Freefall (13 page)

I cringe. I sound so whiny. Mom just brings out the six-year- old in me. No wonder she can't imagine me sleeping in the field.

“I have to turn down the oven,” she says, retreating to the kitchen.

I follow behind like a toddler wanting attention. It's so humiliating and makes me want to scream. I'm angry.

Angry at having called Noah Ben. Angry that I didn't get to hear what Noah wanted to tell me. Angry that Noah has to go into Lebanon and I probably won't get to hear the end of our conversation for another few weeks. Angry that I haven't heard a final answer from the army about where they're sending me.

“Hello!” I shout after her. “I'm about ready to self-combust.”

Mom takes a tray of brownies from the oven and puts them on the counter to cool. The kitchen smells of cocoa powder and rising dough. Mom cracks an egg and tosses it into the next batch she's started.

“Do you think that baking yet another tray of brownies will make the fact that I have signed up for a combat unit go away?”

She brushes the flour off her hands. “Really, the way your mind works. Everything somehow reflects back on you. I happen to like baking.”

“You bake when you're anxious. A threat of a suicide bomber in Jerusalem, and we've got fresh cookies to last us a week.”

“Don't be flippant.” She removes the mixing bowl and cradles it between her waist and elbow as she pours it into the pan. She's making enough brownies to feed all of the IDF. Later, that's exactly what she'll do. She'll wrap them up and send them out to all her friends' sons who are serving far from home.

“You thought I couldn't make it and don't want to find out that you're wrong.”

She vigorously scrapes the inside of the bowl. “Just the opposite. I never doubted you. So you've definitely passed.”

“Yes—” I hesitate.

She looks up, waiting for me to continue.

“I passed the physical endurance tests, but physically I'm—” I stop and have to laugh at the irony of it. “I'm about two brownie trays short of being officially accepted.”

Hila saunters in. “What does that mean?”

“I need to gain another couple of kilos by my draft date. Anything under fifty and I'll be disqualified.”

Hila snatches a brownie from the tray and hands it to me. “Eat up,” she says.

“Wait till it cools.” Mom whips away the tray to put it out of reach. “Stubborn mules. You girls have been that way since the day you were born.”

Hila and I exchange glances. I'm surprised that Mom is willing to accept that I will do whatever I can to get into the unit, even if it means gaining a hipful of weight.

Hila dips her finger in the leftovers of the bowl of batter and licks it. “We'll have to start calling you Abundant Aggie. Ample Abigail.” She laughs. “I like it.” She pokes me in the stomach. “Let's go out for ice cream later. My treat.”

Mom's expression is hard to read. Like a familiar book written in a foreign language. I know I should be able to understand it but I can't.

“Are you angry?”

Mom's chest sinks with the depth of her sigh. “Sure I am. I'm angry with a lot of things, most of them beyond my control. Personally, I would prefer if you didn't have to do any army service at all.” She eyes me thoughtfully, the spatula in her hand. “But that's not an option. What is an option is where you serve. And frankly, you may as well get it through that stubborn head of yours, you are not going into a combat unit. That just isn't going to happen.”

“How can you say that? It is happening. I'm going to make it happen.”

She shakes her head. “Aggie, this is serious. Combat is dangerous. You have to be a certain type to be able to cope under very stressful conditions.”

“A certain type? If I hear that one more time, I'll scream! What's that supposed to mean? You don't think I can cope?”

Hila wraps her arms around me. “You can cope, as long as you have enough lotion for your sensitive feet. I'll make sure to pack you kilos of it.”

It's not funny.”

“Quit teasing her,” says Mom. “I'm just worried about what's best for you. You have so many talents, but I don't think you'll find a way to develop them in a combat unit. Think about something more suitable.”

“Like an Intelligence unit?”

“For instance.”

I sigh. “I have thought about it. But I want to do more than just use my head. I want to move.”

“You're too delicate for a combat unit.”

“There is nothing delicate about enduring hours of dance class. It calls for muscle strength, endurance, and determination. Mom, I can't sit behind a desk all day. I want to use all of me.”

“Except,” says Mom, wiping her hands on her apron and looking me over, “there isn't all that much of you, is there?”

“I may be compact,” I agree. “But as my friend Lily says, I pack a lot of punch.”

Chapter Twelve

I dash for the bus and catch the
number 28 just as it's pulling away from the curb. July, and the weather has turned infuriatingly hot, mirroring the frustration bubbling inside me. How does Mom expect me to grow up, take responsibility, stand up for myself, and be somebody if she dismisses me when I finally have my heart set on something and am determined to do what it takes to get it?

I flash my pass at the bus driver and inch my way down the aisle past other sweating bodies. Since Hila's wardrobe has taken a modest turn, she lets me raid her closest. But even Hila's old spaghetti-strap top does little to keep me cool. Strands of hair paste themselves to the sides of my face. I try and pull them back and stick them into a scrunchie. But like an extra layer of clothing, the summer heat sits heavily on me.

Elbowing my way past a group of Ethiopians, I grab a seat next to a woman on her way back from the food market. A huge buggy is parked by her foot, brimming with groceries. Another bag rests on her lap. The smell of coriander leaves wafting from her bag is overwhelming. I think the fish poking out his head from between the leaves, his eye still bright and never losing sight of me, feels the same way.

I consider moving, but the last empty seat has just been grabbed by a woman wearing too many layers of perfume. Don't know which is worse: the botanical garden or tonight's dinner staring up at me. Both smell pretty powerful.

A cell phone starts ringing. The grocery woman begins an excavation to reach the source, her elbow jabbing at my ribs.

“Hold this, darling, for a moment, will you?”

She plants the bag on my lap. Fish to face. I think I'm going to be sick. My stomach clenches. I get up, put the bag on the seat, and smile at her as if the fish needs the seat more than I do.

“Allo, Capara!” she shouts. “I'm on the bus. What's up?”

I grab the pole in the middle of the aisle and stare ahead, concentrating on holding my balance as the bus lunges and lurches through the traffic.

“What? His left side? Has he been to the doctor?”

I swing along, hoping someplace else will free up and I won't have to listen to the complete medical diagnosis.

“Wait, Capara, I've got another call. Allo? Shimi? I can barely hear you!” she shouts even louder. “Speak up.”

The bus lurches to a stop. A seat opens. I lunge for the window and plop down. I've escaped. Tugging the window open, I greedily soak up the breeze.

As the crowd thins and the bus moves on, I get a glance at the leg next to mine—or rather the leg touching mine.

Black jeans. Worn through at the knee. My glance travels higher. He slouches back. One leg stretches into the aisle; the other airbrushes mine. He's solid and muscular. A tight white T-shirt clings to his chest. His hair is gelled into porcupine spikes at the top of his head. He catches me looking at him and grins. He's got bright green eyes set off by his dark skin and high cheekbones. Shifting his weight, he presses his leg just a touch stronger against mine.

I freeze.

He doesn't move.

I've let him invade my space. I should have inched away immediately. Now I'm stuck.

The fish lady groans. “What do you mean you have to go back now? You said they gave you a week's leave. I'm just on the way home—wait a second, Dina's on the other line.”

I still could move, but I can't. I stare out the window, pretending that I don't notice that his leg leans against mine, that now his arm brushes my skin.

I struggle between the two mes. The old me would be too embarrassed to brush him off . He probably doesn't even realize that he's sitting so close. The new me? I'm torn between the strange and stirring sensation his touch sends through me and deciding how I should react.

Yoni Rechter starts singing about angel tears. It's one of Hila's favorite songs. I glance forward to the seat in front of me at the lady with the long dark hair blow-dried straight to hang over her shoulders. Her nails are bright red and a small diamond ring is the only piece of jewelry on her hand. She doesn't see me watching her as she flips out her cell phone from the side pocket of her purse.

Black Jeans sighs and stretches. He raises his arm and drapes it over the back of my seat. His other hand rests on his thigh as he taps out some rhythm in his head. I feel the heat of his arm on the back of my neck. Enveloped by his cologne, I feel drugged.

“It's Shimi on the other line. They've called him back. Dina, do you hear me? I've got to go.”

“Why do the angels cry?” the cell phone sings.

His thumb brushes the nape of my neck. A rush of tingles sweeps through me. It could be an accident. I think I've stopped breathing. I am supposed to get off in another three stops. I still can't move.

“But I'm just on the way back!” shouts the fish lady. “I've bought sea bass. It's your favorite.”

“Allo, sweetheart,” croons the lady with the straight hair. “I'll be home by five o'clock.”

“And everyone's coming! Yossi, Avi, and his wife, the twins. Avi got a new job at the post office.”

“…the red dress.” She gives a throaty laugh. “I bought it especially for tonight.”

He hitches his thumb between the spaghetti strap and the hollow by my collarbone. That can't be accidental. His thigh presses harder against mine. I stare forward, feeling my heart jumping inside me. Hila would be appalled. Shira would roll her eyes and tell me how it happens to her all the time. Lily—don't know why she popped into my head, but—I can see Lily turning around and giving him something to remember her by. Ben would get a kick out of it. And I'm thinking, Why me? What is it about me? My clothes? If I were wearing an army uniform, would he dare?

I scrunch closer to the window. His thumb hooks tighter around the strap of my shirt. “What do you mean?” says the lady, smoothing back a wild strand of hair. Her tone has turned petulant. “You said we'd have the whole weekend.”

A song by Snakefish starts up. A soldier at the front of the bus digs into the thigh pocket of his uniform.

Black Jeans places his palm flat on my shoulder, gently fans open his fingers, and reaches across the base of my neck.

“Now?” says the soldier, cupping his hand over the speaker of his cell phone.

“The fish will smell like skunk by then.”

“What about the wedding? How long are you going for?”

“Yes. I'm on my way to base now.”

The whole bus begins to ring, sing, and vibrate.

A strong, throbbing beat from the pocket of Black Jeans pulses against my leg. Reluctantly he pulls back his arm. I exhale and quickly take a breath in case I'll need to store up more air for later. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He shoots me a sideways glance before flipping it open. The trance music stops.

Trance. It figures.

“Allo?” He straightens and bends forward. Glancing at his watch, he nods his head as he listens. “When?” he asks. “Now? Of course.” He shoots me a sideways glance. “No. Nothing I can't pick up later.” He smiles knowingly.

And then that's it. I've had it. As if responding to my cue, I stand up and brush past him. “Think again,” I say. “You won't be picking up this one later.”

He cups his hand over the speaker, smiles, and shrugs as if to say it was fun while it lasted.

I move back to my old seat, preferring the company of the slimy fish. the slimy fish.

More phones start ringing.

The buzz on the bus is contagious until I realize that my phone is jumping in my pocket. I put it on vibrate before I went to sleep last night, and now it's hopping about like a frog hyperventilating.

“Mom? What's up? I haven't reached Grandma's yet. The traffic is awful.” My cheeks feel hot, sure that she has psychic powers and knows what's just happened. has psychic powers and knows “Come home,” she says.

“What? Didn't you hear me? I said I haven't gotten there yet. It'll take another twenty minutes at least.”

“Now,” says Mom, and hangs up.

The bus brakes to a stop before the next offi cial stop. The driver gets up, picks up his bag, takes his phone, hitches his sunglasses onto the crown of his head, pockets his newspaper, opens the door, and walks off the bus.

“Allo?” the fish lady shouts by my ear. “And what about us? How are we supposed to get home?”

The four Ethiopian women, speaking in Amharic, singsong their confusion. I don't understand the words, but I feel the same. Leaning out the windows, we watch the bus driver as he exchanges a hug and handshake with another driver who gets on in his stead.

Our new driver readjusts the mirror, fiddles with the seat, and glances back at us. “He's been called up.”

And then we all look at one another: the woman with the fish, the perfumed lady, the soldier at the front of the bus, the religious man glancing up from his open prayer book, the Arab guy reading a library book, and the drop-dead gorgeous guy who minutes ago had his body language all over me and who has just morphed into someone much more serious.