The Importance of Wings Read Online Free Page B

them.”
    “Yeah,” Gayle says sadly. She gazes at their car. “Who painted all those pictures?”
    “I dunno,” I answer.
    Gayle stretches. “Wanna play Legos?”
    “No, I’ve got a lot of homework.”
    Gayle frowns. “Yeah, me too.”
    She gives the car one final stare, then goes upstairs. Reluctantly, I follow her.
    The new neighbors probably do have a lot of unpacking to do, but that isn’t the reason I told Gayle we shouldn’t stop by. The very idea of dropping in on them horrifies me. That girl with the black hair and olive skin has to be my age, and
    a. what if she doesn’t like me?
    b. what if she picks on me?
    c. what if she’s scary like donna?
    I’m not going near her. Not ever.
    I sit at the desk in my room and pull out my schoolbooks. It looks like homework is going to be today’s activity. I console myself with the fact that tonight, after all the sports, Gayle and I will watch better TV.
    I’m halfway through social studies when I hear a car starting. I peek at the Cursed House from my window. The picture-painted station wagon is pulling away, but the girl isn’t in it. The girl’s sitting on the front stoop—just sitting there, doing nothing.
    I stare at her, trying to decide what kind of girl she is. A few clues are encouraging. For one, she doesn’t have wings. This can mean several things:
    a. she doesn’t know how to make wings, which is good
    b. she doesn’t care about having them, which is good
    c. she’s from another country, like gheeta and suri, and doesn’t do that sort of thing, which is good
    Her jeans aren’t tight, and they aren’t designer like Jordache, Sasson, or Sergio Valente. This is also good.
    She isn’t doing anything cruel like squashing ants. More good.
    I continue gazing at the girl, wondering what she’s like. I get up from my desk and creep silently down the stairs. My only intention is to spy on her from the living room window. But the minute I walk in front of the window, the girl turns around. Her eyes meet mine through the glass.
    The girl makes a motion with her hands. A wave. No, a “Come on down” gesture, like from
The Price Is Right.
Well, I can’t ignore her now. I take a deep breath and start for the front door. I can still see her through the window as I move toward the door, and, at that moment, the girl blows a huge green bubble that collapses on her face. My hand freezes on the doorknob.
    The girl chews gum.
    Bad, bad, bad sign.
    But the front door opens under my hand, and I find myself standing in the doorway.
    “Hi,” she says.
    “Hi,” I reply in a voice that sounds strange to me.
    I know she’s waiting for me to walk outside and act like a normal person, but I can’t make myself take another step.
    She reaches into her front pocket. “Want some Bubblicious?” she asks, holding out a packet of green gum. She studies the label. “It’s a new flavor—apple. It doesn’t taste like a real apple, but it’s pretty good.”
    I don’t reply or move, but what she says nearly knocks me over. How many girls would admit to liking apples? How many girls would compare the newest flavor of Bubblicious to real fruit—as if somehow a real apple was better?
    I’ve always wanted to tell people that watermelon-flavored Jolly Ranchers don’t taste like real watermelon, but I don’t, because they’d think I was a loser for saying such a stupid thing. Before I can stop myself, though, my mouth says, “Jolly Ranchers never taste like their fruit either.”
    The girl nods. “Especially watermelon,” she says.
    I want to do a dance. Instead, I walk toward her. The girl holds out the packet of gum to me. I help myself to a piece.
    “This is a nice neighborhood,” the girl says.
    I nearly choke on my Bubblicious.
    “The neighborhood we lived in before wasn’t this nice,” she continues. “But the one before that was really nice.”
    “How many places have you lived?” I ask, not believing I’m actually having a conversation with