The Importance of Wings Read online

  At 12:28, I start counting sheep. It doesn’t work. Who was the idiot who came up with that stupid idea? And why is it sheep anyway? Why isn’t it apple pies or baseballs or cheeseburgers?

  At 12:49, a key jingles in the front door.

  “Aba!” I hear Gayle shout; then comes the sound of her bounding down the stairs.

  “Motek!” I hear Aba cry. Motek means “sweetheart” in Hebrew.

  I pull the covers over my head.

  Now the conversation in the kitchen is growing animated. I pick up words—“Cursed House,” “sold in one day,” “new neighbors.” I turn over twice, but it’s useless. Sighing, I pull myself out of bed and head downstairs.

  The light in the kitchen is brighter than I expect. I stand in the doorway, squinting and feeling self-conscious in my flimsy pajamas. Aba looks up and says, “Motek, you were sleeping?”

  “No,” Gayle answers with a smile. “Roxanne was pretending.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” I protest.

  Aba motions for me to join him and Gayle at the kitchen table. As usual, he’s made peppermint tea. Steam curls out of the three mugs on the table. Three mugs—one for me, too.

  I sigh again. “Aba, I’m sick of this,” I say. My throat tightens, but I ignore it and go on. “Why did she have to leave? When is she coming back?”

  Gayle stares alertly at our father. We’ve asked him this question a hundred times, but he’s never really given us an answer.

  “Soon,” he says. “Very soon.”

  You’d think we’d press him further on this, but we’ve done that, and it’s never gotten us anywhere.

  “Family is important,” he says quietly.

  That gets me. “But we’re her family, too,” I say. “What about us?”

  Aba looks down into his mug. He doesn’t answer my question. “She will come home soon,” he says.

  We’re quiet for a few seconds. I take a sip of my tea. I want to cry, but at the same time, I want to be strong. Being strong stinks.

  “Can you … read her letter again?” Gayle asks.

  Every night, Gayle asks Aba to read Ema‘s last letter. This latest one we got seven days ago, without vowels. Aba reaches into his back pocket. It occurs to me he probably keeps the letter with him all the time. Does he read it when he’s taking a break? Does he study it when he’s lined up with all the other taxis in front of Penn Station?

  “I miss you all so much,” Aba reads out loud in Hebrew. “I think about you every minute of every day. I’m sorry you’re not happy about the food. I promise that when I come back, we’ll have a feast. I promise. I’ll be back soon. Very soon.”

  Even Ema won’t answer the question.

  chapter four

  gym is the worst idea ever invented.

  Congress should ban it.

  I wish someone would blow up the gym and get it over with.

  It’s the only class where my hands sweat. If gym didn’t exist, I wouldn’t know hands could sweat. It’s like those sweat glands are marked For Gym Use Only.

  I haven’t slept well, and the next morning, the last thing I want to think about is the twice-a-week torture known as gym. I’ve had strange dreams all night involving my mother, murderous Hebrew vowels, and mugs of scalding peppermint tea.

  But I do have to think about gym. I have to make sure I wear hole-free panties and my nicest bra. As I wriggle into a satiny white bra, I’m reminded once again of how much I

  a. pray for a crazed wacko to set off explosives in the gym

  b. wish i could turn into wonder woman

  c. long to have my hair work

  If I were my sister’s age, the hair issue would be nonexistent. I would wear it straight with bangs like Gayle does and be done with it, and nobody would think anything.

  But I’m in eighth grade, and in eighth grade you need wings. The hair on each side of your face has to be meticulously rolled into feathery snake-curls, and these curls have to last perfectly all day long. Since I can’t make my hair do that, I pull it back with brown barrettes and pretend I have a reason for being the most uncool person in school.

  After homeroom, my hands begin their steady spiral toward cold clamminess as I head to gym. I file into the girls’ locker room for the ritual Undressing. My hands are slippery as I claw my way out of my clothes. I can’t tell you how barbarian it is to throw a bunch of girls together into a room and force them to take off their clothes in front of each other. It has taught me, though, to be the fastest changer on earth. In five seconds flat, I’m in my sweat suit.

  Most girls change into shorts, but I need the physical and emotional protection of baggy sweatpants. Once we’re all changed, our Too-Chirpy Gym Teacher informs us we’re playing indoor Wiffle ball. My stomach plunges eighteen stories. Indoor Wiffle ball is as ferocious and bewildering as any civilized sport can be. The Wiffle ball constantly ricochets off everything in the gym, hurtling unpredictably in all directions, so you never know when it’s going to smash into your nose.

  Being outside for softball instead of inside for Wiffle ball is semi-decent, because you can hide in the outfield. If you’re lucky, you might spend the entire period milling around without having to play at all. Sometimes a ball will come at you, causing a momentary crisis, but nobody is that good in eighth grade. You can miss it without suffering horrible consequences. Besides, I always make sure to stand really far back in the outfield.

  See, all balls seem as hard as rocks to me. I always duck when they come toward me instead of trying to catch them. It’s a reflex I can’t change. I know being good at sports is one of the requirements of being American. But I can’t transcend my spazzness, and this is a constant source of humiliation for me.

  Our Too-Chirpy Gym Teacher picks two captains and tells them to choose players for their teams. I can’t imagine a worse way to do this. My classmates are picked off until it’s only me, Gheeta, and Suri. Gheeta and Suri can barely speak English and look strange and smell funny. Why am I in their category?

  a. because i’m a spazz?

  b. because i’m a fake american, too?

  I hear my name called and feel a rush of euphoria. I’m picked before Gheeta and Suri! With a grin, I join my team.

  “What are you so happy about?” Donna growls at me.

  The grin quickly disappears from my face.

  Donna is the scariest person I know. She lives around the corner from us. She smokes, dates boys who are older than her, has perfect wings and makeup, and is fantastic at sports. Her gym clothes—tight blue shorts and tight white top—provide a fascinating show for the boys on the other side of the gym. Whenever she moves, part of her butt peeks out of her shorts.

  I wish I had one iota of the Americanness Donna possesses. I take a step away from her, and she turns back to her friends.

  As predicted, indoor Wiffle ball is a nightmare. The deafening echo of the ball combined with the loud screech of sneakers on the wooden floor makes me totally paranoid. But the ball never comes near me, so I don’t have to catch it, and the class ends before it’s my turn to hit. I’m safe again till next time.

  The rest of the day is okay. When I get home, I choose a can of sliced mushrooms from the kitchen cupboard. I’m opening it when Gayle gets home.

  “Hello,” she says cheerily, taking off her backpack. She studies my can of mushrooms. “We’re out of cereal?”

  “Yup,” I say.

  Gayle opens the fridge.

  “There’s no yogurt either,” I say, as I fork mushrooms into my mouth. “I’ll split this with you.”

  Gayle frowns. Then her face lights up. “Let’s get hot dogs from Kathleen,” she says excitedly.

  Since Ema left, food has become a never-ending source of

  a. distress

  b. aggravation.

  c. starvation

  d. extinction

  Aba‘s idea of eating is a kitchen cupboard filled with nasty cans of “ethnic food” from a grocery store on the Lower East Side, though there ar
e occasional treasures such as mushrooms. And he can’t cook anything except hijeh, a kind of Israeli omelet with vegetables.

  Gayle and I have resorted to buying food from Kathleen. It’s pathetic, I know, but it beats scavenging in garbage cans like a couple of homeless people.

  Gayle opens her backpack and pulls out a little gold purse. “I’ve got two dollars,” she says brightly. “That should be enough for four hot dogs.”

  We walk to Kathleen’s house, which is next door to Margo’s. We pass the Cursed House on the way. It looks the same. I can’t believe some very unlucky human beings are going to move into it.

  “I wonder how long before the new people move in,” Gayle says, echoing my thoughts.

  “Soon, I guess,” I say.

  “I wonder …” Gayle begins but stops.

  I know what she’s thinking: I wonder what terrible things will happen to them.

  When we reach Kathleen’s house, we see her brothers and sisters throwing a red Frisbee on their front lawn. Kathleen’s front lawn isn’t really a lawn.

  The grass is trampled away because her family is always using it to play sports.

  Kathleen’s family is super-athletic, super-Irish, and super-American—like the Kennedys, really. My family doesn’t even own a Frisbee. Kathleen has so many brothers and sisters, I can hardly keep track of everybody. Her house bustles with constant comings and goings. It’s lively and full and fun—it reminds me of The Brady Bunch. It never feels lonely or empty or food-extinct.

  Kathleen and Eddie are sitting on her front stoop next to her oldest brother, Glenn—who is usually mean and is always red-bumped-pimply-faced—all watching the Frisbee game. My heart begins to thump loudly. I don’t want this stupid hot dog exchange to take place in front of Eddie.

  But when Kathleen sees Gayle and me, she gets up and walks over, leaving Eddie on the stoop. Eddie seems unhappy about it. I guess he can’t stand being away from the love of his life for even one minute. Glenn must notice this, because he suddenly punches Eddie in the arm.

  “Eddie has a girlfriend,” he says in a singsong voice.

  “Shut up,” Eddie says, getting up.

  We leave them and follow Kathleen into the house, right to the kitchen, where Kathleen’s mother is feeding Mikey. Mikey’s gurgling in his high chair, his little face smeared with mushy green peas.

  “Hi there, girls,” Kathleen’s mother says pleasantly.

  “Do we have hot dogs, Mom?” Kathleen asks.

  “Behind the American cheese,” Kathleen’s mother answers.

  Kathleen opens the fridge and moves food around. “I don’t see them,” she calls over her shoulder.

  Kathleen’s mother shuts her eyes as if in deep thought. “Check behind the cupcakes. No, the chocolate milk.”

  Mikey knocks a bag of potato chips to the kitchen floor. Ruffled yellow chips scatter everywhere.

  “Oh, Mikey!” Kathleen groans.

  “It’s all right,” Kathleen’s mother soothes. “There’s a bag of Doritos in the cupboard.”

  I can hardly contain myself. I exchange a quick glance with Gayle, lick my lips, and ravenously eye the crumbly trail of potato chips on Kathleen’s kitchen floor. Hot dogs, American cheese, cupcakes, chocolate milk, potato chips, Doritos. These are the kinds of foods that are missing from our house—delicious American junk foods. Ema and Aba can’t even pronounce Doritos, much less know what they are or understand their importance.

  Kathleen finally finds the hot dogs. She wraps four of them in foil.

  When we get back outside, Margo Defino is stepping out of her house in a tight red dress and red high heels. Her boyfriend, a crater-faced guy whose name I can never remember, slips an arm around her waist as they walk to his car. When Margo sees us, she waves.

  “Where are you going?” Kathleen shouts.

  Margo stops and yells back, “The city for dinner and dancing.” She shakes her hips.

  We all watch as Crater Face opens the car door for her, helps her inside, and goes around to his side of the car. Margo waves one more time before they drive away.

  Eddie comes over to stand next to Kathleen. Kathleen eyes him with newfound interest.

  I feel suddenly and totally morose. Margo has a boyfriend who takes her to the city for dinner and dancing. Kathleen has Eddie, a mom at home, Doritos, cupcakes, an older-brother bodyguard, and plenty of other siblings to fill her house with activity.

  I look down sadly at the package of hot dogs in my hand. If you’d asked me right then and there whether I’d ever

  a. feel okay about my hair

  b. accept gym

  c. watch less tv

  d. stop missing my mother

  I would have said no.

  chapter five

  on saturday mornings, Gayle and I get up early to watch cartoons. Yeah, I know—this is little kids’ turf. I should be sleeping late on Saturday mornings. I should be in bed till noon. But I get bored just lying around. Besides, one of my favorite shows is on Saturday mornings.

  Super Friends is about all the great American superheroes—Superman, Batman and Robin, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, and the Wonder Twins—living together in a place called the Hall of Justice and fighting crime together.

  The Wonder Twins are purplish and have weird, pointy faces. They morph into things. Usually, they touch their fists together and say, “Wonder Twin Powers, activate!” Then Jayna, the girl twin, says, “Shape of a gorilla!”—she always seems to choose apes—and Zan, the boy twin, says, “Form of water!” He always seems to end up being carried around in a bucket, but sometimes he turns into something useful, like an ice rocket.

  Aba always gets up after Super Friends ends. Since Saturday is the busiest night in the city, when almost everyone needs a taxi, he starts working in the afternoon. He usually doesn’t get home till the next morning. He shuffles into the kitchen as Gayle and I are watching The Smurfs.

  He blinks at the TV. “What’s that?” he asks with distaste.

  “Smurfs,” Gayle answers merrily. “La-LA-lala-la-LA,” she sings.

  “Hah?” Aba asks.

  “That’s the theme song,” Gayle explains. “La-LA-lala-la-LA.”

  “Team song?”

  “Theme,” Gayle repeats. “Th-eme.” “Team,” Aba says. “No, not t. Th.”

  My father tries to pronounce the word again but can’t. All Israelis seem to have trouble with th.

  “I guess I no say it,” Aba says.

  “I guess I can’t say it,” I correct. It’s always been my job to correct my parents’ English.

  “I guess I can’t say it,” he repeats, then asks, “Ready soon?”

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “The mall,” Aba answers definitively, as if there is no other destination on Earth worth considering.

  “I want my own moussaka this time,” Gayle says.

  “Okay, okay,” Aba says with amusement. He turns to me. “You want your own moussaka too?”

  “I guess,” I reply.

  Sometimes I wonder what American families do on Saturdays. I’m sure they do more interesting things than what we do. I’m sure they do American things like bowling, or roller-skating, or swimming, or going to the movies, or going on a picnic.

  We go to the Staten Island Mall.

  Shopping at a mall is a very American thing, but not like we do it. If we were doing it the right way, Ema would take us, and actually buy us things, and treat us to lunch at the restaurant inside Macy’s, where I would order a strawberry sundae with whipped cream. You can’t get more American than that. I bet Donna and her mom do it all the time.

  But Aba has a whole different routine. First, we go to Sears to browse in the hardware department—fun for him, torture for us. Then we go to the food court for Greek food—the closest we can get to Israeli food. After we eat, Aba looks at tires or something equally boring, while Gayle and I pine for designer jeans like the kind Donna wears from Merry-Go-Round or The Limited. Sometimes we play i
n the arcade.

  Nothing special happens with Aba‘s mall routine today, except that Gayle beats me twice at Donkey Kong. When we get back home, a white truck is sitting in the driveway of the Cursed House. It looks like a moving truck. Two red-faced men are closing the back with a loud rumble.

  “The new neighbors!” Gayle exclaims.

  I’m not the kind of person who can just go up to total strangers, but Gayle jumps out of the car and races up to the men.

  “Are you them?” she asks brightly.

  The men eye each other in confusion. “What, hon’?” one asks.

  “Are you the new neighbors?” she asks, jumping up and down.

  The man chuckles. “No, hon’. We’re the movers.”

  “Oh,” Gayle says, sounding disappointed. “Then where are they?”

  The man checks his watch. “They should be here soon. We just finished moving everything.”

  Gayle watches as the two men climb into their truck and drive away. The truck belches black smoke as it rounds the corner.

  My father gets out of the car. “I get ready for work,” he says.

  “The new neighbors are going to be here soon,” Gayle says excitedly, pointing to the spot where the truck was parked a few seconds ago.

  Aba looks over to where Gayle’s pointing. “Looks like I miss it,” he replies.

  I’m about to correct my father’s English, but I don’t.

  It occurs to me that Ema and Aba miss a lot of important things.

  chapter six

  after my father leaves for the city, Gayle and I flip through channels, but Saturday afternoons are pretty bad TV-wise. There’s just too many sports. This is yet another American thing I’m not good at. Not only am I terrible at playing sports, but I get bored watching them, too.

  I think about ringing Kathleen’s doorbell, but her family is always busy with something on Saturdays. I have a ton of homework to do, but the thought of doing it is unbearable to me. Still, it looks like there isn’t much else going on. I’m about to go up to my room when Gayle yells, “Roxanne! Look!”