The Importance of Wings Read online

  She’s crouched in front of the living room window. I walk to the window and look out, but Gayle cries, “Get down or they’ll see you!”

  I lower myself next to her. Like a couple of bank robbers hiding from the police, we peek furtively over the top of the windowsill.

  A car is parked in the driveway of the Cursed House. It’s the strangest car I’ve ever seen. It’s a station wagon—the kind the Bradys have—but it’s covered with pictures. Except for the windshields and windows, not one inch isn’t painted with something—and all the pictures seem to be of plants and animals. There doesn’t seem to be any organization to it, either. There’s an animal that looks like a moose painted next to a cactus, and a palm tree next to a polar bear. The roof has a giant painting of snow-capped mountains.

  “Is that an anteater?” I whisper to Gayle, pointing to a picture on the right side of the car.

  “Hmmm,” Gayle replies. “Maybe an armadillo.”

  “Right, armadillo,” I say, then add, “Maybe you should bring down your animal encyclopedia. It looks like we might need it.”

  Gayle giggles. “Hey, that looks like an alligator. But why is it next to a penguin?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “Maybe it’s a riddle.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for the new neighbors to come out of their freaky car. The first person to get out is the driver. He turns out to be freakier than the car. He has long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, and he’s wearing white pants, a white jacket, and a black shirt open down to his belly button.

  “These people are weird,” I murmur.

  Gayle turns to me. “Well, look where they’re living.”

  The passenger door opens and a girl steps out. A girl that looks about my age. She has thick black hair down to her waist and olive-colored skin. She isn’t wearing anything strange, just jeans and a sweatshirt with a picture of a unicorn on it. The man and the girl disappear inside the house. Gayle and I continue staring out the window, but nothing else happens.

  “Should we say hello?” Gayle finally asks.

  “No,” I say quickly. “They probably have a lot of unpacking to do. We shouldn’t bother them.”

  “Yeah,” Gayle says sadly. She gazes at their car. “Who painted all those pictures?”

  “I dunno,” I answer.

  Gayle stretches. “Wanna play Legos?”

  “No, I’ve got a lot of homework.”

  Gayle frowns. “Yeah, me too.”

  She gives the car one final stare, then goes upstairs. Reluctantly, I follow her.

  The new neighbors probably do have a lot of unpacking to do, but that isn’t the reason I told Gayle we shouldn’t stop by. The very idea of dropping in on them horrifies me. That girl with the black hair and olive skin has to be my age, and

  a. what if she doesn’t like me?

  b. what if she picks on me?

  c. what if she’s scary like donna?

  I’m not going near her. Not ever.

  I sit at the desk in my room and pull out my schoolbooks. It looks like homework is going to be today’s activity. I console myself with the fact that tonight, after all the sports, Gayle and I will watch better TV.

  I’m halfway through social studies when I hear a car starting. I peek at the Cursed House from my window. The picture-painted station wagon is pulling away, but the girl isn’t in it. The girl’s sitting on the front stoop—just sitting there, doing nothing.

  I stare at her, trying to decide what kind of girl she is. A few clues are encouraging. For one, she doesn’t have wings. This can mean several things:

  a. she doesn’t know how to make wings, which is good

  b. she doesn’t care about having them, which is good

  c. she’s from another country, like gheeta and suri, and doesn’t do that sort of thing, which is good

  Her jeans aren’t tight, and they aren’t designer like Jordache, Sasson, or Sergio Valente. This is also good.

  She isn’t doing anything cruel like squashing ants. More good.

  I continue gazing at the girl, wondering what she’s like. I get up from my desk and creep silently down the stairs. My only intention is to spy on her from the living room window. But the minute I walk in front of the window, the girl turns around. Her eyes meet mine through the glass.

  The girl makes a motion with her hands. A wave. No, a “Come on down” gesture, like from The Price Is Right. Well, I can’t ignore her now. I take a deep breath and start for the front door. I can still see her through the window as I move toward the door, and, at that moment, the girl blows a huge green bubble that collapses on her face. My hand freezes on the doorknob.

  The girl chews gum.

  Bad, bad, bad sign.

  But the front door opens under my hand, and I find myself standing in the doorway.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I reply in a voice that sounds strange to me.

  I know she’s waiting for me to walk outside and act like a normal person, but I can’t make myself take another step.

  She reaches into her front pocket. “Want some Bubblicious?” she asks, holding out a packet of green gum. She studies the label. “It’s a new flavor—apple. It doesn’t taste like a real apple, but it’s pretty good.”

  I don’t reply or move, but what she says nearly knocks me over. How many girls would admit to liking apples? How many girls would compare the newest flavor of Bubblicious to real fruit—as if somehow a real apple was better?

  I’ve always wanted to tell people that watermelon-flavored Jolly Ranchers don’t taste like real watermelon, but I don’t, because they’d think I was a loser for saying such a stupid thing. Before I can stop myself, though, my mouth says, “Jolly Ranchers never taste like their fruit either.”

  The girl nods. “Especially watermelon,” she says.

  I want to do a dance. Instead, I walk toward her. The girl holds out the packet of gum to me. I help myself to a piece.

  “This is a nice neighborhood,” the girl says.

  I nearly choke on my Bubblicious.

  “The neighborhood we lived in before wasn’t this nice,” she continues. “But the one before that was really nice.”

  “How many places have you lived?” I ask, not believing I’m actually having a conversation with this girl, who seemed so terrifying a moment ago.

  “A lot of places,” she replies. She flips her hair out of her face. It’s gorgeous hair, even without the wings.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Liat.”

  My eyes widen. “Liat?” “Yeah. What’s yours?”

  For a moment, I don’t answer. Finally, I reply, “Roxanne.”

  “That’s really nice,” she says.

  I have a cousin in Israel named Liat. Ema’s girlfriend in Brooklyn is named Liat. Liat is an Israeli name.

  “My dad’s name is Yossi,” she goes on. “You’re Israeli!” I blurt out like an idiot. “Yeah,” she says warily.

  It occurs to me that she might not understand my reaction. “We’re Israeli, too,” I say quickly.

  “You are?” she asks. “Then why’s your name Roxanne?”

  I shut my mouth abruptly. This is a subject I carefully avoid.

  “I changed it,” I say simply.

  Usually people ask, “From what?” but Liat just nods.

  The front door opens and Gayle flies out. “I heard you,” she says to me in a tone that sounds like an accusation.

  “What’s your name?” Liat asks.

  Gayle turns to her. “Gayle.”

  Liat winks. “Gotcha, Gayle.”

  Gayle gives me a funny look. I feel like I should say something, but at that moment, Joe and his dumb little friends stride up the sidewalk.

  “That’s Joe,” Gayle announces. “He lives down the block.”

  “Yeah,” Joe says in a swaggering tone. “Who’re you?”

  Liat fixes Joe with a steady gaze. “Liat,” she replies coolly.

  I can te
ll Joe doesn’t like Liat’s tone one bit. “Yeah, well, that’s a weird name,” he says. “And your house is Cursed. So you better watch out.”

  “Yeah,” some of the other boys echo. “You better watch out.”

  If I were in this situation, my face would immediately burn red.

  But Liat doesn’t even blink. Without missing a beat, she says, “No, you better watch out. Because if you bother me, I’ll put a Curse on you.”

  chapter seven

  gayle and i exchange looks of amazement.

  Joe mumbles something about the house being Cursed again and shuffles off with his little friends in tow.

  “You showed him,” Gayle says proudly.

  Liat shrugs. “He’s just a little kid.”

  I frown. Joe is just a little kid. Liat has stated the obvious. And yet I’ve always been afraid of him because he’s so mean. It makes me feel like a moron. Have I been terrified all this time of a peewee?

  Liat holds out the green packet of Bubblicious to my sister.

  “Ooh, apple,” Gayle purrs in pleasure, taking a piece and popping it into her mouth. “My favorite’s regular, but grape’s good, too.”

  Now that Joe has stormed off, I think Liat will ask us to explain the Curse.

  But she doesn’t.

  I think she’ll ask us which school she’ll be going to and what it’s like. But she doesn’t.

  I think she’ll ask us about the other kids on the block and whether they’re all nasty like Joe. But she doesn’t.

  If I were Liat, those are the questions I would ask. But Liat asks us about our parents. Yes, our parents. “What are their names?”

  “Ruth and Adam,” Gayle replies, her mouth moving in great, slow, chewing motions.

  “Biblical names,” Liat murmurs. “So, they fit right in, I guess.”

  I raise my eyebrows. My parents definitely do not fit in. “What do you mean?”

  “Their names sound like American names,” Liat replies. “Because they’re from the Bible.”

  “Oh,” I mutter in bewilderment.

  “My dad’s name is Joseph, which is a biblical name, too,” Liat goes on, “but he likes Yossi. So even though it’s easier for him to use Joseph, he uses Yossi.”

  I think about that. Liat’s father would rather have a name that’s troublesome, because he likes it, than change it. For a moment, I feel guilty.

  Liat seems to sense this, because she asks, “Did you get made fun of a lot?”

  I study her intently, not sure if I can trust her. Before I can answer, though, Gayle chimes in, “Oh, yeah. Roxanne got made fun of a lot. But not me so much.”

  I feel my face flame. I want to strangle Gayle. But Liat says in a kind voice, “I understand. Americans don’t like anything too strange.” She smiles at me. “What was your Israeli name?”

  I don’t want to say it. I hate saying it. The reason my name is Roxanne is because my old name brought me only pain and suffering.

  From the earliest time I can remember, kids called me “rabbit” and “ravioli,” and one horrible boy even made up a rhyme that he relentlessly sang to me:

  Ra-VEET! Rah-Vo!

  Bah-Ben!

  Bah-Boe!

  It wasn’t so much the lyrics themselves that bothered me—they didn’t mean anything, anyway. It was the fact that he was giving me the wrong kind of male attention. Other girls were getting invited to rollerskating parties; I was being musically mortified.

  “Ravit,” I say in a near-whisper.

  “That’s pretty,” Liat replies.

  “Not here,” I retort angrily.

  Normally, people argue. But Liat only says, “Yeah, you’re right. But in Israel it would be beautiful.”

  Beautiful?

  Liat’s right. In Israel, Ravit would be like Jennifer or Michelle. A beautiful girl’s name.

  “How’d you pick Roxanne?” Liat asks.

  “Oh, I just kind of liked it,” I say.

  This is a lie. I’ve never told anyone the real reason.

  I picked it because in fifth grade Roxanne Morrow was the most popular girl in school, inexplicably adored by girls and boys, teachers and lunch ladies, even the janitor. I mistakenly believed that if I called myself Roxanne, too, the glittering sheen of her popularity would magically rub off on me. So when we entered sixth grade in the new middle school, I became Roxanne.

  Of course, I was totally wrong.

  I never saw Roxanne Morrow again. I think she transferred to Catholic school that year. And nobody teased me—or even noticed—my renaming. I guess having an American name doesn’t automatically make you popular.

  “What were you?” Liat asks Gayle.

  “Gili,” she answers.

  “That’s pretty, too,” Liat says.

  Gayle beams. Then she asks the question I’m dying to know the answer to. “How come you never changed your name?”

  Liat leans back against the stoop. “I guess I didn’t want to.”

  I feel guilty again, and my Bubblicious is losing its flavor. Or maybe it’s the lousy taste in my mouth.

  Liat asks, “How old were you when you came to America?”

  “Five,” I reply.

  “I was one,” Gayle answers excitedly. “I was a baby.”

  “I was five, too,” Liat says, nodding at me. Then she asks, “What do your parents do?”

  “Ema works at a nursing home,” Gayle says. “She wipes old people’s butts all day. But she’s in Israel now, taking care of her sister. Her sister has cancer.” She pauses. “Aba drives a taxi in Manhattan. What do your parents do?”

  “My father’s a painter,” Liat replies. “My mom died.”

  This statement hushes Gayle immediately. I know it’s rude to be nosy, but I can’t help it. “When?” I ask.

  Liat looks me right in the eye. “When I was four. She was killed by a bomb. It exploded in a bus station in Tel Aviv.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

  We hear a car. The painted station wagon hurries down the street and pulls into the driveway. Liat’s father gets out of the driver’s side. From the passenger’s side, the strangest woman I’ve ever seen in my whole life steps out.

  Her hair is the color of a peeled banana. It’s long and frizzy and looks weird against her dark skin. She’s wearing a lacy white top that’s see-through, and I can make out a tiger-print bra underneath. Her skirt is made of black leather, and she wears it below her belly button, which is outlined in a blue circle.

  “Booba!” she yells in a high, scratchy voice, running toward us. She throws her arms around Liat, enveloping her in a bear hug. When they finally part, she looks curiously at us. “Mee zeh?” she asks, which means “Who is this?” in Hebrew.

  Liat is smiling. “This is Rivka. My dad’s girlfriend.”

  I study Rivka. She’s a weirdo.

  “This is Roxanne and Gayle,” Liat says. “They live here.” She points to our house.

  Liat’s father walks over to us. He looks even more ridiculous up close.

  “You make friends already, eh, booba?” he says in a merry voice. Booba means “doll.”

  His accent is thick, much thicker than my parents’. And he’s much more clueless about clothing than my parents ever were.

  “Y’alla!” Rivka exclaims, which means “Let’s go!” She places a hand on my shoulder. “We eat.”

  I glance in confusion at Liat. Rivka says again, “Y’alla. You three boobot.”

  Liat grins at us. “Rivka is an awesome cook.”

  Rivka’s hands explode into a frenzy of gestures. “We have feast, eh? Falafel, hummus, baba ghanoush, tabbouleh, borekas, kubeh. Y’alla. We eat.”

  I shrug at Gayle, and we follow them into their house. I’m actually drooling over the possibility of having such a feast.

  I almost forget we’re entering the Cursed House. We’ve never been inside it. Gayle suddenly grips my arm.

  I look carefully around me, expecting a giant Komodo dra
gon to tear out of a closet or something.

  But nothing happens. The house is completely normal. It’s mostly empty except for lots of cardboard boxes.

  Rivka leads the way into the kitchen, muttering to herself in Hebrew, and pulls pots, pans, bowls, and platters out of boxes. She also takes great quantities of things out of the refrigerator.

  In a matter of minutes, Rivka has us working—rolling falafel balls, roasting eggplant for the baba ghanoush, chopping parsley for the tabbouleh, slicing pita bread. It reminds me so much of Ema, I feel like I’m in a parallel universe. Gayle and I always helped Ema cook—except we asked her to make American foods, like meat loaf and mashed potatoes and pot roast and green bean casserole. Even though I’ve had these Israeli foods before, I’ve never actually made them. It feels strange, but in a good way.

  It takes almost two hours to get Rivka’s Israeli feast ready, but it’s fun. It’s like a party. It’s when I’m popping my fifth falafel ball into my mouth that I realize Gayle and I will miss The Love Boat on TV if we don’t get going soon.

  Normally, this would bother me a lot, but today it doesn’t.

  chapter eight

  we see aba the next morning for a little while before he has to leave for work again.

  “And we had beera schora, too. It was great,” Gayle tells him triumphantly.

  My sister has just finished describing our feast at Liat’s house in all its glory. She seems especially dazzled by the beera schora, which means “black beer.” Black beer isn’t really beer. It’s a kind of malted drink Israelis love.

  “So, they’re nice neighbors,” Aba says. “They’re Israeli.”

  “Yeah!” Gayle cries excitedly.

  “And he paints,” Aba says.

  “Yeah,” Gayle replies. “He painted the pictures on their car. But he paints houses to make money.”

  My dad nods thoughtfully. I wonder if he’s dreaming of the latex paint department at Sears. A little later, he leaves for Manhattan.

  Gayle goes to the fridge and pulls out the packages of foil-wrapped leftovers Rivka gave us. She spreads them out on the table and unwraps each one, then happily hands me a fork.