The Importance of Wings Page 9

  “Yeah,” she says. “He says it’s a sign that it’s time we went back to Israel.” “But that’s crazy!”

  “I know. I tried talking him out of it, but when he decides we’re moving, we’re moving.”

  “But—,” I start, then stop. The tears feel like they’re about to gush. I blink furiously. “It’s not a sign about Israel,” I say, my voice breaking. “It has nothing to do with that. It’s the Curse—it happens to everyone who lives in that house. Don’t you know?”

  I want to tell Liat she beat the Curse. I want to tell her about the Radical Idea—the house killing itself, the Curse being defeated. But all of a sudden, I can’t say another word. I keep blinking, but I can’t stop the tears. They rush out of my eyes, like a dam crumbling, streaming down my face.

  Liat hugs me. “I don’t want to go,” she says.

  My body shakes. “But what about gym?” I ask. Another stupid question.

  Liat lets out a surprised snort. “Oh, Roxanne, forget about gym. You’ll be fine in gym. Stop worrying about it.”

  But I do worry. I worry and cry. I cry until my tears run dry. Liat and I hug and cling together until I think I can make her stay just by holding on to her. But I know I can’t. And, when my tears run out, I don’t feel better.

  Instead, there is an empty place inside me that wasn’t there before. It feels like an ache, a hole, just like the hole the Cursed House left when it burned to the ground. A hole in my heart.

  Liat said losing someone hurts so much that everything else is nothing.

  I get it now. Ema’s leaving stinks, but she’s coming back—I know she is. This is different.

  Liat and her father stick around for two more weeks. But this short time Liat and I have together seems to disappear like a puff of smoke into air. Before I know it, it’s actually time to say good-bye.

  Good-byes are new to me. I’ve never really lost anyone, not like Liat has. Maybe I’m lucky.

  A kind of numbness settles over me. I don’t feel any sadness, just the permanence of that hole. I feel like I’m watching everything from the outside. I see myself watch Liat and Yossi pack their car. I stand silently as Kathleen and Gayle each give Liat a hug. I wait quietly as Liat approaches me. “Write to me,” Liat says.

  I nod. But I wonder if Liat and I will really keep in touch. I think I needed her more than she needed me. We hug for a long time. Liat steps inside the car.

  The last thing I see on the back of the rainbow zoo car as it heads to the airport is the picture Yossi painted—of Liat, Gayle, and me each blowing a giant green bubble.

  I’m pulled out of my thoughts by Eddie’s voice.

  “Well,” he says, making a cleaning motion with his hands. “Looks like the Curse strikes again.”

  I think about ignoring him. But I find myself saying, “And you’re happy about it, aren’t you?”

  Eddie seems taken aback. “No,” he stammers. “I’m not happy. I’m just saying—”

  I don’t let him finish. “You’re a jerk,” I say, and head into the house.

  chapter twenty-four

  liat’s leaving is the bad news. Ema’s coming home in three weeks is the good news.

  I don’t understand how such an awful thing and such a wonderful thing can happen together at exactly the same time. One day I feel so sad, I think I will fall apart. Another day I feel so happy, I’m convinced I can fly. But, mostly, I feel different.

  See, I think I finally figured some things out. The truth is, my parents aren’t Carol and Mike Brady or Ma and Pa Ingalls. They never will be. If we still lived in Israel, though, Ema and Aba would speak the language perfectly, and my real name would be like everyone else’s.

  Is that better—to be like everyone else?

  Liat would say no. Before Liat, I would’ve said yes.

  I thought being American and being popular-cool-athletic were the same. But they’re not. And I thought being Israeli was something to be ashamed of. But it’s not.

  And maybe—maybe—I can be American and Israeli at the same time. Like Liat. I can try.

  In gym these days, we’re playing more indoor Wiffle ball now that the weather’s getting colder.

  Today, Donna’s captain. As usual.

  Suri, Gheeta, and I are the last to be picked. As usual.

  “Suri,” I hear.

  “Gheeta,” I hear.

  “Roxanne,” I hear.

  “It’s Ravit,” I say. “What?” Donna snarls.

  “Nothing,” I reply. “It doesn’t matter what you call me.”

  Donna scowls as I take my place with the team. Inwardly, I grin.

  This time, it’s me I see standing there, scarlet cape flaring out behind me, dark hair blowing in the wind.

  I am a sabra, and I am American.

  Y’alla.

  author’s note

  why did i set this story in the 1980s?

  Several reasons.

  First, because of my own memories. I am a child of the era of Boy George, Rubik’s Cubes, John Hughes movies, and Cabbage Patch Kids, and I enjoyed reliving the pop culture of my youth.

  I’ll also admit to another motive: lack of technology. If I had set the story today, I would have needed to incorporate an ever-changing array of twenty-first-century communications (email, texting, cells, Facebook, iPod, blogging). I wanted a story devoid of modern distractions, a story where TV reruns could actually be a part of a girl’s coming-of-age (as they were for me), a story where kids could still gather outside on stoops.

  Finally, our post–9/11 world makes any story involving Israel and the Middle East more complex than ever. While this subject has always been intricate, there was a time, believe it or not, when even that was a bit simpler.