The Importance of Wings (5 page)

“You know, we forgot about
Love Boat
last night,” Gayle says as she stuffs her face full of
baba ghanoush.

“I know,” I say. “But I didn’t really miss it. I mean, we still had fun.”

“Yeah,” Gayle says, her cheeks bloated with food. “That’s how I felt, too.”

“You know, this tastes even better today than it did yesterday,” I say, shoveling a piece of pita bread piled high with
hummus
into my mouth.

“Hey, look,” Gayle cries, pointing at a listing in
TV Guide. “Grease
is on today.”

“It is?” I ask with my mouth full.

Gayle turns to me with her eyes shining. “Wow, this is turning out to be a great day.”

Sunday afternoons are usually good days for TV movies, but the movies aren’t always as good as
Grease.
Usually they show boring movies like
The Grapes of Wrath
or
Requiem for a Heavyweight.

It doesn’t occur to me to see what Liat’s doing today. On Sundays the kids on the block usually go to church or visit relatives. So I’m surprised when our doorbell rings and it’s Liat standing on our stoop.

“What’re you doing today?” she asks.

“Grease
is on TV,” I squeal.

“So what?” she says. “You wanna do something?”

“But …
Grease
is on,” I repeat.

Liat looks at me like I’m stupid. “I don’t wanna sit home and watch TV. Let’s do something.”

“Like what?” I shoot back.

“I don’t know. What’s there to do around here?”

Gayle and I look at each other blankly.

“Well,” I venture. “There’s town.”

“Town?”

“Yeah, it’s where all the stores are. By the train station.” “What’s in town?”

“Well,” I say, “there’s a bakery and a pet store.” “And there’s banks and dry cleaners and stuff like that, but we don’t usually go to those stores,” Gayle adds. “So,” Liat says.
“Y’alla.”

It’s the first time Liat has used Hebrew with us, and it feels weird. But it also feels … nice.

When neither Gayle nor I move, Liat says, “I guess you don’t want to miss
Grease.”
She doesn’t say it in a mean way.

“Well,” I stall, not wanting to miss
Grease
at all, “do you have … any money?”

Liat pulls a bill from her pocket—a twenty.

“Twenty dollars?” I ask. “Where’d you get twenty dollars?”

“Rivka gave it to me,” she says. “She said it was a new-house present.”

I glance sideways at Gayle. We can’t pass up the opportunity to go to town with twenty dollars to spend, even if it does mean missing
Grease.
In ten minutes flat, we’re all outside, ready to go.

To get to town, you have to walk past our block to a dead end. At the dead end, there are these ancient, moss-covered stone steps that lead down to a gravel parking lot by the train station. You have to cross a narrow bridge over the train tracks, and then you’re in town.

When I was little, I was afraid to cross that bridge. I thought it would collapse under my feet just as a train thundered below me. It still gives me the creeps. I always speed up to get to the other side as quickly as possible.

We start walking to the end of the block. Gayle regales Liat with all the delicious things we can buy at the bakery with her twenty-dollar bill—chocolate éclairs, mile-high napoleons, moist rainbow cookies, fat cream puffs.

“But the spice cakes are the best,” Gayle says, smacking her lips.

“Yeah,” I agree, nodding my head. “You
have
to try the spice cakes.”

I came across a recipe in a magazine at the dentist’s office a few years ago for Old-Fashioned Yankee Spiced Cake. It was right around Thanksgiving—for me, the Ultimate All-American Holiday. I love making a big deal out of it. I always help
Ema
make all the traditional American foods. Old-Fashioned Yankee Spiced Cake is a big round cake with a hole in the center of it, drizzled with brown sugar icing. I thought it would be perfect. I mean, it sounded so American, like something the Bradys and Ingalls would serve at Thanksgiving. It even had the word “Yankee” in it!

The recipe for Old-Fashioned Yankee Spiced Cake turned out so well that Thanksgiving that we made it every year from that point on—not just for Thanksgiving but for Rosh Hashanah, too. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year in the fall, and the menu always includes apples and honey. Old-Fashioned Yankee Spiced Cake doesn’t have any apples in it, but it does have honey. It seemed like the perfect dessert to combine being Israeli with being American.

But with
Ema
gone now, we didn’t celebrate Rosh Hashanah this year, and we didn’t have Old-Fashioned Yankee Spiced Cake. My sister and I discovered spice cakes at the bakery the same week we missed Rosh Hashanah. Discovering them made us feel close to
Ema
—even though the bakery’s spice cakes are more like oversized cupcakes with chocolate icing.

We reach the dead end and walk down the moss-covered steps. We make it to the bottom and cross the bridge. Liat stands at the edge of the bridge for a moment, looking down at the train tracks.

“This reminds me of West Virginia,” she says. “A lot of trains were always coming through the town we lived in.”

“West Virginia?” I ask in astonishment.

“Yeah,” Liat replies. “Lots of mountains.”

“How come you’ve lived in so many places?” I ask her, feeling a touch of envy. I’ve never even been to Pennsylvania, and that’s just one state over from New Jersey, which is next door to New York, which is where Staten Island is.

Liat pauses. “We moved to America after my mom died. My dad has this thing about seeing America, so we move around a lot.”

“But don’t you have to start a new school every time you move? And leave your old friends? And make new friends?” I ask.

Liat shrugs. “Yeah. But it’s okay. I’m used to it.”

I try to imagine the unspeakable torture of starting a new school every few years. Just when you figure things out and make friends, it’s

Every few years it’s

We arrive at the bakery, and Liat buys spice cakes, cream puffs, linzer tarts, cream-cheese brownies, napoleons, and chocolate éclairs. We stuff ourselves while watching fuzzy yellow puppies play in the pet store window. By the time we get home, our fingers and mouths are sticky with sweetness. We sit on our stoop and continue gorging ourselves until I start to feel sick.

I’m finishing a chocolate éclair that’s leaking milky filling all over my fingers when I spot Kathleen and Glenn. They’re walking toward us in their church clothes, he in beige pants and a striped shirt, she in a white dress with ruffles the color of Creamsicles. Even in nice clothes, Glenn always manages to look red-bumped-pimply-faced and mean.

Whenever I see Kathleen on Sundays wearing her pretty church dresses, I wish I did that too. My parents have American Jewish friends who go to synagogue, but Israelis don’t usually go, except maybe during the High Holy Days—the holidays around Rosh Hashanah. Most Israelis aren’t religious. When you live in Israel, I guess you don’t need to go to synagogue to feel Jewish.

Kathleen once asked us why we didn’t go to church. First I had to explain we were Jewish. Then I had to explain we were Israeli. Then I had to explain the difference between the two. I still don’t think she understands.

“Hi,” she says tentatively.

“Oh, hi,” I say, my mouth bloated with cream. I point to Liat. “That’s Liat. She moved in yesterday.”

“Liat?” Kathleen asks curiously.

“Yeah,” Liat replies, but not defensively. “What are your names?”

“Kathleen and Glenn.” “Want éclairs?”

“Sure.”

Kathleen and Glenn each accept a leaky éclair. They lick the oozing cream before taking big chomps. More cream splatters out. They hurriedly lick it clean again.

“We had spice cakes, too,” Gayle says as she licks each of her fingers.

“This is good,” Kathleen says.

“Where’d you move from?” Glenn asks.

“Ohio,” Liat says.

“She’s lived in West Virginia too,” Gayle adds.

Glenn shrugs. “We went to Florida last year,” he says.

“We lived there, too,” Liat says, licking chocolate icing off her éclair.

“Really? How many places have you lived?” Kathleen asks.

“Lots.”

“Where?”

“Alaska.”

“Alaska?!”

“Vermont, California, Texas.”

“Wow.”

Liat smiles. “My dad paints pictures on the car to remind us of places we’ve lived.”

I think of the polar bear next to the alligator next to the armadillo. Now it makes sense. I wonder what Liat’s father will paint to remind them of this place. Rats, probably. Or a smelly landfill.

Eddie jogs over from across the street, wearing gray pants and a blue shirt—his church clothes. The blue shirt matches his eyes exactly. That familiar pounding begins in my heart.

“Hey,” he says, stopping just short of the stoop and giving Glenn a cool look. “Are you the new girl?”

Liat nods and rescues a blob of cream from plopping onto her jeans.

“So, anything happen yet?”

Liat gives him a puzzled look. Before she can respond, Eddie goes on, “Anyone die yet?” “Eddie!” Kathleen cries.

“What?” he asks indignantly. “I just wanna know.” He turns back to Liat. “Anyone fall down the stairs or anything? Break their neck or anything?”

“Eddie!” Kathleen says again, and Liat asks, “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Eddie asks with a grin, clearly enjoying himself. “About the Curse?”

“Oh, yeah, the Curse,” Liat says knowingly. I turn to her, wondering if she really knows or is just pretending to know. Joe stormed off that time before explaining it in all its gory detail, and I’ve never brought it up.

“Oh, so you know? About how people died and stuff? Are you scared?” Eddie asks eagerly.

“No, I’m not scared,” Liat replies evenly.

“Well, you should be,” Eddie says, sounding a bit like Joe and his dumb friends. “ ‘Cause you’re gonna die soon.”

“Eddie!” Kathleen yells for the third time. “Stop being a jerk!”

“No, it’s okay,” Liat says. “I’m not afraid of anything.” She leans forward. “Or anyone.”

Maybe it’s Liat’s jet-black hair or the sheer audacity in her voice. But I get a severe case of goose bumps all of a sudden—like I’ve just caught a glimpse of Wonder Woman passing through or something.

liat’s father decides
that Liat should be in my class at school.

It bugs me royally. I don’t want Liat to know what a social loser I am. It’s much safer to just live next door to her and occasionally go to town for spice cakes. What if she gets all popular and ends up ganging up on me with Donna and her friends?

My school has ten eighth-grade tracks, and you don’t pick the one you want to be in, but Liat’s father is determined. He puts on another weird outfit and drives us to school on Monday morning.

If I were starting a new school, I’d be

But Liat isn’t doing any of these things. She’s sitting in the backseat looking calmly out the window as if we’re on our way to the mall.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

She turns to me. “Not really. Are you?”

“Why should I be nervous?” I ask huffily.

Liat gives me a knowing look but says nothing.

“Even if they put you in the same homeroom as me, we switch classes, like, every period,” I say. Liat still says nothing, so I go on, “They’d have to, like,
stick
you to me personally, if they wanted you to be in every class with me.” Her continued silence only makes me babble onward. “Like, some of us take algebra and some of us take regular math.” I want to shut up, but I can’t. “Or some of us have U.S. History and some of us have Western Civ.”

“I know, Roxanne,” she finally says. “It’s like that at other schools, too.”

“I’m just saying, that’s all.”

“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry so much.”

“I’m not worried,” I say, irritated.

That knowing look again.

I study what she’s wearing. It doesn’t scream

But it isn’t cool either. Her jeans are faded and her sweatshirt’s worn.

“All the girls here have wings,” I say. “The cool girls.” I realize I’ve just admitted I’m not one of them. It’s not like Liat wouldn’t have found out the truth the minute we got to school, but it’s too bad I’ve been uncool for so long that I can’t even pretend it for the five-minute drive.

“How come you don’t have wings?” I ask.

“It takes too much time.”

“Do you know how to make them?” “Yeah, Rivka showed me. She works in a beauty salon.”

I try to imagine Rivka in a work environment. I wonder how she dresses. “Maybe you could show me,” I venture.

Liat smiles. “Sure. But it takes a lot of time. I think your hair is fine.”

I snort. “My hair is very uncool.” There. I admitted it. Again.

“Why do you worry so much about being cool?”

“I don’t worry about it,” I reply, looking away.

So maybe I
do
worry about it. A lot. But I don’t feel like discussing it with Liat. Right now, especially. Or maybe ever.

We arrive at P.S. 32. Liat’s father parks his freaky station wagon in the school parking lot. Thank goodness the parking lot is
behind
the school. Since most kids walk to school, everyone is gathered at the front door. The pictures on the car are nice and all, but they wouldn’t draw the kind of attention Liat needs right now. Or I need.

We walk into the building and make our way down the hall to the main office. Inside is a high counter manned by a silver-haired mutant whose mouth cannot form what is generally accepted as a smile. When she lays her watery gray eyes on Liat’s father, though, they grow as round as golf balls.