Excerpt from The Life and Crimes of Hoodie Rosen by Isaac Blum, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

When I took walks, I always liked to wear my suit jacket and hat. I wanted to look sharp and distinguished. "Respectable" was the word my dad always used.

It was still summer, and the neighborhood smelled like grass clippings. I could hear the buzz of a distant mower. A welcome breeze swayed the trees that lined the streets.

Usually I walked slowly, lost in my thoughts. I paid no attention to where I was, or where I was going. But today I moved with purpose, walking the grid of streets in a systematic fashion, making sure I at least glanced down every road.

I saw her on Cellan. She was pulling at the leash, trying to drag the dog along, but the little thing had found an interesting scent at the base of a tree, and he was digging in, keeping his weight low, trying to hold his ground.

I walked toward her slowly, growing more and more nervous with each step. I'd never spoken to one of the neighborhood girls. Yeshiva students aren't allowed to talk to girls, let alone girls dressed like this one. I didn't really want to talk to her. It was more like I had to. I was drawn toward her, as though pulled by some kind of sci-fi tractor beam.

It was Tu B'Av. She was dressed in white. Maybe this was what God wanted from me.

She was too busy struggling with the dog to see me approach. I tried to think of a clever way to start a conversation. "Um," I said. After weighing many outstanding options, I'd decided "Um" was the best choice.

"Oh," she said, and looked up.

The dog took the opportunity to scramble toward the tree, sniffing it audibly. While the girl stared at me, the dog peed on the tree.

The girl looked at me like I had eight heads.

"Nice hat," she said.

She had deep brown eyes, and jet-black hair pulled up in a scrunchie.

"Thanks," I said. "It's a Borsalino." The hat was my most prized possession, a bar mitzvah gift from my parents. When she didn't respond, I told her the hat was Italian.

"Okay," she said.

I shifted my weight uncomfortably. I was sweating. The breeze had died and it was blazing hot out, so maybe that was it.

I wanted to get away. I could tell that she did too. When the dog started pulling on the leash, a look of relief appeared on her face, and she took a step away from me.

"What's the dog's name?" I asked. I hadn't meant to ask. I'd meant to say nothing. I'd meant to let her walk away so I could peacefully live out the rest of my life without ever feeling this uncomfortable again. But I'd spoken, almost against my will.

"Borneo," she said. "Like the island."

I'd never heard of Borneo, but I didn't want her to know that. "Oh yeah," I said, "the island. In the ... ocean." That's where the islands were, right? In the ocean. "What's your name?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Anna-Marie." And she gave a last name too, Diaz-something, but I missed it.

"Crap," I said. I basically didn't have any control over my words at this point.

"Huh?" she asked.

When I asked her name, I'd been holding out hope she'd be a Chaya or an Esther. But no. She was an Anna-Marie. Just Anna would have provided a sliver of hope. I knew from the shorts that she wasn't super observant, definitely not frum, like me. But unhyphenated Anna could have been a Jew at least, if a secular one. Some secular Jews lived in the area. There was a reform synagogue and a delicatessen in the next town.

But Anna-Marie? There literally wasn't a more goyishe name.

When Anna-Marie moved her arm to pull on the dog's leash, a cross appeared above the collar of her shirt. It jumped back and forth on a silver chain just above her bare collarbone. I watched it in despair.

She moved to leave again.

"I'm Hoodie," I said.

"Like the sweatshirt." I motioned as though to pull a hood over my head.

Anna-Marie reached out to shake hands. I looked at her hand. She had slender fingers, each nail carefully painted an aquamarine color. Aquamarine. Anna- Marie. I wanted to shake Anna-Marie's aquamarine hand desperately. I looked behind me to see if anybody was watching. Nobody was. But I still couldn't do it. I was a bar mitzvah, and I wasn't married to her, so I wasn't allowed to touch her. I just stared at her hand until she took it away.

Excerpted from The Life and Crimes of Hoodie Rosen by Isaac Blum. Copyright © 2022 by Isaac Blum. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.