Read Online The Importance of Wings by Robin Friedman - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Friedman
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Halloween.
Liat doesn’t have a costume. Rivka helps her throw together some clothes and says she’s going as a “weirdo.” I want to laugh at that one. Will the real weirdo please stand up?
In the end, Liat wears a sparkly blue wig, shiny black pants, a gold shirt with silver stripes, and red cowboy boots. Everything is borrowed from Rivka. Ha! No surprise there. Rivka makes up Liat’s eyes so heavily with silver eye shadow and black eyeliner that she looks like Cleopatra. She looks really pretty.
Every Halloween, the same rumor goes around the block that somebody is giving away green apples with razor blades wedged inside them. I have never once gotten a green apple from anyone on Halloween, but the rumor still goes around every year. The boys love telling the little kids on the block what will happen to their mouths and tongues and throats when they bite into it.
Rivka invites us inside and fills our bags with plastic-wrapped
baklava
that she informs us has just come out of the oven. I don’t think Rivka understands that Halloween is all about store-bought, sealed candy. Well, at least it isn’t green apples. You could expect something like that from the Cursed House.
In the living room, I notice a photo on the wall of a black-haired woman sitting on a flowered towel at the beach. Next to her is a little girl with the same black hair. I study the picture closely until it finally dawns on me. It’s Liat and her mom.
“That was our last vacation—the last time we were all together,” Liat says, coming up behind me. “We went to Elat.”
I nod solemnly. It’s hard to take Liat seriously with her sparkly blue hair and Cleopatra eyes, but there’s no mistaking the deep sorrow in her voice. I want to hug her, but I worry Liat won’t like it. It occurs to me that my parents went to Elat on their honeymoon. I don’t really know anything about Elat. I only know what my parents have told me—that it’s like Israel’s Miami Beach.
I pry my eyes away from the photo and look around the living room. The furniture Liat and her father have is shabby, which possibly means they’re poorer than us.
The longer I stand there, the more freaked-out I start to feel. If anything bad is going to happen in this house, it will surely be on Halloween. I’m relieved when Rivka tells us, “Have good time—don’t eat so much bad stuff,” and sends us off.
We go trick-or-treating for two and a half hours, stuffing ourselves as we go along with Snickers and Milky Ways and Tootsie Rolls and M&M’s and Butterfingers. I start to feel sick. I never want to look at another candy bar again. Then, holding our stomachs, we head to the woods as night falls.
No one has given us green apples, though someone did give chocolate chip cookies in sandwich baggies. It’s too bad, because I love chocolate chip cookies.
“How could they be so clueless?” Gayle complains, tossing her cookies into a trash can. “What a waste.”
“I wouldn’t get rid of them if I were you,” I say, feeling mischievous. “You might need them to feed the werewolves.”
“Werewolves?” she asks fearfully.
“Haven’t you heard? There were reports last week of three werewolves in the woods,” I say, then mimic a round of evil laughter like the villains on
Super Friends.
Gayle rolls her eyes.
I sound much, much more lighthearted than I actually feel. I do not like the woods, even during the day. I’m ready to head home, but Kathleen wants to go there. Last year, I was sure I was going to have a heart attack during the telling of the ghost stories. Nothing happened, but I was glad when it was over. Why does Halloween have to be about ghosts and witches and vampires? Why can’t it just be about free candy?
We reach the woods. Kathleen brought a flashlight from home, and we walk slowly behind the faint beam. In the dark, the trees strongly resemble murderers and kidnappers. Disturbing thoughts from every horror movie I’ve ever seen race
Liat doesn’t have a costume. Rivka helps her throw together some clothes and says she’s going as a “weirdo.” I want to laugh at that one. Will the real weirdo please stand up?
In the end, Liat wears a sparkly blue wig, shiny black pants, a gold shirt with silver stripes, and red cowboy boots. Everything is borrowed from Rivka. Ha! No surprise there. Rivka makes up Liat’s eyes so heavily with silver eye shadow and black eyeliner that she looks like Cleopatra. She looks really pretty.
Every Halloween, the same rumor goes around the block that somebody is giving away green apples with razor blades wedged inside them. I have never once gotten a green apple from anyone on Halloween, but the rumor still goes around every year. The boys love telling the little kids on the block what will happen to their mouths and tongues and throats when they bite into it.
Rivka invites us inside and fills our bags with plastic-wrapped
baklava
that she informs us has just come out of the oven. I don’t think Rivka understands that Halloween is all about store-bought, sealed candy. Well, at least it isn’t green apples. You could expect something like that from the Cursed House.
In the living room, I notice a photo on the wall of a black-haired woman sitting on a flowered towel at the beach. Next to her is a little girl with the same black hair. I study the picture closely until it finally dawns on me. It’s Liat and her mom.
“That was our last vacation—the last time we were all together,” Liat says, coming up behind me. “We went to Elat.”
I nod solemnly. It’s hard to take Liat seriously with her sparkly blue hair and Cleopatra eyes, but there’s no mistaking the deep sorrow in her voice. I want to hug her, but I worry Liat won’t like it. It occurs to me that my parents went to Elat on their honeymoon. I don’t really know anything about Elat. I only know what my parents have told me—that it’s like Israel’s Miami Beach.
I pry my eyes away from the photo and look around the living room. The furniture Liat and her father have is shabby, which possibly means they’re poorer than us.
The longer I stand there, the more freaked-out I start to feel. If anything bad is going to happen in this house, it will surely be on Halloween. I’m relieved when Rivka tells us, “Have good time—don’t eat so much bad stuff,” and sends us off.
We go trick-or-treating for two and a half hours, stuffing ourselves as we go along with Snickers and Milky Ways and Tootsie Rolls and M&M’s and Butterfingers. I start to feel sick. I never want to look at another candy bar again. Then, holding our stomachs, we head to the woods as night falls.
No one has given us green apples, though someone did give chocolate chip cookies in sandwich baggies. It’s too bad, because I love chocolate chip cookies.
“How could they be so clueless?” Gayle complains, tossing her cookies into a trash can. “What a waste.”
“I wouldn’t get rid of them if I were you,” I say, feeling mischievous. “You might need them to feed the werewolves.”
“Werewolves?” she asks fearfully.
“Haven’t you heard? There were reports last week of three werewolves in the woods,” I say, then mimic a round of evil laughter like the villains on
Super Friends.
Gayle rolls her eyes.
I sound much, much more lighthearted than I actually feel. I do not like the woods, even during the day. I’m ready to head home, but Kathleen wants to go there. Last year, I was sure I was going to have a heart attack during the telling of the ghost stories. Nothing happened, but I was glad when it was over. Why does Halloween have to be about ghosts and witches and vampires? Why can’t it just be about free candy?
We reach the woods. Kathleen brought a flashlight from home, and we walk slowly behind the faint beam. In the dark, the trees strongly resemble murderers and kidnappers. Disturbing thoughts from every horror movie I’ve ever seen race
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