“You can watch it on the internet. On your phone, even. It’s very famous. I’ve watched the whole series, start to finish, about six times. Wait … you don’t have internet?”

“Why would you think I do?”

That question, of all the things she’d asked him that night, was the single time he actually looked puzzled. “I don’t know, I just thought, if you were meeting me in the park, you were like me. Fed up with people telling you how to live, what you can and can’t do. I thought you wanted to be free, too.”

“I do want to be free!” she answered him stubbornly. “I’m just not sure yet of what!”

“Well, you’d better find out soon, little Shaindele. Because if someone sees you out with me, very soon you’re also going to be kicked out of Bais Yaakov and probably your family. So you’d better have a plan B.”

“B?”

“Yeah. It means another plan when your original one doesn’t work out. What was your original plan?”

“I want to be a teacher in Bais Yaakov. Like my mother, God watch over her.”

“Such a rebel!” he mocked, grinning, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. He offered her one, but she refused.

“What do you like about them?”

“About what?”

“Cigarettes. I just don’t get it.”

He took a deep drag, considering as he blew out smoke in rings under the powdery yellow halo of a streetlamp. “I don’t know. I guess the way it makes me look. Tough.”

Now she laughed, relaxing. “You don’t look tough, Duvie.”

He glanced at her, annoyed. “So what, then?”

“You look like a boy trying really hard to pretend he’s a man.”

“And you look about twelve. I mean, except for the boobs.” He stared at her pointedly.

“What makes you think you can speak to me this way, Duvie?” She was close to tears.

“Okay. I’m sorry. I ask mechilah. Let’s just have some fun, all right?” He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. She slipped decisively out of his embrace.

He shrugged, taking another deep drag on his cigarette and moving ahead. “Do what you want, little Shaindele.”

Grudgingly, she followed him to the brightly lit but somewhat seedy commercial area. There was a Black man with pink hair and tights, and groups of teenage tourists all weaving their way through ordinary working people entering McDonald’s and Ace Hardware. Her feet were cold and tired when Duvie finally said, “We’re here.”

It was a bar with a shiny black storefront and a marquee in the shape of a grand piano. It jutted out fantastically, covering their heads.

“Best jazz club in the world!” he exulted, throwing open the doors.

“Jazz?” Shaindele repeated, following close behind him.