The Importance of Wings (9 page)

I’m excited about having a makeover, but I’m not sure about Rivka. What if I end up looking like a circus clown? Rivka is not exactly subtle.

“Can I go after Roxanne?” Gayle asks as she absently picks up a tube of beige liquid and turns it over curiously in her hands.

“Yes, yes, we all going to have a turn, just be patience,” Rivka says.

I wonder if I should correct her English, but I decide not to. I don’t want to distract her.

Liat’s got a small smile on her face. I wonder what she’s thinking.

Rivka begins to apply a tan-colored lotion to my face. “You know, when I your age, I don’t know how put on makeup either.”

Even though Rivka’s broken English is severe, I have no trouble understanding her. “Did you grow up in Israel?” I ask.

“Sure, yes,” she answers with a smile. “In Haifa. I have eleven brothers and sisters. My mother never have time to show me makeup. She too busy.”

“How did you learn?” I ask.

Rivka takes a small sponge and taps my face with it. “I learn from magazines, from friends. Then I go to school to be beautician.” She puts down the sponge and picks up a long black pencil.

I want to ask her about this, but Rivka begins writing on my eyes with the pencil. I know she’s not really writing, but that’s what it feels like. It’s too uncomfortable to talk with her poking my eyes like that.

“I remember when I your age, I get my
tzitzim
and my mother, she not even talk to me about it.”

Gayle starts to giggle.
Tzitzim
means “breasts.”

“I hate my
tzitzim
so much,” Rivka says. “I no want them. I tell my mother to sell them.”

“Sell them?” Gayle bursts out.

“Yes,” Rivka responds, at last putting down the pencil. “I no want them. I so, how you say, embarrassed. But, you know, I grow up and now I love my
tzitzim.”

Gayle and Liat crack up with laughter. Rivka chooses a rosy brown eye shadow and begins applying it to my eyelids. “Israelis no talk about things like this. Not like Americans.”

She puts down the eye shadow and picks up a pink bottle of mascara. As she brushes my eyelashes with the mascara, and I try not to blink too much, she goes on. “Americans, they talk about everything. They come and sit in chair and tell me about problems, marriages, kids, jobs. They tell me they have this disease and that disease.”

She puts down the mascara bottle and picks up a fluffy brush. She dips it into a red-orange powder and dabs my cheeks with it. “Israelis, they keep everything inside. They no talk like Americans.” She puts the brush away and picks up a tube of red lipstick. “Israelis, they tough. But inside, they soft like mush.” She outlines my lips with the lipstick, then fills them in. I notice Gayle studying my face in fascination.

“Okay,” Rivka says. “We done.” She adjusts the mirror so I can look into it.

I gasp. The girl staring back at me is … beautiful.

She has rosy cheeks, full red lips, and striking dark eyes.

“Roxanne, you look like a model,” Gayle whispers. “She beautiful, no?” Rivka asks. “Extremely,” Liat answers. I can’t help smiling.

i wish i could wear makeup
and wings every day, but Liat is right. It would take an extra two hours every morning, and, as much as I want it, I can’t make myself get up that early, especially after being up late waiting for
Aba.
I wonder if Donna and her friends rise at dawn to make themselves look that good.

Meanwhile, in gym, the torture continues.

Outdoor softball. Donna is captain again.

“Liat,” she says.

Liat is picked first.

Liat doesn’t move. Instead of joining Donna, she studies her fingernails.

“Liat,” Donna says again, a bit more loudly.

“Only if you pick Roxanne next,” Liat says without looking up.

I jerk my head toward her. Huh?

Donna narrows her eyes. “What did you say?” she asks.

Liat looks up calmly. “I said, only if you pick Roxanne next.”

Donna looks from Liat to me. Her cheeks redden.

“Rachel,” she says firmly.

Rachel hesitates.

“Rachel,” Donna says again. Rachel glances at Liat, then steps out of the line to join Donna. Everyone is picked off until it’s me, Liat, Gheeta, and Suri—the Official Society of Gym Losers.

I allow myself to sneak a look at Liat and wonder what on Earth she’s doing. Instead of feeling flattered, I’m horrified. I hate the attention she’s drawn to me.

“Gheeta,” I hear.

“Suri,” I hear next.

“Roxanne,” Donna says, throwing me a dirty look.

That leaves Liat standing there alone. They don’t even call her. She walks to the other team while I shuffle miserably to Donna’s team.

I didn’t think it was possible, but gym has sunk to a new low.

I mill around the outfield aimlessly, not knowing what to think:

Liat’s an unstoppable softball machine. I’ve never seen anyone play better. She annihilates Donna’s team.

“Great game,” girls gush, crowding around Liat as we jog to the locker room afterward.

“Yeah, great game,” Donna says with both sarcasm and admiration. The other girls automatically scatter as Donna edges toward us, like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Donna’s holding a carefully folded denim jacket over one arm. It’s her boyfriend’s jacket. There’s a painting of Ozzy Osbourne on the back.

Liat walks casually to her locker.

“Hey,” Donna says.

Liat doesn’t answer.

“Hey,” Donna says again, then adds, “Yo, Liat.” “What?” Liat asks in annoyance. I think I may pass out.

“I’m sneaking out for a cig,” Donna says. “Will you watch my jacket for me?”

Liat studies the jacket. “Can I wear it?” she asks.

Donna seems taken aback. “Okay,” she says. “If you take care of it.” She holds out the jacket.

“Can Roxanne wear it, too?” Liat asks.

I have to stop myself from screaming.

Donna’s obviously trying to make up with Liat, because Liat’s a great athlete and Donna needs her on her team from now on. So she’s offering Liat her greatest possession.

Donna gazes at me hatefully, then pulls the jacket back toward her. “No,” she says. “Never mind.” Liat shrugs nonchalantly.

This seems to make Donna even madder. She takes a step forward. Her face is contorted with rage and shame. “I’ll see you after school,” she growls, giving Liat a meaningful look. She walks away.

An icy shudder travels up and down my spine.

Oh. No.

“Are you crazy?” I hiss at Liat, raising my arms in a hopeless gesture. “Do you know what you just did?”

“You said TV was better than real life,” Liat replies fiercely. “You said the bad guys always get beaten up.”

“Yeah,” I answer, “so?”

“So, that happens in real life, too.”

“Liat,” I say desperately, “you’ve gone mental.”

Liat lets out a chuckle.

“It’s not funny!” I snap. “Donna was trying to be nice to you! Now there’s going to be a fight after school!”

“Donna’s just using me,” Liat says.

“Now there’s going to be a fight after school!” I repeat. I bend down, placing my head between my legs, and close my eyes. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Liat touches my arm. “You don’t need to do anything, Roxanne. You just watch it like it’s on TV.”

I don’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved by this statement. I go through the rest of the school day numb. I’m faintly aware of Liat walking next to me. I avoid Donna as much as possible. I pretend it’s all just a bad dream. I almost believe it, too.

Until the last school bell rings.

It’s like a signal has been given. How does word of a fight travel so fast? A mob of kids has gathered in an empty lot four blocks from school. It’s like a carnival or something. I feel like someone should sell cotton candy and corn dogs.

I trudge behind a group of talkative girls, my stomach doing flip-flops. Some of the kids in the mob are chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” I stand on the edge of

the crowd, looking in the direction of the school, wondering what would happen if I barged into the main office and told them there was a fight four blocks away. Would the principal gallop over to break it up? Or would Silver-Haired Mutant just shrug at me?

All after-school fights take place in this empty lot. Usually it’s boys fighting over girls. But girls fight dirtier. Everybody knows that. Boys have an honor code. Girls don’t. They’ll gouge each other’s eyeballs out with keys, rings, or anything else they can get their polished pink fingernails on.

I push my way through the thick crowd until I’m standing in front. Liat and Donna are hanging out on opposite sides of a circle like two boxers waiting for the first bell. I wonder if Liat knows I’m here. As if to answer my question, Liat turns her head in my direction. When she spots me, she nods. My stomach starts to hurt.

I wish someone would step out of the circle and say, “Let’s not resort to violence. Let’s talk this thing out.”

But nobody does. Instead, the chanting just gets louder. It’s driving me crazy. Just when I think I can’t take another second, Liat and Donna draw closer to one another. The chants die down. I force myself to keep my eyes open.

Liat and Donna circle each other like those animals on nature shows. Then suddenly they come together like two wrestlers. They twist and rock and push and pull. Liat kicks out her leg sharply. It lands behind Donna’s knees. Donna falls instantly to the ground.

The crowd gasps. Liat stands over Donna, waiting for her to get up. But Donna doesn’t. She landed hard on the concrete. It occurs to me that she might have hit her head.

Seconds tick by. Donna is clearly hurt. Two of her friends approach her sprawled body and lift her off the ground. Donna looks like she’s dead. But she blinks open her eyes, rubs her head, and winces in pain. The girls drag Donna away like a limp doll between them.

Just like that, the fight’s over. It barely lasted a minute.

I stare hard at Liat, and, all of a sudden, I see Wonder Woman standing there, her scarlet cape flaring out behind her, her black hair blowing in the wind.

my hands don’t sweat in gym anymore.

It’s quite mysterious.

I know it has something to do with Liat. I know it has
everything
to do with Liat.

See, I’m not afraid as much.

Of Donna. Of the ball. Of not being athletic.

Don’t get me wrong. I still very much support a congressional ban on gym. And I still wish someone would blow it up. But it doesn’t
torture
me like it used to.

I ask Liat where she learned that kicking move that brought Donna down so quickly.

“From my dad,” she says. “If you kick someone behind their knees, they’ll lose their footing instantly. It’s the fastest way to make someone fall.”

“Where did your dad learn it?” I ask.

“The army,” Liat says.

My dad served in the Israeli army, too. Everyone in Israel has to serve when they turn eighteen—men and women.
Tzava,
they call it, which means “army,” or
Tzahal,
which is the Hebrew abbreviation for I.D.F.—Israel Defense Forces. You can’t go anywhere in Israel without seeing all the soldiers in their olive uniforms, long guns slung over their shoulders.

I’ve never asked my dad about his army experience. I don’t even know what he did—what unit he was in, where he served, whether he fought in any wars.

The next time we’re at the mall in the noisy food court, I ask.
“Aba,
what did you do in the army?”

“I was radio officer,” he answers.

“What’s that?”

“I send messages.”

“You mean like Morse code?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You know Morse code?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it hard?” I ask. “No, not really.”

“Did you fight in any wars?” I ask. “I was in Sinai in 1967.” “The Six-Day War?”

“Yes.”

I’m silent. My dad fought in an actual war, and I never even knew about it. I ask him softly, “Did you and
Ema
go to Elat on your honeymoon?”

Aba
‘s eyes brighten. “Oh, yes. Beautiful place. Like heaven.”

“You think … we’ll ever go there?”

“Yes,”
Aba
says excitedly. “If you want to. I think you should visit Israel.”

I cough. “How come we don’t talk about Israel hardly ever?”

Aba
frowns. “Because we want you to be American.”

I lower my head. All this time I thought my parents got in my way of being American, but it’s actually something they want, too. It’s something I should’ve known, just like my dad fighting in a war.

Nobody wants to be American more than me. But I can’t pretend I wasn’t born in Israel. I’m a
sabra.

“Maybe we can talk about it a little,” I say. “Maybe you could … help me read Hebrew without vowels.”

“Sure,”
Aba
replies with a smile.

I pause, then whisper, “Liat’s mother died in a bombing.”

“Yes,”
Aba
says, lowering his eyes.

“I hope
Ema
doesn’t die,” I say.

“No,” he says sharply. “She will come home soon.”

it’s been more than a month
since Liat moved into the Cursed House, and a strange thing has happened. Kids on the block have stopped wondering when something terrible is going to happen to her and her father.

Gayle and I discuss this phenomenon while we play Legos in the basement on a Sunday afternoon. Legos in the basement is a game we’ve played since forever. But don’t get the wrong idea. We’re not like those child geniuses who build sprawling Lego metropolises with highways and harbors and airports.