gone to sleep. The night was warm so they had left the doors to the balcony open, and every now and then a cool gust would slither in, brush over their faces, ruffle their hair.
Yasmin sighed loudly. “Why are you so fixated on that?”
Uri hunched his shoulders. “I just think it’s weird.”
At school, everybody said Sima Landau fucked Arabs, which Uri supposed was another way of saying she was a whore who’d sleep with anybody. Uri laughed along with everyone else but felt awful afterwards because she was the only girl who had ever kissed him. It was at a house party at the beginning of the year. They were playing Seven Minutes in Paradise, and as soon as he and Sima were inside the closet, she had leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, her tongue poking between his lips. Then she said, “You can touchmy tits if you want,” and he placed an awkward hand on her shirt, feeling the rough material of her bra underneath, a lacy tablecloth. Now Uri placed a cushion on his lap, mortified by the hint of an erection that the memory brought him. He closed his eyes, imagining his mother in the psych ward, her oily hair, her saggy arms.
“Not that it matters,” Yasmin said, fiddling with the ring on her lip. “But he did go to the army.”
“He did?”
“You know what, it doesn’t even matter, because he wouldn’t go now and neither would I.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t believe in the occupation, and we don’t believe in war.”
“But the war is happening. Like right now.”
“You can choose to be a part of war or a part of peace. I want to spread positive stuff in the world. I want to do good.”
“I can’t wait to go to the army,” he said.
“Why? So you can ‘defend our country from the enemies who want to throw us into the sea’?” she mocked.
He stared at her. “What, you don’t think we need defending?”
“From what?”
“From this.” He pointed at the sky outside.
“You think this is a threat?” She snorted. “This is nothing. People in Iraq are dying.”
“Then why did you come back? If it’s nothing?”
“Because I worried about you. I didn’t want you to be alone.
With Dad.”
“I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know you’re fine,” Yasmin said. “You’re the bravest kid I’ve ever known.”
Uri looked away, down at the darkened trees swaying in the wind, their branches blindly grasping, the foggy beams of the street lamps, the silhouettes of people in faraway windows, turning off lights in children’s bedrooms, the erratic flickers of TVs in other living rooms.
“Listen, I was going to talk to you about something,” Yasmin said. “Tatagat and I are thinking of opening a shop and staying here.”
“A shop?” he said.
“Yeah, we want to import things from India.”
“Oh.” Uri looked at the TV. “Cool.”
“I thought you’d be more enthusiastic.” Yasmin searched his eyes. “We’ll hang out more. You can be my little helper. You can sit at the store and write as much poetry as you like.”
“Once school starts I’ll be busy. Junior high is harder than elementary.”
“There are more important things than school,” Yasmin said.
Uri squeezed his hands into fists. “Just because you didn’t like school …”
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.” He stood up and forced a yawn. “I’m going to bed. I’m tired.”
He saw less of Yasmin over the next few days. Nadav was back from Jerusalem with a new girlfriend—he had met her in the hotel shelter—and Uri spent his days skateboarding with him and listening to his stories. He showed Uri pictures of a curly-haired girl with lip gloss and hoop earrings, a shirt with a Madonna print, a bandana wrapped around her wrist and her hair tied in a side ponytail.He told Uri they’d had sex, and although Uri didn’t believe him, he enjoyed his detailed descriptions all the same. “It’s the war,” Nadav said. “It drives chicks crazy. Why do you
Yasmin sighed loudly. “Why are you so fixated on that?”
Uri hunched his shoulders. “I just think it’s weird.”
At school, everybody said Sima Landau fucked Arabs, which Uri supposed was another way of saying she was a whore who’d sleep with anybody. Uri laughed along with everyone else but felt awful afterwards because she was the only girl who had ever kissed him. It was at a house party at the beginning of the year. They were playing Seven Minutes in Paradise, and as soon as he and Sima were inside the closet, she had leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, her tongue poking between his lips. Then she said, “You can touchmy tits if you want,” and he placed an awkward hand on her shirt, feeling the rough material of her bra underneath, a lacy tablecloth. Now Uri placed a cushion on his lap, mortified by the hint of an erection that the memory brought him. He closed his eyes, imagining his mother in the psych ward, her oily hair, her saggy arms.
“Not that it matters,” Yasmin said, fiddling with the ring on her lip. “But he did go to the army.”
“He did?”
“You know what, it doesn’t even matter, because he wouldn’t go now and neither would I.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t believe in the occupation, and we don’t believe in war.”
“But the war is happening. Like right now.”
“You can choose to be a part of war or a part of peace. I want to spread positive stuff in the world. I want to do good.”
“I can’t wait to go to the army,” he said.
“Why? So you can ‘defend our country from the enemies who want to throw us into the sea’?” she mocked.
He stared at her. “What, you don’t think we need defending?”
“From what?”
“From this.” He pointed at the sky outside.
“You think this is a threat?” She snorted. “This is nothing. People in Iraq are dying.”
“Then why did you come back? If it’s nothing?”
“Because I worried about you. I didn’t want you to be alone.
With Dad.”
“I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know you’re fine,” Yasmin said. “You’re the bravest kid I’ve ever known.”
Uri looked away, down at the darkened trees swaying in the wind, their branches blindly grasping, the foggy beams of the street lamps, the silhouettes of people in faraway windows, turning off lights in children’s bedrooms, the erratic flickers of TVs in other living rooms.
“Listen, I was going to talk to you about something,” Yasmin said. “Tatagat and I are thinking of opening a shop and staying here.”
“A shop?” he said.
“Yeah, we want to import things from India.”
“Oh.” Uri looked at the TV. “Cool.”
“I thought you’d be more enthusiastic.” Yasmin searched his eyes. “We’ll hang out more. You can be my little helper. You can sit at the store and write as much poetry as you like.”
“Once school starts I’ll be busy. Junior high is harder than elementary.”
“There are more important things than school,” Yasmin said.
Uri squeezed his hands into fists. “Just because you didn’t like school …”
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.” He stood up and forced a yawn. “I’m going to bed. I’m tired.”
He saw less of Yasmin over the next few days. Nadav was back from Jerusalem with a new girlfriend—he had met her in the hotel shelter—and Uri spent his days skateboarding with him and listening to his stories. He showed Uri pictures of a curly-haired girl with lip gloss and hoop earrings, a shirt with a Madonna print, a bandana wrapped around her wrist and her hair tied in a side ponytail.He told Uri they’d had sex, and although Uri didn’t believe him, he enjoyed his detailed descriptions all the same. “It’s the war,” Nadav said. “It drives chicks crazy. Why do you
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