are you from?” I asked in Russian, using the familiar form of “you.”

“Why do you assume I’m Russian?”

“How did you know that was Russian?”

“Ah . . . right . . . I am from Moscow . . . Russia, not Idaho.”

“You are familiar with Moscow, Idaho?”

“Heard about it. No idea where Idaho is.”

“That’s,” I chuckled. “Ok, Rivka.”

“Um, does anyone but me think it’s weird you are speaking to me in Russian?”

“I guess it is a little strange . . .  you want me to stop?”

“I need to work on my English.”

“Konechna. [Of course.] So, down this hallway are the classrooms for the Kindergarten through Third Grade. We are forbidden from going down there . . . seriously. There will be . . . harsh rebukes, public shaming.”

“Stocks?”

“Please, Russian girl. We are not barbarians.”

“Of course. What’s this room with big double doors?”

“That’s the gym. Let’s look inside.”

“Is this only gymnasium? Is there bigger one?” I couldn’t tell if she was mocking our gym or not.

“Only one. Are you making fun of our gym.” I was tightly smiling.

“Making fun?” Her face said she didn’t understand.

“Mocking. Smeyatsa nad. [laughing at.]”

“No, no. Of course not,” she said without irony.

“You’re used to bigger gyms, Rivka?”

“My primary school had five thousand students. Five gyms, three other gyms for gymnastics, four swimming pools.”

“Whoa. That’s huge.”

“It was smallest school in Moscow.” 

I really couldn’t tell if she was putting me on.

“Okay. Okay. How do I know you’re telling me the truth.”

She smiled at me then remembered about her tooth and quickly brought her lips together again. I said nothing. She seemed ready to move on. She had given me a tickle in my spine.

“These are the restrooms. I don’t know why they are called that. I mean, you can’t rest in there. Just pee and poop and wash your hands.”

She involuntarily stifled a laugh.

“We should call them pee-rooms or poop-rooms . . . or name them like the French . . . toilette.”

“Oh my, you speak French too?”

“Petit peu. Little bit. I don’t like it that much.”

“Mickey, you don’t like French?”

“I like Russian much better. And I rarely get the chance to speak it . . .” I looked at her like I wanted a response . . . like “Da, da, da, Misha. I want to speak Russian with you all day, every day . . .” That didn’t happen.

“Maybe later . . . show me rest of school . . . please . . . and tell me, do most Americans speak Russian?”

“Rivka, most Americans can barely speak English.” We both laughed. “No, hardly anyone speaks Russian here.”

“Hmm. How is it that ten-year-old American boy,” she started to say.  “No, later. You will just be mystery for while . . . so, is ‘Mickey’ common name in America?”

“My given name is Michael. Mike is a common familiar name for that. Less common is Mickey. My best friend since before I was four years old was named Mike and my brothers wanted me to be called Mickey, after a famous baseball player.”

“Mickey Mantle!”

“Da, da! Um . . . yes. I have recently been introducing myself as ‘Mick’ but people, when they get to know me, and like me, just start calling me Mickey.”

“In Russia you would probably be called Misha . . . I’ll call you Mick.” She looked away wearing a tight, tiny smile.

I thought, I don’t know what she’s doing, but . . . is she teasing me? Either that, or she really doesn’t like me that much. “Mick” indeed. Most people get to know me before they start busting my balls. 

“Okay . . . There’s not much more. These are the Sixth Grade classrooms. There are a few bullies to steer clear of.”

“Steer clear of?”

“Avoid. Izbegat.”

“Ah, hooligans.” She nodded knowingly.

“Da, da. Hooligans! Sorry.” I was apologizing for lapsing into Russian and chagrined that I was so excited about the lapse. I thought, Really cool, Mickey. “And here is the back playground.”

“Ooh, it’s so green. And . . .  forget word . . . tuman.”

“Ah, fog. Yeah, I think mostly it’s just water vapor from the sun shining on the wet ground. It rained last night.”

The birds were swooping down into the mist to catch insects.

“Oh, look at birds!” 

“Da. They’re feeding before the flight south.”

“It’s beautiful, Mick. When will it be covered with snow?”

“It doesn’t snow a lot here, usually once or twice in a winter but it almost always melts quickly, turning to muddy slush . . . but it’s beautiful when it snows . . . I love the snow,” I almost whispered. I looked over at her and she was smiling at me with her mouth closed and I had a funny feeling in my stomach.

“We should go in, Mick. I am sure Mrs. Angevine does not possess infinite patience.”

“You got that right.”

At lunch the G4 was instructing Rivka in American slang, mostly cursing.

“Asshole . . . someone who is a real jerk,” explained Steve.

“What is jerk?” 

“Someone who is acting badly, being mean or cruel,” I said

“Ah, moodock.” 

I nodded a yes at her.

“Fuck! Now that’s a really useful, all-purpose word,” said Maria.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth, girl?” Ava grabbed Maria’s arm and feigned being scandalized.

We spent the next ten minutes teaching Rivka all the uses of “fuck” that we knew. Mr. Mackey, one of four Sixth Grade teachers, came out onto the landing where we were holding class and laughing.

“What’s going on here?” Mr. Mackey always seemed to be in a good mood.

Rivka answered in blindingly fast Russian. “Oh, sir, they are teaching me many wonderful and useful words, like fuck and asshole and many others . . . Um, sorry. They are teaching me many new words, sir.” Rivka smiled innocently at Mr. Mackey.

“Alright, then. Carry on.” 

Maria turned to me. “What did she just say, Mr. Brainiac?”

“Joder si lo se. Fuck if I know. It’s all Greek to me, chica.” 

“Ai!” she said, laughing, and punched me in the arm.

I excused myself to visit “le toilette.” When I came back out my friends had moved off the landing and into the playground. I set out to find them. Rounding the corner of the building I found a clot of students with two in the center. It had a very familiar look to it. Rivka and my old friend, Garth.

I heard his voice and derisive laughter from a few other guys. I wish I could remember what he said, but I can’t because it didn’t make sense. And I wish I could say what it was about the laughter of his cohort that was derisive, but I’m just going to paraphrase Justice Potter Stewart and say, I know it when I hear it. 

Rivka stood defiant, her fists clenched at her side, staring back at Garth. The other G4 members were standing close but were clearly afraid and confused and not sure what to do. Rivka was mostly facing me and Garth mostly facing away.

Garth had a limited vocabulary and after instigating conflict, usually rapidly proceeded to violent action. So, after he screamed, “Fucking commie whore!” he roughly pushed her down, laughing.

She fell awkwardly on her butt in the sawdust. I had just met this girl, but from that first moment I knew we were connected. Almost like I’d known her, maybe from a former life, or maybe from before my coma somehow. All I knew was that she was, in that moment, the most precious thing in my universe and I launched myself like an intercontinental ballistic missile with Garth at ground zero. And in that moment my fannings appeared.

I saw several possible outcomes from a number of actions on my part. I had no plan other than collision and damage . . . hopefully to him. What my fannings showed me didn’t look hopeful in terms of my success in causing damage. I snapped back to the present. I was furious with limited options? I didn’t care. I attained my maximum speed and leaped feet first at my target, hoping to land on his back. Garth heard me coming, turned around, which would have had my feet land in his abdomen except at the last second, he jumped to his left, his arms reflexively thrown up, mostly dodging me, but catching my right forearm in his face as I went flying by. That card had not been shown to me.

“Ah, Jesus,” Garth yelled and sounded more surprised than in pain.

I landed feet first in the sawdust, rolled and jumped up, landing in the fighting stance Al and Riggo had shone me. Garth’s attack came clumsily with him, once again, leading with his head. I stepped to the side and brought my knee up to catch him in the crotch. It was slightly off target but close enough to slow him down. He reeled around awkwardly and I tried the Al O’Taney move. Garth had seen this before and reflexively put both hands over his crotch which left me with nothing to do but deliver a side kick to Garth’s face, which I had never done before except on the heavy bag in Riggo’s gym. The kick mostly just stunned him and as he rocked back and dropped his hands, I moved in and kicked him square in the nutsack which doubled him over and this time I grabbed his hair and put my knee into his face with some force. He fell on his back, one hand over his crotch and one over his face which was bloody from his bleeding nose. Garth was down. 

He seemed disinterested in further combat.

Breathless, hyped up from adrenaline, I walked over to Rivka. She was still sitting in the sawdust, looking at me like she didn’t quite understand what had just happened. I reached out with both hands to help her up. “Are you alright, little bird?” I used the diminutive for “little bird,” a Pushkin era term of endearment, “ptashka.” 

Rivka looked up, regarding me like she was seeing me for the first time, and took my hands. “Da, I’m alright, Misha.” She smiled, no longer self conscious about her missing front tooth and, with my help, stood.

Ava and Maria came rapidly to her side and they walked her back toward the front of the school, clucking over her. Steve and I followed. I was thinking, Wait a minute . . . did she just call me “Misha?”

“You seem to be making a school career out of cleaning Garth’s clock,” Steve calmly assessed.

“Well, shit, Steve.” The adrenaline was wearing off but I was still a bit hyped. “If he’d just stop picking on my friends . . . Rivka, you have some sawdust on your butt.”

She reached back to brush the sawdust off her jumper but missed it.

“Uh, still there.” Again she was unsuccessful. 

I reached forward, unbidden, to brush it off and accidentally touched her butt.

“Hey,” she said, dramatically overreacting and looking back at me, a tight smile trying to escape. “No touching my butt, Misha,” shaking her finger at me.

Ava and Maria turned their heads and said to me in unison, “Yeah, no touching Rivka’s butt.” Then all three girls laughed hysterically. 

I’m sure I appeared confused as I softly said, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, Mickey . . . no touching Rivka’s butt,” Steve said seriously then chuckled silently the rest of the way back into the school.