The Summer Before Boys (15 page)

In Vietnam eight military women died, not from the flu or in a plane crash, but were killed. Like all the hundreds and hundreds of thousands of men in war before them. A lot of people were against the war in Vietnam. There were demonstrations all over the country. People who were against the war put bumper stickers on their cars showing how they felt.

MAKE LOVE NOT WAR.

And then other people put stickers on their cars that said,
AMERICA: LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT
.

Vietnam is called the Unpopular War, which has got to be the strangest expression ever. Can there really be such a thing as a popular war?

Eliza is in the gift shop. She is sitting on Pam's stool behind the counter. I can see her through the glass window in the hall but she can't see me. Or at least not unless she looks up. She seems to be counting something. I can see Pam helping a customer pick out a postcard from the rack.

“I can tell you one thing.” I feel Mrs. Smith behind me, before I can register her voice. She even puts her hand on my shoulder. “There will be plenty of boys, Julia. Plenty of boys.” And she heads off down the hall before I can figure out what she means by that.

“Julia!”

Then Eliza is standing in the hall next to me. We don't even say a word. We don't wait another minute. We just wrap our arms around each other.

“Eliza, I am so sorry,” I say. “You are my best friend. I missed you so much.”

“I'm sorry too, Julia.”

All of a sudden I am flooded with all the things I want to tell her.

About school, my teachers. I want to ask her about Tamara and Sophie.

Hey, since when are you friends with Tamara and Sophie?

I have to tell her about my mother coming home.

I'm scared my mother will come home like Peter's dad.

About the party my dad and I are planning to have.

I'm afraid I've changed so much my mother won't recognize me.

How can we have a party for my mom's homecoming without Eliza? We can't—and now we don't have to.

“You girls look like you could use an ice cream,” Pam is saying. I see she is waving at us from inside the gift shop.

I reach inside the freezer and take out an ice-cream sandwich. I take out two and I hand one to Eliza.

“Thanks,” she says.

“This one's on me.” Pam smiles.

M
y mother will come home from Iraq. It will be a Tuesday afternoon. We are driving out to the airfield in New Jersey to meet her plane. On the way we bought balloons and flowers.

My heart was beating so hard.

My heart will be beating so hard.

My heart is beating so hard.

Eliza comes with us. We both sit in the back and my dad complains he feels like a limo driver. But he smiles the whole way like he can hardly contain himself. After the e-mail a week ago, we got the actual phone call just two days ago with the schedule for arrival, the time and the place. My whole language arts and social studies class made cards that I had in my backpack, even though my dad tells me we should wait until she settles in to show her.

Ms. Jaffe had a special meeting with just me and we talked about all my fears. For some reason, knowing Eliza was waiting for me outside the door, I just let everything out. I talked and talked and talked.

“It's normal to feel that way,” Ms. Jaffe explained. “A lot has happened in the past year. You've changed a lot and grown. And there will be some time for adjustment.”

We had graduated to the guidance counselor's office so there were not alphabet posters for me to stare at. I was sitting in a big leather chair.

“Above all else,” Ms. Jaffe said, “keep talking. Don't censor yourself or beat yourself up. If you feel like crying, cry. “

Her permission made me feel better.

There are hundreds, or what feels like hundreds, of people at the landing strip. Mothers with babies in their arms and kids with signs.
WELCOME HOME. WE MISS YOU. BEST MOTHER IN THE WORLD. BEST FATHER. NEW DADDY. PROUD TO BE AMERICAN.

Like walking, living bumper stickers. The love is nearly visible. The excitement is contagious.

“I should have made a sign,” I say to Eliza.

“We just have to shout louder than anyone,” she answers.

The plane is huge as it taxies closer and closer. I can hardly breathe. But maybe that's because I squeezed into last year's jeans
and T-shirt. I wanted to wear something familiar. Something my mother would recognize.

When the plane wheels finally stop moving and the loud sound of the engine is cut, the door begins to open. The metal stairs are pushed into place. Suddenly the roar is deafening and I realize it is all the families. There is crying and shouting and even screaming. There is a baby wailing from having been woken up. I don't even know I am crying until my throat starts to hurt and I taste mucus on my lips.

Because I see her right away. She stands a minute at the top of the stairs like she is scared too. Like she is wondering if we will know who she is. Maybe for a split second she wonders if we are really here.

She is a little thinner than I remember, but she'll like that. Her face is tan. Her camouflage hat is in her hand. I watch as she pulls her hair out of her ponytail and gives her head a little shake.

“Mommy!” And my voice carries above the music of the families. She jerks her head toward us and the huge smile that spreads across her face tells me everything.

My mother is home safe.

I
t's not over completely. There are still moments when the magic is working. And there are moments when it doesn't, no matter how hard I want it to. And there are still moments when I get really mad for no reason, and I don't know why.

But today, Eliza and I are making paper dolls of Lester and Lynette so no matter what happens, we won't forget who they were. Like sometimes, I feel like I am forgetting who I used to be. I sure don't know who I am going to be. It's like being stuck in the Lemon Squeeze. It doesn't feel real good.

My mom is making us a snack before she has to leave for work. She got a new job at a pediatrician's office in town, but she makes sure to be home when I get back from school. The only thing I've noticed is that she gets up in the middle of the night
sometimes. I hear her in the kitchen or when she turns on the television. Or once I saw her just sitting in the dark.

The quiet, she told me. She forgot the quiet.

“Lester doesn't look like that,” Eliza tells me, inspecting my handiwork.

“How do you know what Lester looks like?”

Eliza smiles. “I know exactly what Lester looks like, don't you?”

We are sitting on my bedroom floor. I've always liked coloring. My mom drew the outline of the figures and we are filling them in with colored pencil. It's kind of babyish but it's relaxing.

“This is what he looks like,” I say, but I don't really know anymore. Lester and Lynette feel like people I knew a long time ago. I remember them, but I can't really conjure up their faces. My Lester has brown hair and brown eyes. He looks kind of like Peter if I think about it, and I mention this to Eliza.

“You are boy crazy,” she tells me. “I saw you talking to him in the hallway today.”

“Who?”

“You know who,” Eliza says. She is coloring in Lynette's long dress with the entirely wrong color.

“I don't
like
like Peter,” I say, but she's right, sometimes I can't think of anything else but boys. Eliza and I made a new vow, a pact, in real life, and I am sticking to it. I could have as
many boyfriends as I liked as long as I always remember who my best friend is.

I can do that.

“Well, I hope you'll be able to spell his name right, at least,” Eliza says. Then she immediately throws her hand over her mouth.

“Okay, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, tell me, Liza. You have to tell me now.”

She is peeking out from her hand. Her eyes wide. “You won't get mad at me? You can't remember?”

“Swear I won't get mad.” But of course, I can't really say that for sure. I can only remember that Eliza is my best friend and I need my best friend. Boys will come and go, just like Mrs. Smith said.

“Tell me already!”

“Well—” Eliza clearly doesn't want me to know something. She did something she shouldn't have and she's worried I'm going get upset. I know her so well. I want to put my arms around her and tell her there's nothing she could have done that would make me not like her anymore.

Love her.

So I do. And she tells me.

“I read your diary,” she says. “The one you hid in the cabinet
under the sink in the bathroom back at my house. The one where you wrote Michael's name over and over.”

I am less upset than I'd thought I'd be. “So?” I say. “And?”

“You spelled his name wrong. Every time. Over and over. It's Michael,
M-I-C-H-A-E-L
. Not
E-A
.” And then she waits.

I think about this for a minute.
Michael
. All the dreams I've made up come back to me, all the nights I spent fantasizing about ways I might run into him up at the hotel one day, and then like a movie-reel projector, the whole thing comes grinding to a halt. I can even hear the background music slowing down and getting all distorted.

“I did?”

She nods.

“I spelled his name wrong?”

She nods again.

“I spelled his name wrong, like, a hundred and fifty times?” A huge laugh is breaking out inside my stomach.

“Yeah, like, a hundred and sixty times. In pink magic marker!”

We are both squealing. There're lots of different kinds of magic.

 

winter
2005