Freefall

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Freefall

Chapter One

I jump into the taxi.

Shira follows behind me. Ben and Ron hop in through the opposite door.

"It's so cold out there," says Shira.

"And it's supposed to be spring." I scoot to the middle and snuggle next to Ben. The spaghetti-strap top I thought perfect earlier in the evening does little to keep out the cold. "We shouldn't have worn skirts," I say to Shira, my teeth chattering.

"Better?" asks the taxi driver, turning up the heater.

"Getting there," I say, rubbing my knees.

The driver looks us over in the rearview mirror. "Four separate drop-offs will cost you extra."

"Come on," says Ben. "We're all in the same area."

He revs the motor but doesn't drive.

"I'll get off with Shira," Ron offers.

The taxi driver shifts into gear and takes off down King George, honking and swearing at everything that moves.

"Rush hour. You'd think it was five in the afternoon, not midnight."

Midnight on a Thursday and the town is packed with people trying to grab parking spots closest to the bars.

The driver careens through the narrow streets. I am thrown against Ben with each tight swerve. Finally the taxi pulls to a stop in front of Shira's house.

"Your mom's at the window," says Ron.

"As usual." Shira jumps out and blows us all a kiss. "G'night!" she shouts. "And good luck, Ben. Next week, my house. We'll celebrate."

Ron leans through the taxi window. "Okay, Ben. Show 'em how it's done. Call me as soon as you get back."

"You bet."

We watch as Ron waits for Shira to run up the stairs, and then he darts behind her house, where he disappears into the maze ofalleyways that crisscross through the courtyards.

Ben glances at his watch.

"Nervous?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I think it'll be okay. They said we had to have at least eight hours of sleep before the exercise or we're immediately disqualified, which would mean waiting another month until the next trial."

"Maybe you shouldn't have gone out with us tonight?"

"Probably, but my dad was driving me crazy."

I wait for him to go on. We're at a traffic light, and now that I've warmed up, I'm in no hurry to get home. We're still sandwiched together though Ron and Shira are gone and there's room to spread out. I rest my head against his shoulder.

"You should have heard him," says Ben. "It was painful. ‘In my day, pre-army training courses were tough.'" Ben mimics his father's gravelly voice. "‘Keep away from the slackers, son. You don't want them to think you're a shirker. Grab the stretcher and leave the lighter loads for the wimps.'" Ben shakes his head. "If I don't make it—"

I hear the catch in his throat and nudge him in the ribs with my elbow. "Since when have you ever doubted yourself?" I tease him. "You've been training for this since junior high. Look at those biceps." I give his arm a playful squeeze.

He laughs. "You're right. I've just got to stay focused."

The taxi draws up in front of my place. The flicker of the TV screen shines through the curtain slits. "My dad's still awake."

"The late-night news?"

"Of course. They interviewed him this morning, and he keeps watching the reruns."

"Like living with a movie star."

"Oh, please." I groan. "When was the last time you saw a Knesset minister on the cover of People magazine?"

The taxi driver laughs. He looks at us through the rearview mirror. "In this country," he says, "everybody's got to be a somebody."

"Tell me about it," says Ben.

Before opening the door I turn toward Ben for our familiar cheek-peck good-bye. But this time something more happens. Maybe the taxi jolts or maybe—I don't know—maybe we've both been waiting for the opportunity, but it's our lips that touch and for a moment, or longer, our bodies press together. His lips hold mine. His hand circles my waist.

I am suspended. My heart beats like tiny bird wings, and I hover in this unfamiliar territory before pulling away. I fumble out of the taxi and manage a breathless good-night. By the time I run down the path to the entrance of my building, there is only a glimmer of taillights left to remind me of the moment.

A week has passed since then.

I speed up, taking a shortcut toward Shira's house, urged on by the crispness in the air and the anticipation of seeing Ben again. Tonight not even the tantalizing aroma of falafel and freshly baked pita from the outdoor snack bars can tempt me to linger.

Cutting through the cherry tree garden, I skirt the gang of stray cats huddled for warmth outside the old synagogue and arrive almost breathless at Shira's house. Their iron gate, which borders the alley, is half open. As I step inside their garden, I notice Shira's brother sitting at the top of the stairs leading to the entrance to their house.

"Look, Noah, snowflakes!" Tilting my head to the sky, I watch them parachute their way down, covering the wet Jerusalem courtyard with a layer of white.

He watches me from beneath the porch awning and laughs. He's dressed in his army pants and a green thermal shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A scruffy pair of reddish brown army boots are beside him. One of his thick socks has a hole where his toe pokes through. Traces of snow in his short-cropped hair hint that he too must have been looking up at the flakes just seconds earlier.

I run up the stairs, and he moves aside to let me pass.

"Aren't you coming in to see the game?"

"No. Got to go back to my base soon. I'd rather catch some peace and quiet out here." He reaches for his guitar, which is propped against the door. "Besides, I love the smell of snow."