The Importance of Wings (11 page)

A growing pain inside me feels so sharp it’s as though an invisible knife has reached into my very heart, splaying it open, leaving it bloody and mutilated.

“Roxanne! I’m here!”

I turn. Liat is standing to the side, away from the crowd, waving at me frantically. Her father stands behind her, bare-chested, his arms wrapped around her. Their eyes are red and puffy.

“Liat!” My relief is so strong it comes with a boatload of hot tears.

I run to her, wanting to squeeze her whole self to me—but when I get there, I’m overcome by a powerful shyness. Thankfully, Liat ignores it and pulls me into a smothering hug.

“Please clear the area!”

The firefighters are shooing us away.

“Please stay back. Please move away.”

Some of the people in the crowd begin to go home. But Liat and I stay. We stand as close as the firefighters will allow us, holding hands, and watch the fire until it’s over.

It isn’t until the sun has risen over Brookfield Avenue that the fire finally dies down. By then, the fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances have left our block, crawling away as if in a parade. As sunshine illuminates the street, the extent of the damage becomes clear.

The Cursed House has burned to the ground.

Yet no other houses on the block, including the two on either side of it—ours and Margo’s—have suffered any damage at all.

When I look at the spot, it’s as if the Cursed House had never been there in the first place. All that’s left is a charred foundation. In fact, when I try to remember what it looked like, I find my memory curiously blank. All I know is that it was bright pink.

In the days following the fire, Liat and her father move into Rivka’s apartment.

The Staten Island Fire Department cannot explain how the fire started. It wasn’t arson, they say. It also wasn’t an electrical malfunction.

In an article in the
Staten Island Advance,
the fire chief is quoted as saying, “I know this is going to sound funny, but we simply cannot find the cause. If you ask me, it’s as if the house spontaneously combusted.”

I remember learning about spontaneous combustion in science lab last year. A Radical Idea begins to form in my mind.

This Radical Idea starts out small but gets huge by week’s end. It’s so big, in fact, I can’t get it out of my head.

See, everything I know about Liat, and the Cursed House, tells me it’s absolutely right. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to share it. Very few people would understand.

It’s only when Gayle brings it up that I even say it out loud.

It’s two weeks after the fire, and Gayle and I are walking home from school. We’re silent most of the way until Gayle suddenly blurts out, “I think the Cursed House killed itself.”

I inhale sharply. My teeth make a whistling sound. “I think so, too,” I say.

I struggle to fashion my jumbled thoughts into coherent words. “I think that when Liat moved in … she … defeated the Curse. She beat it. So the Cursed House … destroyed itself. And now, without it, there’s no Curse anymore.”

Gayle nods vigorously.

We never mention it again.

But some people on the block, like Eddie, don’t see it our way.

They say the fire is only the latest example of the terrible reliability of the Curse. Even when we point out that no one got hurt in the fire and that the Cursed House itself is now gone, they insist the Curse struck again.

Some people even believe a new house will be built on that spot one day, and that it will be Cursed, too. But they’re wrong. Gayle and I are right.

Even if a new house goes up on that spot one day, the Curse itself is gone. Liat conquered it.

it’s almost thanksgiving now,
and I’ve decided I won’t let it be like Rosh Hashanah. Just because
Ema
can’t be here doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate. And this year, we’re going to have Israeli foods on the menu in addition to the traditional American foods. I’m going to make Old-Fashioned Yankee Spiced Cake—and
jachnun
too. I’m going to invite Liat, Yossi, and Rivka. It’s going to be the best Thanksgiving ever.

I’m in my room, writing out the giant list of ingredients I will need from the supermarket. Liat’s with me. We’re both sprawled on the floor, blowing giant green bubbles that are collapsing stickily on our cheeks.

It reminds me of the first day I met Liat, that afternoon I saw her sitting alone on the stoop of the Cursed House, blowing big green bubbles.

Liat is unusually quiet. She scrapes three strands of gum off her face. “We’re leaving, Roxanne,” she says softly.

“What?” I ask absently.

Liat looks down at the floor. “We’re going back to Israel,” she says in a low voice.

I nearly choke on my wad of Bubblicious.
“What?!”
Liat nods solemnly. Her face is pale.

“When?”

“In a couple weeks.”

I can’t find words. Finally I stammer, “But what about school?” It’s a dumb question, considering everything.

Liat clears her throat. “I guess I’ll go to school in Israel.”

“No,” I say. “You can’t go. What about Thanksgiving?” “I’m really sorry, Roxanne,” she says sadly. Her eyes are shiny.

I blink back tears of my own. “But why?” I ask. Liat sighs. “My dad. He says it was a sign. He says it’s time.” “A sign? You mean the fire?” I ask.

“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.

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.

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.