Freefall Page 2

  Shira straightens up. She catches Ben ogling, and giggles.

  “We’re in the lead by seventeen!” shouts Ron.

  “Triple double! Triple double. Come on, Tal.”

  Shira dives for the spot on the floor in front of the TV. Behind her, on the worn, black leather couch, Ben and Ron sit side-by-side. Shira’s head is close enough to rest on Ben’s knee should he scoot up behind her. It should be my spot. I try and catch Ben’s attention, but he is leaning forward, his body rigid as our offense gets the ball and heads down the court.

  I hesitate. I’m sure Shira doesn’t mean anything by it. But I feel benched, watching from the sidelines. Surprised and winded.

  Maybe what happened in the taxi was just my imagination—or maybe now I was only imagining the way he looked at Shira.

  It’s the beginning of the second quarter. I listen to the squeal of running shoes, watch the flash of yellow jerseys as our players spin and dash around the court determined to hold on to their advantage.

  “Win or die! Win or die!” Ben hollers.

  “Hey, Aggie,” says Shira. “Can you bring in some more beers?”

  “Sure,” I say, deciding to make light of it.

  As I head for the kitchen, I hear strums of an old Dylan refrain drift in off the porch. Noah is still playing. Peeking outside, I see it’s stopped snowing. I feel cheated that I’ve missed it. Maybe the only snowfall Jerusalem will have all year. Easing open the screen door made for flies in the summertime and not this winter’s cold, I step out onto the porch. A scooter screeches down the narrow alley and stops below the house.

  “Hey, Noah. How’s it going?” yells the driver.

  “Okay and you?”

  He revs the motor in reply. “You’re going back?”

  He revs the motor in reply. “You’re “Yeah. I’m closing this weekend.”

  “Too bad. There’s a party by the port in Tel Aviv tomorrow. Next time,” he calls over his shoulder as he speeds off .

  Noah continues strumming on his guitar as he looks up at me. He’s got his dad’s light hazel-colored eyes and his mom’s tanned complexion. He is a perfect meld of east and west. “For the times they are a-changin’,” he sings in a voice that’s deeper and rougher than Shira’s but just as strong.

  I hover by the doorway. He hasn’t asked me to join him but hasn’t turned his back on me either.

  “Not a basketball fan after all?” he asks me.

  “Win or die! Win or die!” The rousing chorus from inside spills onto the porch.

  “Shame to miss the snowfall,” I say. “Maybe the only one we’ll have for the next couple of years.”

  Leaning back, his guitar resting on his thigh and his head cocked to the side, he’d look like a hippie if it weren’t for the army uniform and military haircut. He’s wearing his boots, and sometime between when I said hi and now, he’s polished them and packed up. The duffel bag lies by his foot like a faithful pet. His M16 is propped on the banister. I’m still leaning against the door, catching Shira’s giggle followed by Ben’s muffled reply.

  “I wish I knew what I wanted.” I sigh. “Shira’s lucky she’s so talented. She’s perfect for the entertainment troop. I’m sure she’ll get in.”

  He picks a few bars of a new song then pauses. “You can’t know what you want until you can’t have it.”

  “Are those Dylan lyrics?”

  “Not exactly.” He reaches for his guitar case. “When something slips out of your grasp and you realize it’s gone, that’s when it hits you. If it’s something you didn’t want anyway, you’ll let it go. If it’s what you want, you’ll do whatever it takes to get it back.”

  I glance over my shoulder wondering about Ben. Would I do whatever it takes to get him if Shira decides she wants him—or he decides he wants her?

  Noah pushes the cuff s of his army pants into his boots. I watch as he threads the laces all the way up and ties the ends in a knot. He takes care to smooth down his pants and wipe off a smudge of dirt from his heel.

  “So what is it you want?” I ask him.

  Standing up, he swings his rifle over his shoulder. “Peace and quiet. Space. Time to play my guitar. Read. Think.”

  I glance at the army bag by his feet. “Exactly what you don’t have now?”

  He smirks. “Not when you’re sharing your tent with a bunch of other guys.” He swings his guitar over his other shoulder and grabs his duff el bag. “I’ve got to walk over to the bus stop. You should go back inside. See who’s winning.”

  He means the basketball game. I’m thinking of Shira, Ben, and me. I realize I’m not interested in the games going on inside the den. I’d rather talk to Noah.

  “Actually,” I say, “the bus stop is on my way home. I’ll walk with you. I was planning on leaving anyway.”

  “Without your shoes?” He glances at my feet.

  I’m still in my socks. “Right.” I run back in and lace up my shoes in less time than it took him. I dash out only to find that somehow Noah’s mom has made it out before me. She stands on her tiptoes, her arms wrapped around his neck, reaching up to kiss him as he bends to hug her.

  I stop—feeling a lump in my throat as if the air I’m breathing has become infused with a tenderness so potent it’s contagious.

  “Call me as soon as you can,” she says.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Tell your commander I want you home next weekend. We’re having a birthday party for Grandma.”

  He laughs. “Oh sure, he’ll go for that. Anything else?”

  “You need to have more time to rest.” She hands him a bag of cookies. “They just came out of the oven.”

  He takes a deep breath and sighs. “Delicious. The guys are going to love them.” He catches me watching, smiles, shrugs, and blushes.

  “And I packed you some extra boxers and—”

  “Mom.”

  “Oh, all right.” She sighs and turns around, her shoulders drooping inward. “And this is for you, Aggie.” She gives me a paper bag spotted with oil stains. It’s the malawah.

  “Thank you,” I say, pretending not to notice her tears.

  “How did she know I was leaving?” I ask Noah as she walks back up the stairs into the house. walks back up the stairs into “Nothing gets by her.”

  We wave good-bye and start walking down the alley. The familiar refrains of the news broadcasts chime the hour from almost every house. Later the streets will fill with restaurant-goers, bar hoppers, and kids crowding the sidewalks mingling with friends.

  For now the alleyways are empty except for me and Noah and patches of snow. We walk side-by-side, listening to the sound of our footsteps on the cobblestones. As we turn the corner, he waits for me to walk in front of him down a narrow passage where we must squeeze past a row of cars crowding up the sidewalk.

  “This is probably the only place in the world where cars get the sidewalk and people use the road.”

  I giggle, listening to myself and feeling so young and stupid.

  As he draws up again beside me, an awkward silence takes over. I never used to feel tongue-tied around him.

  But there’s something different in the way he’s acting with me. And the way he looks at me. His hint of a dimple in each cheek makes me want to try harder, sound smarter, act older.

  We leave behind the narrow streets and reach the main intersection, where cars, buses, and taxis jostle for space. Noah stops at the corner. He doesn’t seem hurried so we wait for the light to change. I force myself to get up the nerve to say something.

  “I’ve got my three-hundred test coming up at the recruitment center,” I blurt out.

  “That’s nothing to worry about,” he says.

  “Three hundred questions! I’ll probably run out of answers after the first page.” My voice rises. “I’ll be the only recruit who has ever failed a personality test. They won’t know what to do with me.”

  Noah laughs. The light turns green. He steps off the sidewalk with such grace. He se
ems unaware of the weights on him: the rifle knocking against his leg with every step, his guitar slung over his back, and his bulky duff el bag that makes it feel like he’s leaving home forever.

  “Only three hundred questions?” he says, turning to flash me a smile.

  My house is straight up the next street, but I turn toward the bus depot with him. The station is slowly filling with other soldiers weighed down with rifles of their own, as well as heavy coats slung over their packs as if here they don’t feel the cold. We stop before we reach the others.

  “Why, ‘only’?” I ask him.

  “I can think of a thousand questions to ask you.”

  Curiosity gets the better of me. “Like what?”

  “Like where was your favorite sunrise?” he asks without a moment’s hesitation.

  I scowl and am about to say how the army doesn’t care about that kind of thing, but then I grab his arm and pull his sleeve. “I actually know the answer to that.”

  “I knew you would.” His look encourages me to go on.

  “It was at my aunt’s—up north, near the sea. We got up early to go hiking. And it was the most amazing sight. At first the light crept over the hills, and then slowly the sky changed to red and orange….” My voice trails off.

  He tosses his bag on the ground and rests his guitar beside it. The gun stays strapped to him. He’s smiling. I wonder if he’s teasing me.

  “Wait a second, there’s no way they’d ask anything like that. It’s a multiple-choice questionnaire. What kind of a question is that anyway?”

  “The only kind I like. A question that reveals more than the obvious. First, you had a great answer.” than the obvious. First, you I blush. “Just a fluke.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve always noticed that about you. You see things that a lot of other people don’t.” He picks up his bag as if aware of some cue I’ve missed. “Most of Shira’s friends wouldn’t have had any idea.”

  I want to assure him that I am nothing like a lot of Shira’s friends, but the army transport pulls up. There is a commotion of kisses, hugs, and duffel bags being thrown into the belly of the bus.

  I stand awkwardly. I don’t belong in this crowd that’s being left behind, and yet, just like them with their own soldiers, I wish Noah didn’t have to go yet. Our conversation has just started. There are more things I want to ask him—and want him to ask me. We’ve never had time alone together.

  “When will you be back?”

  “On leave?” He frowns. “Two weeks. When will I be back as a civilian? Another year.”

  As I’m standing with my arms across my chest to keep warm, Noah leans over and slides his hand around my waist. I tilt my head up, surprised by this move—and definitely not expecting what follows.

  The touch of his lips on mine sends a shiver right through me.

  “You’ll do fine,” he says. “Just be yourself, Abigail Jacobs.” He hops onto the bus, then turns. “You’ve got nothing to be worried about.”

  “Thanks.” My voice is barely above a whisper. My heart is thumping so hard I can’t catch my breath.

  What just happened? Did he just kiss me? Just a kiss? Or kiss kiss me.

  The bus takes off, and I am left standing there feeling dizzy. He’s Shira’s brother, I need to remember. But I wish—I wish we had more time. You can’t just leave me like this! I want to scream. What am I supposed to think? I’ve always known him, but now it’s like he’s someone else.

  I search the sky. Will somebody please explain what’s going on? Last month the possibility of having a boyfriend was about as likely as a March snowfall in Jerusalem.

  Now not only has it snowed, but I’ve been kissed twice—and by two different guys.

  Chapter Two

  There are about a hundred of us sitting in this small and stuffy room, waiting while the army officers pass out the exam. The room is sparse—empty of all hints of personality. The walls aren’t even white but more like hospital gray. There’s nothing on them, either, nothing to catch your eye and let your mind daydream while thoughts sort themselves out. One row of windows, too high off the ground to give a view of grass or trees, allows some natural light to enter. I catch a glimpse of limitless blue sky with not even a cloud or a leftover snowflake to break the monotony.

  One hundred of us—and not a sound is heard except the rustle of paper and the occasional nervous cough. No one dares, doesn’t even consider sneaking a peek at the paper to the right or left.

  Do you like cheese? Yes.

  Have you ever cheated on a test? No.

  Do you like bonfires? Yes.

  Do you like cold drinks? No.

  Have you ever told a lie? Yes.

  Have you ever been in a fight? Yes.

  Do you like coffee? Yes. No. Sometimes?

  Have you ever had an out-of-body experience? Huh?

  After two hundred of these I’m not sure of anything. Do I really like taking baths better than showers? And what are they going to think about me if I do?

  But I keep going.

  Has anyone ever given you an answer on a test?

  Has anyone ever given you an

  Didn’t I just answer that?

  I wish I knew what they were looking for so I could give them the answers they want. But though I’ve decided that I want to get into a combat unit, it doesn’t mean that the army wants me. The questions seem absurd. There must be some hidden logic behind them. At least that’s what everyone says.

  In a daze after three hours, I find myself back on the street. Tel Aviv is too loud and bustling. Grabbing a drink and a cheese pastry at the central station, I board the intercity bus. Of course there are no seats left. I settle down on the floor in the aisle sandwiched between two soldiers and facing the knees of a religious woman. Her skirt reaches her ankles and a book of psalms rests on her lap. As the tension inside me recedes, I doze off , only to wake up as the bus shifts gear for the climb up to Jerusalem.

  Back home I sneak into my room, hoping to avoid another set of three hundred questions from Mom. Crawling into bed, I sleep twenty-four hours straight, getting up only to cram in a few hours of math in preparation for my finals next week.

  But studying for exams seems irrelevant. What did Noah mean by having a thousand questions to ask me? What will they think of my three-hundred test? Did I pass? Can you fail? Should I have been so honest? I try to recall my answers, but my brain has reached full capacity, crammed with formulas for mathematical theories and solutions to problems of logic.

  I open the window. The aromas drifting out of every house on the street mingle together, creating a pot luck stew. Hot, spicy, and sweet.

  “Allo, Aggie. How’s it going?”

  I wave to Mom’s friend Shula, who is out walking Benz. “Fine.”

  “When’s your draft date?” she shouts over Benz, who is yelping at one of the stray cats.

  “August.”

  “What will I do without you around to walk Benz?”

  I shrug, though I know she’s already spoken to our downstairs neighbor.

  “Shabbat shalom.” She waves and tugs Benz to follow.

  “Shabbat shalom.” I pull my head back inside, where the aromas of roast chicken, mushrooms, and rice fill the house. I’m hoping for brownies for dessert.

  No one at home has interrogated me yet. The unasked questions are even worse because the answers are not multiple choice—more like full-length essays.

  At precisely 6:57, the sound of Grandma’s sensible shoes marching up to our second-floor apartment echo in the hallway.

  “Ready for lineup?” my sister, Hila, calls as she passes my room.

  I reach the door first, before Grandma knocks a second time. “Abigail darling!” She kisses my cheek. “You’ve got rings under your eyes. You need to get out and get more exercise. Where’s your sister?”

  “Hi, Grandma.” Hila appears by my side.

  “Put this on the table, will you, angel?” She hands Hila a Pyrex dish covere
d with a checked dish towel. “Where’s your mother?”

  “In the kitchen, Tzillah. I’m just warming up the potatoes in the oven. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Don’t rush, Eve. I’ll find Aaron.”

  “In here, Mother.” Dad is in the living room, which adjoins the dining area. He sits on the couch surrounded by piles of newspapers while he listens to the news commentators on the TV.

  “At ease,” Hila whispers in my ear as we follow Grandma into the living room. I can’t help giggling.

  “Girls,” Dad says.

  “Leave them be, Aaron. They’re teasing me. Did you hear that radio interview on the army channel today?” she asks, pushing aside the papers to sit.

  “Which one?”

  “Enough news, please.” Mom puts the salad in the center of the table. “Come eat. And can we at least turn the TV off on Friday night?” She straightens the challah cover while reaching for the remote that Dad has placed beside his fork.

  “After the headlines, Eve.” Dad snatches it up. “I’ll put it on mute.”

  Dad sets the remote back by his fork, daring her to reach for it. He’s faster at the draw, and she knows it.

  Mom flicks open her napkin and covers her lap.

  “It’s Friday night,” she says, “and it would be nice to have a quiet Shabbat meal together.”

  “There’s been fighting on the border,” says Dad, glancing between her and the TV screen. “Tensions are high, and in my position I need to know what’s going on in real time.”

  “Quite right,” Mom says. “But even a minister of the Knesset should be able to eat a quiet dinner with his family once a week.”

  We all glance at the set. The reporter, a cute guy with spunky eyebrows, is pointing to a map of the Middle East. I am familiar with this scene replayed in different variations whenever threats flare on any of our borders or a new land-for-peace proposal is brought up and we are reminded of how little there is left to share.

  “If not for me, at least do it for Hila,” says Mom, looking at my sister, who is making an admirable attempt at keeping out of the argument. “You know she’s trying to observe the Sabbath, and you’re not making it any easier.”