I stood back and watched as awnings were unrolled, stoops were swept, and patio chairs were set up. Even though it was still early in the morning, the heat was getting intense. Already, beads of sweat were beginning to dot my upper lip and trickle down my neck. Looking for something to cool me down, I wandered into the pizza joint and spied a large freezer filled with ice cream and popsicles.
Yes!
I ran over, opened up the door, and basked in the surge of cold, manufactured air that rushed out into my face. After a minute, I chose an ice cream bar that, from the photo on the package, looked like a wedge of pink watermelon.
"I'd like to buy this, please," I said timidly, not sure whether the cashier spoke English or not. I grabbed a handful of coins from my pocket and held them out hopefully. Smiling, she gently plucked the correct amount out of my palm.
"Tank yoo," she said in a heavily accented voice. I smiled back and turned to go. I couldn't help feeling proud of myself for accomplishing this smallest of tasks. I know, it's silly, right? But it was a hot day in the Middle East and I'd bought myself an ice cream! Maybe I'd be able to get along here, after all.
But everything changed a second later when I peeled open the wrapper and my triumph instantly crumbled to pieces onto the floor. Flustered, I turned back to the cashier and pointed to the rapidly melting mess of pink and green.
"I just opened it," I tried to explain. "The ice cream was already broken — it's not my fault."
But apparently, her knowledge of English stopped at "thank you." Suddenly, her smile disappeared and she started gesturing wildly with her hands.
"K-hee ohd. K-hee ohd," she insisted loudly.
With my face turning red from embarrassment and my feet frozen to the floor, all I could do was just shake my head like an idiot to let her know I didn't understand. But with every second that passed, she just got louder and more boisterous.
" K-hee ohd. K-hee ohd—k-hee ohd achad!" she repeated, almost yelling now as she gestured towards the mess.
"What? What?"
I had no idea what she was saying. Was she calling me clumsy? Did she want me to clean it up? Was she kicking me out of her pizzeria? Just as I was about to run out the door, a voice from behind came to my rescue.
"Don't worry," the voice explained in perfect North American English. "She's just trying to tell you to take another one."
I spun around and came face to face with a girl exactly my own height. She had a mane of brown curls, a high regal forehead, a nose full of freckles, and yellowy-green eyes that were almost the exact colour of the raw olives growing in the tree outside my apartment.
"She sounds angry, but she's really not," the girl continued. "She's just Israeli — they're very passionate here."
"Oh — well, thanks," I stammered. "I, um, don't speak any Hebrew."
"Yeah, I kind of figured that one out. So, are you a tourist?"
"Not exactly," I replied, reaching into the freezer for another ice cream bar, much to the obvious relief of the cashier. "I just moved to Jerusalem this week. My name's Mackenzie. Mackenzie Hill."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Marla Hoffman. Hey, we've got the same initials."
Outside the pizzeria, we fell in step and continued our conversation. I licked my ice cream happily; I had no idea where we were going, nor did I really care. It was just nice to talk to somebody in English.
It turned out that Marla was sixteen, had moved here from Buffalo, New York five years ago, and lived in an apartment building just down the street from ours.
"I speak Hebrew and I know my way around. So if you want, I can show you the city in the afternoons when I get off work," she offered.
I eagerly accepted. By the time my ice cream was finished, we'd forged the beginnings of a new friendship.
And what did I do on the seventh day? Simple. I took it easy and chillaxed — just like they did in the Bible — and, for the first time since we landed, thought about all the possibilities this new world had to offer.
Chapter 4
Marla was fantastic! Like, the coolest person I'd ever known. I felt giddy when we were together, like I'd fallen head over heels in love with a new best friend (in a totally hetero way, of course).
She was funny, daring, independent, worldly, outspoken. She knew how to drive, spoke three languages, and didn't care what anybody said about her. She had streaks in her hair, a pierced belly button, and no curfew. Unlike my dad, her father sounded great. He let her drink wine with dinner. And he let her date. She'd had two boyfriends in the past year and was more than happy to share the wisdom of her experience with me.
But the best thing of all about Marla was that she didn't feel sorry for me. For the first time in over a year I wasn't "tragic." And that felt good.
Unfortunately, I was so excited to have a new friend that I forgot one of the cardinal rules of being a teenager: Never reveal too much to a parent — especially one as overprotective and unpredictable as my dad.
When I told him the story of how Marla and I met, the first thing he did was sign me up for an intensive course in Hebrew.
"You need to be able to get around this city," he said. "We can't have another incident like that one in the pizzeria."
"But Dad," I protested, "Marla knows Hebrew. She can translate for me."
"Sorry honey, but you have to learn it for yourself. And you'll need it when you start school in the fall — many of your classes will be in Hebrew."
I stared at him in shock.
"But … but Dad, I'm only going to be here for three months. It'll just be a waste of money."
He laughed at that. "Let me worry about the money, Mack."
"And what about you?" I challenged. "You don't know any Hebrew. Are you going to take a class, too?"
"Me? Gosh no. I'm far too busy planning my curriculum for the fall semester. Tell you what, you can teach me what you learn every day. It'll be fun."
Yeah, really fun—like watching weeds grow!
As much as I tried to talk him out of it, no amount of whining, begging, or complaining seemed to help. His mind was made up.
So that's how I ended up in school for the last seven weeks of summer. Me and my stupid big mouth!
Marla tried to reassure me that it wasn't going to be so bad.
"Everyone who comes to Israel takes language classes — it's almost like an initiation rite. My family and I all did it together. It's called ‘Ulpan.'"
But she was wrong. It was so bad. The classroom was hot, the teacher made the class more boring than last-period geometry, and all my classmates reeked of cigarettes. Thankfully, I only had to be there in the mornings. I spent much of my time in Ulpan doodling, staring out the window, and wondering where we were going to spend our afternoon.
Marla had a summer job at a nearby day camp. Since her work ended at twelve-thirty, she was able to meet me every day after class to take me around the city — just like she'd promised.
The first thing she did was teach me how to navigate the Israeli bus system. Then she showed me the sights. She took me to downtown Jerusalem to see all the great shops and chic boutiques. She took me to the bustling Yoel Solomon Street to window-shop at all the trendy stores. She took me to Mahane Yehuda, the huge open-air food market, where we browsed and munched on free tastes of everything from sunflower seeds and homemade candy to baked goods and freshly churned peanut butter. She took me to Emek Refaim, a pretty neighbourhood packed with cafés and restaurants. She took me to Liberty Bell Park and showed me the Terry Fox Garden,