Copyright © 2009 by Robin Friedman
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge Publishing, Inc.
“Wonder Woman” theme song lyrics on page 13 by Norman Gimbel and Charles Fox, © Warner Brothers, Inc., 1978. WONDER WOMAN is a registered trademark of DC Comics, Inc.
Published by Charlesbridge
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Friedman, Robin, 1968–
The importance of wings / Robin Friedman.
p. cm.
Summary: Although she longs to be an all-American girl, timid, thirteen-year-old, Israeli-born Roxanne, who idolizes Wonder Woman, begins to see things differently when the supremely confident Liat, also from Israel, moves into the “cursed house” next door and they become friends.
ISBN 978-1-58089-330-5 (reinforced for library use)
[1. Self-confidence—Fiction. 2. Self-perception—Fiction. 3. Identity—Fiction. 4. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction. 6. Sisters—Fiction. 7. Israelis—United States—Fiction. 8. Staten Island (New York, N.Y.)—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F89785 Im 2009
[Fic]—dc22 2008025326
Printed in the United States of America
(hc) 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Display type and text type set in Stereo HiFi and ITC Legacy Serif
Printed and bound by Lake Book Manufacturing, Inc.
Production supervision by Brian G. Walker
Designed by Diane M. Earley
For my Israeli-American family:
my generous mother,
Sarah; my wise father, Daniel;
my beautiful sister, Galit;
and my sweet brother, Jonathan.
chapter one
it’s called the cursed house because something terrible always happens to anyone who lives there.
It’s not a scary or ugly house, like those haunted houses you see in the movies, but it is different. It’s the biggest house on the block, and the only one painted bright pink. And the backyard leads to the woods, which are scary. Nobody else’s house leads to the woods.
My sister, Gayle, and I are walking home from school when we see the sign:
House for Sale
Contact Appleseed Agency
Neither of us says anything. Finally Gayle asks, “What kind of weird name is Appleseed?”
“I dunno,” I reply. “Maybe it’s …” But I trail off, because I can’t think of an explanation. We stare at it for a few more seconds in silence, then finally start for our house.
Gayle walks straight into the kitchen, turns on the TV, and gets out the cereal. “Do you think anyone will buy it, Roxanne?” she asks as she dumps a rushing stream of Cocoa Pebbles into her bowl.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. I make sure the TV is tuned to Channel 5, which shows the best reruns after school.
We sit at the kitchen table watching TV and eating cereal, but my mind drifts from The Brady Bunch to the Cursed House. I think about all the awful stories we’ve heard about the people who lived there—like the one about Stood-Up Serena. Stood-Up Serena was a high school senior who was stood up by her date on the night of the senior prom. She walked into the woods in her lavender prom gown and never came back.
Then there was the time the FBI swarmed over the house in the middle of the night with flashlights and guns. The family who lived there got busted for something major, but no one ever found out what.
Four months later, the Brinns moved in. They were there only a week when their youngest daughter fell down the stairs and broke her neck. On the way to her funeral, the whole family died when a milk truck plowed into their car on the Staten Island Expressway.
The Staten Island Advance splashed the story on its front page, describing the accident scene as “a haunting shade of bright pink”—spilled milk mixing with spilled blood. It also mentioned that the house the family had lived in was bright pink, but it didn’t say it was called the Cursed House. The house has been empty ever since.
“Do you really think it’s Cursed?” Gayle asks.
“Yeah, it seems like it,” I reply.
Gayle stops her spoon in midair. “Do you think it’s pink because of blood?”
“Yeah,” I say again.
“How come the Curse doesn’t come to our house?” she asks, and although she says this nonchalantly, I can tell the idea makes her anxious.
I pause, because I really don’t know. Finally I say, “I guess Curses don’t work that way. I guess Curses just stay where they are.”
Gayle nods, satisfied with my response.
Truth is, even though the Cursed House has always been right next door, it isn’t a big part of my life and I don’t worry about it.
This is a list of the things I do worry about:
a. eddie
b. gym
c. my hair
d. being israeli
I make a lot of lists. They help me think. I sometimes write them down, but mostly I just make them in my head.
After eating a second bowl of cereal, I go upstairs to put away my school things. The first thing to greet me when I walk into my room is my poster of Prince Charles and Lady Diana on their wedding day. Gayle bought it for me on my thirteenth birthday. Gayle’s birthday—she turned nine—is the day before mine.
“Roxanne!” Gayle suddenly screeches. “Come quick!”
“What? What?” I yell as I run down the stairs.
Gayle is standing in front of the window in our living room, pointing outside, her mouth frozen into a giant O.
A blue station wagon is parked in the driveway of the Cursed House. A woman with a fluffy mound of carrot-orange hair, wearing a brown skirt and yellow jacket, is pulling a sign out of the trunk.
Before I can make out what the sign says, I know what it is. I have seen this exact situation in countless commercials. The woman is a real estate agent, and the sign she slides slowly into place reads:
Sold.
chapter two
it doesn’t take long for the news to get around Brookfield Avenue. After being empty for almost a year, the Cursed House was sold again—in just one day!
After the real estate agent with the carrot-orange pompadour drives away, a knot of neighborhood kids gathers around the sign on the lawn of the Cursed House.
Eddie runs his hands over the sign, as if by feeling it he will be able to magically tell us who has been crazy enough to buy the Cursed House. It’s not an ugly house, really. Even the bright pink isn’t so bad. Except the lawn is kind of gross right now—scattered with old cigarette butts and beer cans.
I stare at Eddie from where Gayle and I stand with our neighbor Kathleen, admiring his white-blond hair and how good his butt looks in his tight jeans. When he turns to look at me, my heart catches in my throat. That always happens when Eddie looks at me. I don’t remember exactly when I started liking him. I think I always did. He’s so All-American. His gaze rests on me for only a second, though, before searching out Kathleen’s face.
“What do you think, Kathleen?” he asks, his blue eyes flashing like a car’s high beams.
Kathleen smiles. “You tell me, Eddie,” she answers coolly.
I wonder for the hundredth time what he sees in her. Kathleen is the definition of ordinary. There’s nothing special about her average face, her average brown hair, her average brown eyes. But Eddie has the biggest crush in the world on her. And the funny thing is, Kathleen likes letting Eddie think he has a chance,
but she doesn’t give in to him. And this has been going on for five months!
Part of me likes Kathleen and considers her my friend—maybe my only friend, besides Gayle, who doesn’t really count. Another part of me wishes she’d disappear. A third part of me has a feeling I hang out with her only because wherever she goes, Eddie goes.
Eddie glances at me. “What do you think?” he asks.
I’m so startled, I feel momentarily numb. I finally manage to mutter, “Uh …”
“Uh …,” Joe mimics, making a funny face at his friends.
The boys around Joe laugh. I feel my cheeks burn. I have to remind myself that Joe is only eight, even if he is nasty.
“Shut up, Joe,” Kathleen snaps.
Joe’s gap-toothed grin vanishes immediately, and his friends stop laughing all at once, as if a switch has been turned off. I’m sorry I wished Kathleen would disappear a moment ago.
“Say you’re sorry,” Kathleen demands.
“Yeah,” Eddie joins in. “Say you’re sorry.” He trudges to where Joe and his little friends stand on the lawn. The boys disperse like cookie crumbs as Eddie towers over them. He grabs Joe by his shirt collar and drags him over to me.
Joe laughs and whimpers at the same time. Eddie shoves Joe toward me—so hard that Joe tumbles to his knees at my feet.
“That’s right, on your knees,” Eddie says heartily, giving me a wink.
My heart nearly pops out of my chest. This is the most attention Eddie has given me—ever. I smile uncomfortably.
“Say you’re sorry,” Eddie growls as he stands over Joe.
Joe is crying. I can make out a tiny “Sorry” as it comes out of his mouth. Without any warning, Eddie suddenly brings his fist down, sprawling Joe across the ground. I gaze at Eddie in disbelief.
“Say it louder,” he snarls.
“Eddie, stop,” Kathleen says, reaching down to help Joe get up. “Are you okay?” she asks him.
Joe sobs and sniffles.
Eddie looks morosely at Kathleen, not sure what to do.
I study the ground, wishing I was the one who had saved Joe, even if it meant yelling at Eddie.
“I’m gonna take Joe home,” Kathleen says. She glowers at Eddie, who looks at the ground. Then she walks away, leading Joe by the hand.
I shuffle my feet, not sure what to do now that I’m alone with Eddie. But I don’t have to worry about it for long, because a red convertible pulls up in front of the house. It’s Margo Defino, who lives in the house on the other side of the Cursed House.
“Wow!” she cries. She hops out of her convertible, whips off her sunglasses, and hurries to the sign. “I don’t believe it! It’s sold! When did this happen?” she asks, turning in a circle to look at us.
No one answers. Finally Eddie says, “It happened in one day. Today.”
“Wow!” she exclaims again, grinning. Then her smile fades. She looks at us curiously. “What are you all doing?” she asks suspiciously. She checks her watch. “It’s almost dinnertime. Why don’t you all go home?”
Grown-ups don’t seem to like seeing a big group of us together. Normally, we’d balk—well, not me, but Eddie or Kathleen would. But this time, in less than a minute, the knot of kids around the Cursed House vanishes into thin air.
chapter three
margo defino told us to go home because of dinnertime, but that’s a joke. At our house, anyway.
On The Brady Bunch, dinnertime means all six Brady kids, plus Carol and Mike Brady, wolfing down pork chops and applesauce around the dining room table while Alice the housekeeper pours lemonade made from real lemons.
At our house, dinnertime means Gayle and me, alone, with I Dream of Jeannie reruns and more Cocoa Pebbles around the kitchen table. Dinnertime is a beautiful concept, but it doesn’t work at our house. Not since Ema—our mother—left, anyway.
There is one great thing about not having dinnertime. If we were a normal American family, I doubt we’d be allowed to watch TV during dinner. And after I Dream of Jeannie ends, my favorite show in the whole world starts.
When the show comes on, Gayle and I sing the theme song at the top of our lungs:
Wonder Woman, Wonder Woman.
All the world’s waiting for you,
and the power you possess!
In your satin tights,
Fighting for your rights
And the old Red, White, and Blue!
I nearly burst into tears. The song clogs up all the cavities of my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I can’t remember much about our naturalization ceremony in Brooklyn the day we became American citizens. I do remember Ema crying quietly during the swearing of the oath. I suspect Ema felt then what I feel now—positively constipated with red, white, and blue happiness.
I try not to dwell on Ema‘s absence, because it makes my stomach hurt. I’m glad I have Wonder Woman to take my mind off it.
There’s something about Wonder Woman—her strength, her beauty, her fabulous hair, her sheer All-Americanness—that makes me yearn to be her. When I was little, all the girls in my class wanted to be Wonder Woman, but I guess I never outgrew it. I mean, wouldn’t it be absolutely awesome to fend off bullets with golden bracelets and have a golden lasso that forced people to tell the truth?
When I was nine, I’d twirl around at recess, determined to change into Wonder Woman. That’s how Wonder Woman changed from Diana Prince, her real identity, into a superhero. I thought that if I just concentrated on it—really concentrated on it—it would work. It didn’t, of course, and I gave up. But I still think about it sometimes.
An hour later, Wonder Woman is over and we run out of Cocoa Pebbles. Yuck and double yuck. We usually remember we have homework to do around this time, so we take out our schoolbooks and, with the TV still on, work at the kitchen table.
An hour after that, the sky darkens, Little House on the Prairie comes on, and we start worrying about Aba—our father.
Gayle adores Little House on the Prairie, which is about a girl named Laura Ingalls, who has the most wonderful family in the world. Ma and Pa are always there for her—listening, helping, hugging. Ma is the kind of mother who sews lace ruffles onto bonnets, and Pa is the kind of father who teaches Laura Important Life Lessons. They always have dinnertime. They even have breakfast time. They’re totally All-American.
At 9:38, Gayle announces she’s taking a shower. She says it cheerfully, to hide the fact that she’s upset.
By 10:53, we’re at the kitchen table, drumming our fingers and not paying attention to Dynasty.
I make a decision. “I’m not staying up again,” I say to Gayle, my voice shaking. “I’m going to bed.” Gayle yawns. She doesn’t reply.
I know most kids love staying up late, but that’s because their parents are home. They aren’t alone like Gayle and me, worrying, waiting for their father to get home from work.
I trudge up the stairs to my room, getting angrier with each step. By the time I enter my room, I’m seething. I pull off my clothes and throw them in exasperation across the room. I reach behind my pillow for my pajamas with the hole in the seat of the pants and barge into the bathroom.
Why did Ema have to leave us? It’s been almost three months since she flew to Israel to take care of her sister. We get her letters, but the mail is so slow, and calling is too expensive. My sister and I always fight when we spot that wonderful, flimsy, blue aeromail envelope in our mailbox. We both want to be the first to read it. It’s kind of silly to fight over Ema‘s letters, though, because we both have trouble reading Hebrew—especially when there aren’t any vowels.
The Hebrew alphabet is like the English alphabet—there are letters and sounds and all that stuff. But the vowels, instead of being letters like a, e, i, o, u, are dots and dashes instead. These dots and dashes go under the letters; the letter gimel, for instance, which makes a g sound, gets its vowel sound from whichever dot or dash is under it. That’s how you know to say goo or go or guh or gah or gee. It’s
kind of cool and really pretty easy—but when the vowels are missing, it can be very hard. Advanced writing, like in books and newspapers in Israel, usually doesn’t have vowels.
Ema used vowels in her letters at first. I guess she was imagining Gayle and me reading them—knowing we’d have trouble if they weren’t there. But after a few weeks, the vowels would be in the first few paragraphs of her letter but not the rest of it. And lately, her letters didn’t have any vowels at all.
It’s like she’s forgetting us. Forgetting that Gayle and I are here, waiting and reading. This thought hurts.
I finish in the bathroom. The TV is on in my parents’ bedroom, which means Gayle has moved there from the kitchen. I walk down the hall. Gayle is lying in our parents’ bed in her pajamas, waiting for The Tonight Show so she can pretend to watch it.
“I’m going to sleep,” I announce. “Aren’t you worried?” she asks, keeping her eyes on the TV.
“No,” I lie.
“Liar,” she says, still not looking at me.
I slip back to my room. Falling asleep in my parents’ bed in front of the TV is the way Gayle deals. It’s the way we both did once. I used to lie there next to her, listening to Johnny Carson’s jokes without getting them, panicking, certain that Aba was murdered, lying in a pool of his own hot blood in a dark alley. Gayle always fell asleep while I lay awake, waiting, worrying, imagining that murder scene over and over in my mind until it felt so real to me, I swear I could taste Aba‘s blood on my tongue.
For three months it’s been like that.
Well, no more.
I’m not going to lie awake anymore. I’m not going to panic anymore. I’m not going to wait up for Aba anymore. I’m not going to imagine that hot pool of blood in my mind anymore.
I slide into bed. The sheets are cold, and I curl up into a ball, shivering. The blue-green digits on my clock blink relentlessly at me: “11:39.” I turn over onto my stomach and force myself to shut my eyes. But I’m not sleepy.
At 11:53, I can still hear the soft sounds of the TV. I turn over onto my side and face the wall.
The Importance of Wings Page 1