The Martin Luther King Mitzvah

By Mathew Tekulsky

Adam Jacobs, a seventh grader at Beachmont Middle and the son of a Holocaust survivor, is tired of Hebrew School and tired of being bullied because he is Jewish. The bright spot in Adam’s day is when he follows Sally Fletcher—and her irresistible blonde ponytail—home from school. But it is 1966, and Sally is Catholic.  Jew

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fitzroy Books
• Release date: Oct 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781947548091

Book preview

Martin_Luther_King_Mitzvah_Mathew_Tekulsky_Fitzroy.jpg

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Acknowledgements

The Martin Luther King Mitzvah

Mathew Tekulsky

Fitzroy Books

Copyright © 2018 Mathew Tekulsky. All rights reserved.

Published by

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27612

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 978-1-947548-08-4

ISBN -13 (hardback):

ISBN -13 (epub):

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018939692

Interior design by Lafayette & Greene

Cover design by Lafayette & Greene

lafayetteandgreene.com

Cover image by AlohaHawaii/Shutterstock

Cover image by Lightfield Studios/Shutterstock

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

To my parents, Patience Fish Tekulsky and Joseph D. Tekulsky;

and to my grandfather, Leo Fish, the real Grappa

Chapter One

I was twelve years old and in seventh grade when I started following Sally Fletcher home from school. She had the prettiest sandy-blonde ponytail I had ever seen and it swayed back and forth as she strolled ahead of me by half a block. I kept a safe distance just in case she turned around, and I tried to act nonchalant, as if I were just another kid on his way home from school. If she did look back in my direction, I figured I could always walk up a driveway or, if need be, duck behind a bush. However, I lived for each moment that she turned her head just far enough so that I could enjoy the beauty of her profile one last time before she turned up Willow Avenue to her house. We both lived in the historic section of Beachmont that was called the Manor, the area closest to the water where Colonial, Tudor, and Victorian houses lined the streets along the shores of the Long Island Sound in this Westchester suburb.

Sally had an angelic face, with a warm, friendly smile, a pair of intense blue eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. She took after Michelle Phillips from The Mamas and the Papas, and was just as beautiful. I was ecstatic when I discovered that we were in the same seventh grade class. I spent hours, when I should have been listening to the teacher, writing Sally Fletcher over and over on my pad, sometimes with her full name and sometimes with just her first.

Sally was twelve, like me, and she was a hippie girl. She loved to wear long, flowing white dresses and always had a flower in her hair. Sally was also an artist, and I loved to pass by Miss Palmer’s art class in school and take a look at Sally’s latest painting, usually something psychedelic in the style of a Peter Max poster. I was convinced that one glorious day Sally would notice me, and as a kid with my first crush, I could dream, couldn’t I? And dream I did as I followed Sally home on these after-school walks.

Sally and her older brother, Peter, lived in a house at the end of Willow Avenue, overlooking Willow Park, where a basketball court had been fashioned out of a concrete rectangle at the end of the baseball field. Every afternoon, I dribbled my basketball to the park and began shooting baskets, hoping that Sally would see me sinking fifteen-footers; but when I passed her in the hallways at school, rubbing up against her shoulder as if by accident, she never mentioned my basketball skills. I was quite sure that Sally was altogether unaware of my existence. But fortunately, when you are twelve, there are other things besides girls—things like Little League baseball, the creek, and the clubhouse that Jimmy Robbins and I built in the rushes. Jimmy and I spent many hours in that clubhouse, smoking cigarettes that he had stolen from his mother’s cigarette case. Even when I was relaxing in the clubhouse, however, I couldn’t entirely escape thoughts of Sally, knowing that she lived so close by.

All of the kids at school thought that Jimmy Robbins was a little slow, and I had overheard Mr. Roberts telling Principal Phillips about Jimmy’s difficulty with his homework, but that never bothered me. Sure, he had a hard time reading the books in Mr. Roberts’ English class, but that’s just because he had some kind of thing in his brain where he mixed up the words. Jimmy was actually very smart; he used to make balsa wood airplane models from the First World War; the Sopwith Camel was a particular favorite. The written instructions for this model consisted of lines and arrows and diagrams of every part of that plane, from the wings to the landing gear, and I couldn’t believe Jimmy could figure out how to put this thing together, but he did—not once, but again, and again until a whole fleet of them hung from the ceiling of his bedroom. He was like an engineer kid but because he couldn’t read quickly, a lot of people just assumed he was dumb. He was my friend, and I think he appreciated the fact that I thought of him as normal. But that didn’t stop the tough guys at school from calling Jimmy stupid, and they even called me an idiot when I stuck up for Jimmy. That didn’t keep me from palling around with him, though.

On my walks home from school, there was only one thing that could distract me from the rhythmic bob of Sally Fletcher’s ponytail, and that was Gladys McKinley’s house on the corner of Beach Avenue. Gladys McKinley was a great writer, and on every one of these walks home, I looked up the long driveway at her big house, hoping for a glimpse of her. I knew that she had once written children’s books, and I had even checked some of her books out from the school library. One was about a young girl, an amateur sleuth kind of like the Hardy Boys, who figured out the mystery of the missing cat food (the raccoon got it). I remembered running my hands along the spine of Where Did Whiskers’ Dinner Go? and imagining that someday my own name would be on the cover of a book that people would check out of the Beachmont Public Library. I couldn’t imagine anything better than being a famous writer, but now, Gladys had given all of that up and she didn’t want to be disturbed. She was a recluse.

The first time I encountered her was one chilly day in October, when I found myself walking down Beach

Avenue alone. I missed Sally’s bouncy ponytail, but there had been no sign of her when I left school. As I passed Gladys McKinley’s house, I sneaked up her driveway to try and catch a glimpse into her front porch. I got as far as the front step before I heard a woman’s voice shouting, Go away! I don’t know who you are, but go away!

I scampered down the driveway and onto Beach Avenue just as Sally Fletcher walked past. She nodded at me and my heart plummeted into my stomach; my fear of being pursued by Gladys was suddenly replaced by my terror at having to confront Sally Fletcher. Here she was, just inches away from me, and I could clearly see her deep blue eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but I just stood there with my mouth wide open.

What are you doing? Sally asked, her cheeks flushed from the crisp air. Don’t you know she’s a nutcase?

I hadn’t really thought about it that way, but I was tempted to agree with Sally just because she was so pretty.

Maybe, I said. I was just curious. I guess I want to be a writer too.

Do you want to carry my books? Sally asked.

Okay, I said as nonchalantly as I could.

When we got to Sally’s house, she said, Stay away from that old woman. I hear she eats little boys. Then, breaking into a wholehearted laugh, Sally skipped up her front steps and into her house, her ponytail disappearing behind her.

I strolled home, consumed by a combination of delight and remorse; delight, because I had actually walked Sally Fletcher home; remorse, because during our brief exchange, I was worried that I hadn’t been cool enough or that I could have said something more amusing.

The next day, in English class, Sally passed me a note.

Thank you, it read.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, and my heart leapt with hope as I anticipated walking Sally home every afternoon. In my mind’s eye, I saw us strolling down Beach Avenue, hand in hand, as the autumn leaves fell. During the winter, she would throw a snowball at me and we would fall, laughing, into a big snowdrift together.

Adam, Mr. Roberts interrupted my thoughts. Our English teacher wore bow ties and sweater vests; he had white hair, was short and a bit stocky, and had never

married. Adam, Mr. Roberts repeated, "can you tell us Jack

London’s intentions in writing The Call of the Wild?"

I muttered something about the spirit of the wilderness but all I could think about was the way Sally Fletcher’s eyes shone in the afternoon light, her wide-open laugh, and the golden streaks in her bouncing ponytail. After school, I walked down Beach Avenue but Sally was nowhere to be seen. At Gladys McKinley’s house, I saw the great author raking up a few stray leaves in her front yard. She paused, leaning on her rake for a moment, before calling out to me, Aren’t you that kid who snuck up to my porch the other day?

I nodded sheepishly, standing there like a fool.

You should learn to give people a little privacy, Gladys McKinley went on. If I want you to visit me, I’ll ask.

I kept standing there while she continued her raking. Then she stopped again and looked over at me.

What are you looking at? she inquired sharply.

Nothing, I replied, hastening down Beach Avenue, wondering how the real Gladys McKinley could be so different from the person who had written all of those charming books. How could she be so mean? I thought. And being a great writer, too. Maybe writing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I walked all the way home without Sally and without my vision of Gladys McKinley as a nice person who would someday be a friend.

Over the next few days, Sally let me carry her books home, and when we passed Gladys McKinley’s house, we didn’t see any activity at all. Sally told me that she wanted to be a painter like Peter Max and have her posters plastered on the walls of everybody’s bedroom. Maybe she could even do album covers too, she said, like for The Mamas and the Papas. When I told her that she looked just like Michelle Phillips, Sally smiled and flipped her ponytail back and forth with her hand.

You really think so? she asked.

"Well, you don’t look like Cass," I replied, and we both got a laugh out of that. I left her then and walked home six feet off the ground.

The next day,