Girl at War by Sara Novic Page A

life.”
    I clenched my teeth at her use of the word.
New
, like I had traded one family for another in a used-car deal. I swallowed the resentment and told her that my family was kind and had taken good care of me. Rahela was healthy now, as if nothing had ever been wrong with her at all. We’d spent most of the last ten years in a suburb of Philadelphia, where everything was clean and calm. That I had come to New York to get away from that quiet. Sharon nodded along like a woman at church. She meant to be encouraging, I knew, or else she was pleased with herself, but either way it bothered me that my life was something for her to evaluate and take some kind of credit for. “Anyway,” I said. I looked down at my plate. “I wanted to ask you about Petar.”
    Sharon stopped nodding.
    “Do you know what happened to him? The day we left?”
    “No,” she said. “The men I sent—they couldn’t find him. Then I was in Germany for a month, and after that Bosnia, out of communication. I was sort of hoping you had—”
    “I haven’t,” I said.
    “I tried. I wrote letters. Even asked the people who set up the new embassy. But there was nothing.”
    “What about all the other guys in the unit?”
    “I think of all of them, of course, but none of them were as close—Petar and I were friends. And, after you, I just wanted to know that everything was okay.”
    “Petar told me he saved your life.”
    “That, too—I owe him. Really it was probably more than once. His unit actually used their guns and we were carrying ours around like handbags.”
    My face must have betrayed my anxiety because Sharon said, “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just feel like if I don’t laugh about it, something really ugly could take root in me. I’m sure you understand.”
    I said I did.
    “You know, in the end, you’re my biggest success story.”
    I thought of Sharon’s speech, the photos of the grave excavations. All the others, like my parents, who hadn’t yet been found.
    “I don’t know if
success
is the word.”
    She smiled faintly. “Maybe not. Truth is I don’t think I’ll ever get over the things I saw there.” She paused. “But I shouldn’t be putting that on you.”
    I told her it was okay.
    “Petar would be so proud of you.”
    I mumbled a thanks and concentrated on my salad until the waiter mercifully appeared with the check. I reached formy wallet. Twenty and studenthood was an interim existence in which I frequently found interacting with “real adults” awkward, them waving off my offers to split bills as something ridiculous, and making me feel even more like a child.
    “Don’t even think about it.”
    “Are you sure?” I said, though in this case I was thankful; my work-study check was sure to take a hit from the priceless menu. Sharon gave an exaggerated nod as she tipped back the last of her wine.
    Outside, the burst of spring had given way to a thin, cold drizzle. Sharon pulled the belt of her trench coat tight as we stood together on the curb. “Do you ever think about going back?” she said.
    “I tried not to think about it at all until you called.” I moved to pull my coat closed, too, but the zipper was jammed. “Do you?”
    “I don’t think it’s good idea. For me.” She stuck her arm out to hail a cab. “Looks like the skies are about to open up. You need a ride somewhere?”
    I shook my head. Anyway, we were going in opposite directions. A taxi pulled to the curb on the other side of the street. “Guess I’ll take that,” she said. We shared a mannered hug and she ran across the street, still poised in her heels on the slick asphalt. I watched her into the cab, but she was typing something on her BlackBerry and didn’t look up again.
    As I walked to the subway my mood blackened, something like anger but about what I couldn’t pinpoint. Frustration, maybe, that I still understood so little. Instead of clarity and insight, adulthood had only brought more confusion. At the next corner I