Believe (23 page)

Now I stretched my fingers until they hurt. I stretched them as straight as they could go. I started the chain, my hand on hers.

“Look at that,” Lo said. Our hands matched.

Then Lo put her hand on mine.

Every finger was exactly the same.

FORTY-SIX

We flew to Israel the day after the last day of school.

As soon as we were through security, Lo hailed a cab. Before we did anything else, we had to see the Wall. This was the place my dad was going to take me the day my parents died.

It's where my story really began.

It's where we had to go before it could continue.

The plaza was huge. The Wall itself seemed to glow. Lo reminded me that people from all over the world came here to pray, and that it was important to respect their different customs. She explained, “This part is for observers.” She pointed to other sections, closer to the Wall. “But if you'd like to pray, you can go to that section.” There was one for men and one for women.

I wanted to get closer.

But not yet. First, I stood back and watched the crowd. There were young people, old people, tourists, rabbis, observant men in hats, soldiers, the women hovering around children. One woman sobbed. Near another corner, a bride and groom held hands and prayed. There were people huddled in groups. There were people studying. There were people praying. There were people kissing. One man chanted in Hebrew to a small group.

It felt like the center of the universe.

The beginning of everything.

For the first time, I saw what my grandparents came for, what my mother always wanted, what Lo served for. Peace. I thought about Miriam and what she'd said just before I left. “Have a great time. Meet the people. Don't be afraid. When you get home, we will talk.”

“What do you think?” Lo asked.

“It's beautiful,” I said. “And strange, too.” The people who were praying didn't turn their backs to the Wall. When they were done, they walked backwards. They were completely focused on the Wall and God.

I also couldn't help feeling a little strange—a few weeks ago, I could've earned tuition to pose here. “The Soul Survivor Returns” would have made every cover on the planet. I could see it now. My hands clenched. The Wall. The entire world praying around me.

But now, no one recognized me. No one was looking at me or asking me to pray for them. I was one of them. A Jew. A person. A citizen of Israel.

Anonymous. Just what I always wanted.

A young man came up to us and asked if this was our first visit to the Promised Land. “Would you like a guide?” When Lo spoke to him in Hebrew, he said, “No problem” and handed us each a piece of paper. I'd read about this custom. When you stood at the Western Wall, you were supposed to stuff a prayer into the cracks. People said that God read every one. The young man winked at me. He said, “Make it a good one. The world is so crazy. We need as many prayers as we can get.”

I had been thinking about what I was going to pray for. I had a lot of ideas: to make Emma wake up. To help me be a better person. Inspiration. Forgiveness. Friendship. To give me one more chance to do something good in this world. My mother had said, “Your story is not over,” and it wasn't. But it was different.

Standing here, surrounded by all these people, I was aware I'd missed an easy chance to add to my story, to do something more than complain or run or nothing. I'd committed my mom's greatest sin—I missed an opportunity to make the world better.

I missed a chance to have my say.

I sat on the ground and traced my hand on the paper. There was one thing that said it all, one thing that we all needed. It was my private prayer for the world. It was the one thing I wished I'd always had.

In the middle of the palm, I wrote one word:

TRUST.

Then I folded the paper, closed my eyes, and said a prayer for Emma. And Dave Armstrong. I forgave my mother. I honored my father. I looked at Lo and thanked her for telling me the truth, for giving me this moment.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Ready.”

I stuffed the prayer into the highest crevice, then backed up to the visitors' area. Nearby stood a group of girls—Americans—chatting and laughing and talking about where they were going to do, if they thought they could really drink in a bar, if their fake IDs would work.

“Will you take our picture?” one of them asked me, holding out her camera.

“Sure. No problem.” As she ran back to organize the group, she dropped her
People
magazine on the ground.

The cover showed a collage of familiar faces—actresses who'd graced the same magazine many other times. The headline read, “The Ten Stories that Made Us Cry.” One of the girls looked terrible. Her hair was a mess. A small caption read, “What I'm learning in rehab.”

“I hope she turns it around,” the girl said, pointing to the famous face. When I shrugged, she said, “In
Glamour
, I read she wants to pose for
Playboy
. She really turned into a skank.”

“Maybe she needs the money,” I said. Or maybe that's the only way to stay famous. Brian's mom wasn't the only person who had trouble getting used to real life.

When they were still, I counted to three and yelled, “Smile.”

Yes, I had lost a big chance to make a statement, and worse than that, I'd hurt my friends. But as sure as I was that they would give me another chance, I also knew that the news cycle would not discard me completely. It would file me away, like the ten stories that made us cry or the worst divorces or the most scandalous crimes, until the time was right and it needed to be fed. Maybe it would be the twentieth anniversary, or maybe when I got married or had a baby. I hoped it wouldn't be when I needed the attention or ended up in trouble. All I knew was that at some point, someone would find me and put me back on the cover.

I was still the Soul Survivor.

At some point, someone would care.

And when that day came, when they asked me to talk about my life or my opinions or my parents, I wouldn't tell them “no comment.” Instead of running away, I'd pose for a picture. I'd have something important to say.

Next time, I would be ready.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I started the first draft of this novel in my very last packet at Vermont College of Fine Arts. It was sort of a whim—a dare to write something outrageous and different—a reaction to four hard months of work on my creative thesis. With the encouragement of the faculty, I decided to honor the process and read that rough beginning at my graduation, the whole time, secretly hoping that it would force me to keep going (and show me what was supposed to happen next). Since then, I have read excerpts of later drafts at many retreats and events. I needed a lot of advice and encouragement.

When Grace Paley tells you she's intrigued, you don't put that thing in a drawer.

To my many writer-friends from VCFA, the Novel Retreat, and Kindling Words with special nods to Micol Ostow; Kathi Appelt; Kim Marcus; Kelly Carter Crocker; Elly Swartz; Marc Schulman; the late, great Norma Fox Mazer; and Laura Ruby, this novel's first cheerleader. Tami Lewis Brown gets kudos for discussing all my epiphanies. Tanya Lee Stone continues to offer me the unconditional support that every writer needs to be brave. (Hurray for a plan with unlimited minutes!) Big hugs and exclamation points to all my amazing
writers.com
writers for being brave enough to tell the teacher what she's doing wrong. I hope all of you are excited and surprised to read what this story ultimately became.

Kisses to Gail Marcus, Marjorie Rose, Lisa Silbert, and new friends Alex Sinclair and Bekki Harris Kaplan for all your support. To the ladies at Belleza Hair Salon in Lebanon, New Hampshire, for supplying me with fourteen years of tabloids, and to my fellow yogis in the Upper Valley and Evanston, Illinois: Namaste! The hot room offers many kinds of magic!

Thanks to my wonderful editor, Andrew Karre, who offered me vision and discipline and a new way to reimagine my stories. I'm so grateful you saw Janine's potential, even though she isn't always the most likable protagonist. It makes me happy to work with someone who likes pizza as much as I do. It makes me even happier to work with someone who speaks out for human rights and justice every chance he can.

Likewise, thanks to my agent, Sarah Davies, who offers guidance and support in an accent that makes me feel smarter. And she's a Glamour
Do
. Always.

To my parents, Rich and Judy Aronson, who could have stopped believing in me, but didn't. And to Ann and Jon Klein—you know what for. Writing is an incredible privilege, and I wouldn't be doing it if it were not for my wonderful husband and family. Thank you Michael, Rebecca, Elliot, Ed, Liz, and Gregg for unwavering support and humor and indulging me.

Chocolate and flowers for everyone! I'm so happy to finally be able to thank you!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Aronson holds an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is the author of several books for teens and young readers. She lives near Chicago. Visit her online at
www.saraharonson.com
.

SARAH ARONSON
holds an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is the author of several books for teens and young readers. She lives near Chicago. Visit her online at
www.saraharonson.com
.

A DIVISION OF LERNER PUBLISHING GROUP
241 FIRST AVENUE NORTH • MINNEAPOLIS, MN 55401
WWW.LERNERBOOKS.COM

PRINTED AND BOUND IN U.S.A.