The Merchants of Zion Read Free Page B

gender, and primary language. I understood her feelings, if not her logic, as I returned every quanta of disgust in equal measure. Her frizzy gray hair, the black glasses with thin frames, the demure scarves, the Yin-Yang earrings: she had every progressive affectation, but she favored her newfangled ideas only for the authority they allowed her to wield over others, disguised all the while as being for the good of the children. She was an evolutionary triumph: a child-loathing, emotionally repressed schoolteacher adapted to an environment overpopulated by indulgent parents with guilty consciences and money to burn.
    Her message was simple. Ignore me at your peril. Will those new cars you bought with the money saved by sending your child to a cheaper school seem worth it when she ends up at a state university?
    “Hi Ells Bells,” I said. When she saw me she squealed, then ran down the stairs to give me a hug.
    “Hello, Mr. Mukavetz,” the Expert said. Elly had left her backpack on the stairs and rushed back to get it.
    “Hiya.”
    “You're late.”
    “I'm here now. Ma'am.”
    “Elizabeth's education shouldn't suffer for your immaturity.” Elly stopped halfway down the stairs, looking at each of us in turn.
    “Maybe we'll skip the ice cream. Hit the books straightaway,” I said, in my best attempt at biting my tongue. I wanted to tell her to shove it, I wasn't a member of her cult and half an hour wasted wouldn't elicit a lifetime ban from the ivies for this eight year old.
    “What? Why?” Elly whined. She twisted up her face to cry, an attempt at manipulation requiring a level of chutzpah only a child could muster. I winked at her and she giggled.
    “Very funny, Mr. Mukavetz. But being professional doesn't make you a monster.”
    “Of course, Ma'am. We need to get going before Elly's education suffers any further. Say goodbye to your teacher.”
    “Ms. Felkins will hear about this.”
    We departed beneath the Expert's x-ray stare. Elly held my hand as we crossed the street; the city's a dangerous place. She chose for her afterschool treat, as always, Orange Orange, a frozen yogurt joint decorated with disorienting neon swirls that made me feel like I was trapped inside a psychedelic barber's pole. Elly liked it because her mother liked it and her mother liked it because they used zero calorie artificial sweeteners in everything. It was gross and probably carcinogenic, but who was I to interfere with a child's adoration of her parents?
    The cashier greeted us with a familiar “hello.” Elly ordered a small cup with dehydrated blueberries and strawberries. I had water.
    We sat at a bright red table with neon green chairs.
    “Is the Expert mad at you?” Elly asked.
    “You shouldn't call her that.”
    “But you do.”
    “Yeah, but she's not my teacher. No, she's not mad at me. She's just... she's concerned about your future. The Expert is much more responsible than me.”
    Elly scowled as she considered this. Her mother called it her deep-thought look. A blueberry rolled down the frozen yogurt and caught on the cup's lip. She took it between her fingers and plopped it into her mouth. Then she asked, “What's responsible mean?”
    “Mmm. It means... Well you see, a responsible person does what they're supposed to. They follow the rules—like your parents. An irresponsible person doesn't. So when I was late today I was breaking the rules. Instead of being responsible I was irresponsible.”
    “So when Skittles pees on the rug he's being eeerie-sponsible?”
    “Exactly.”
    We continued this game while she ate. She'd ask what a word meant, I'd tell her, and she'd have to come up with an example. We went through “daring,” “tome,” and “slave driver,” in reference to the Expert. If I was lucky she might remember one; she'd asked about daring at least once before. But you had to start somewhere, even if it wasn't on the Expert's curriculum.
    After picking off the toppings—and without having