It all began at the library. Dina Perlstein, whose son Aaron is in my eighth grade Mishnah class, spotted me just as I finished checking out a new Grisham novel on the self-checkout machine. “Moreh Simon,” she said as she hurried over. “I have to talk to you about the test you gave last week.”

It always embarrassed me to be called ‘moreh’ outside of school. “Nice to see you,” I said, glancing towards the door. Since she was Orthodox I didn’t offer to shake her hand. “I just finished grading, tomorrow I’ll give the tests back to the class.”

“Did Aaron do alright?”

Why do parents think I know every kid’s grade by heart? “I think so,” I told her. “I don’t recall off the top of my head.”

“Remember he was very busy the night before the test preparing for his bar-mitzvah. I’m sure you agree that has to take precedence.”

Just then the red flashing light went on at the library exit and the gate made an alarm sound. We both turned to look. A man with pale blue skin and pointy ears was stuck at the locked turnstyle, looking bewildered.\

Continue. . .