Light Years Read online

  “Right,” I said, my teacher’s British English stumbling on my lips. We shook. What a funny language English was. Did his parents realize his name sounded like a sentence when they named him?

  “My name is Maya Laor.”

  “Where are you from, Maya Laor?”

  “I’m from out of town.”

  “I noticed,” he said. “From where, though? Your accent is very different.”

  “Greenland,” I said, trying out the lie.

  “You’re tan,” he said with a hint of a smile. “To be coming from Greenland.”

  “It’s a beautiful country.” I resisted the urge to fiddle with my packet. “Vastly underrated. We have fabulous summers.”

  “Really? I never knew that. The things you learn every day.”

  “Right.”

  “Nice meeting you, Maya.”

  “Right. Bye.”

  I walked away, unsure of why I was so annoyed, why my heart raced. I thought he was watching me; but when I looked over my shoulder, he had already gone back into the café.

  Walking back to the university area, I tried hard to enjoy the moment, the slow walk, the beautiful weather, the quaint shops and restaurants. When would triumph set in? When would I finally feel this success? I was going to UVA, I was out of Israel, I was going to get a college degree. I was miserable.

  Tiredness lurked behind my skin, settling in my bones. It wasn’t jet lag. It was the same crippling weakness from Israel. Determined to ignore it, to make it go away, I took deep breaths as I walked, rubbing a fist against my stomach to ease the tension.

  After Dov died, everyone had advice. My parents wanted me to keep seeing a counselor. My aunt thought I should go to Europe for a cost-be-damned vacation—she even offered to pay for it—and then come back and focus on getting a good job. She claimed she could get me that too. My best friend, Daphna, decided I needed to learn to meditate, possibly followed by a visit to an Indian ashram. She gave me books with pictures of emaciated yogis perched on the edge of a cliff, as if they were teaching the miracles of human flight instead of meditation. But it was nothing any books could help with. We both knew that.

  Nobody thought I should leave for four years. Six months, twelve months, that was fine. Everyone went traveling after the army. But four years? That’s a long time to be gone. To run away. They were right, of course. That was the point.

  I bought everything on my list. Got a key to the room. Tried to stay busy. The next day, I bought all the books I needed for my classes. They were obscenely expensive and I used the credit card my parents gave me, feeling guilty. The books for my two astronomy classes were beautiful, though. I spent almost an hour sitting on a bench in an enclosed garden behind one of the pavilions on the Lawn, looking at the pictures. The garden itself was something of a pleasant surprise. Like everyone who visited the university, I strolled by the Rotunda, admiring its perfect lines. Trying to see the backs of the pavilions that stretch out from it, I discovered that each pavilion had a garden open to the public. Each garden was different, perfect and beautiful in its own way. I tested out several before picking a favorite, the one behind Pavilion IV. Some of the gardens were open and seemed designed for parties or picnics, but Garden IV seemed designed for quiet thought. There were more lush bushes and full trees, more green and fewer flowers. The pavilion was almost hidden from sight, and sitting on the white bench tucked up against the red-brick fence, I could pretend I was happy to be here.

  I found the library and used the Internet to write to my friends Daphna, Leah, and Irit, and my brother Adam. Leah had just been to a show by a modern-dance troupe I’d been wanting to see. Daphna wrote me a message complaining about her job, like always. I wished I were still there so I could take her out for a cup of coffee and we could both vent about stupid co-workers. I e-mailed my parents as well, letting them know how I was, how my room looked, that I was doing great, brilliant, everyone here so nice.

  I spent three days almost completely alone. I spoke only when ordering breakfast or lunch at the café or when I bought something at a store. I saw Yami twice, and we waved to each other but didn’t speak. I slept a lot, flipped through my books, and walked for hours, exploring the university and the town.

  It was exactly four months since the funeral. Not even half a year. I knew my parents didn’t want me to think about it. But it wasn’t right not to think of it, of him. A person should linger with you after he dies. Besides, trying not to think of him was an exercise in futility.

  On the fourth day after I arrived, the rest of the students came.

  I woke up at seven to the sounds of shouted directions.

  “No, Mom, not there! Here, here it is.”

  Within two hours, the halls were jammed and the flow of new students seemed like it would never end.

  It was hard to believe that this was the same street from five days ago. Cars were parked up on the curb, stopped in the middle of the road, hazard lights flashing. Hundreds of people were carrying brown boxes, straining, laughing that nervous laugh of stress and exertion. People were shouting to be careful, to lift on THREE, to please move your car so we can get through. Older students in blue shirts were helping new students move in. Parents were hugging their embarrassed children, kissing their foreheads, looking on fondly and with concerned pride as they helped them unpack their favorite shirts and their lucky shoes. The students seemed so young, with round faces and shining eyes. Only two years younger than I was, but they seemed infantile.

  Every door was propped open. People were meeting their hallmates, assessing the people they would have to live with for the next year. Some were scratching their heads at the logistics of cramming a TV and a mini-fridge into a room already stuffed. Closets bulged, beds were elevated on cement blocks to make storage space. Minivans and station wagons careened out to make last-minute purchases of shelves, rugs, and cinder blocks. It was chaos.

  At first I thought I’d stick around and meet my new roommate, but as the halls got more and more crowded, I decided we would have plenty of time to get to know each other. I slipped out and headed to the Corner, the area near the university that seemed to cater to the student population, thinking to buy a cup of coffee. It was disorienting to have so many people around after pure silence. But even away from the dorms it was a mad rush of buying supplies and greeting old friends and introducing new acquaintances on the narrow cobbled sidewalk. Students buying books, buying T-shirts with VIRGINIA emblazoned across the front, reiterating their triumph of arriving here.

  I turned and walked away from there as well. Crowds made me nervous, even well-behaved American crowds. The town felt flooded with people. There were suddenly minor traffic jams at every light. There were no parking spaces. The stores were full, cash registers dinging in joy. I really didn’t care about meeting people, learning their names. They all seemed so young. They all looked alike. They dressed the same. The guys with their hats pulled low, slouching in their khaki shorts and gray T-shirts while the girls all wore cute little outfits that I hadn’t seen since I was a kid—baby-doll shirts, flowery skirts, high-heeled sandals or colored canvas shoes. Their blondish hair was pulled high up in cheerful ponytails.

  Wearing dark-blue jeans and a black tank top, I felt old compared with them, like a big, dark lizard in the baby-animal petting zoo.

  As the day wore on, parents began to retreat, to start their long drives home, to leave their kids alone and let them settle in. I decided it was safe to return and entered my building, which was nearly humming with chatter and nervous energy.

  The door to my room was open, and four half-full suitcases lay on the floor. I peered in.

  “Hello?” I said.

  A girl turned from the closet, her arms full of folded shirts.

  “Hi!” she said brightly.

  “I’m your roommate,” I said. “My name is Maya Laor.”

  “Oh, hi!” she said again, eyes wide with excitement. “I was wondering when I’d see you. I saw all your stu
ff already here, but I didn’t know where you were.”

  “I got here four days ago. I hope you don’t mind I took the bed by the wall.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “My name is Payton Lee Walker, most people either call me Payton or Pay.”

  She was short, barely reaching my chin. She had blond hair up in a ponytail and wore khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and pink flip-flops. She fit. I wondered how she knew to wear what everyone else was wearing. Maybe it was in the welcome packet. Maybe it was an American thing.

  “This is so great. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to meet you!”

  I smiled.

  “I mean, it’s so important who your roommate is, you know? You hear such awful stories sometimes, but I just know we’ll get along great. It’ll be so cool. I’m just going to finish putting some of these clothes away and then my parents want to take us out to dinner.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Don’t be silly. They want to get to know you, plus we live really close by. Only twenty, well, I guess closer to thirty minutes away, so it’s no trouble at all. I think it’s hard on them that I’m leaving. I’m the baby of the family. Two older brothers.” She rolled her eyes. “At least I’m going to UVA, my brothers both got as far away from here as they could.” She laughed.

  I nodded, hardly able to keep up with her chatter.

  “How about you? How are your parents taking this?”

  “They’re fine,” I said. “They’re used to me not living at home. But they didn’t expect for me to go so far away.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Haifa, in Israel.”

  “Jeez, that’s really far away. I don’t think your packet says you’re an international student.”

  Didn’t she notice my accent? Did she think it was polite to ignore it?

  “International students are supposed to live in a different dorm, I think. With other international students, but I’m glad you’re here.”

  I was silent, not sure what to say.

  “Much more interesting, I think. It’s cool you’re from Israel. Is it really dangerous there? I always hear about it on the news.”

  I was quiet.

  She hesitated for a moment, finally hearing the words that gushed out. She turned back to her closet and straightened a row of folded shirts. “I think it’s great,” she said firmly as if I had contradicted her. “My parents are excited to meet you.”

  I wasn’t sure about that.

  She was like a puppy. Jumping from topic to topic, flitting around the room, cramming her clothes into already-packed shelves, hanging dress after dress, glancing back at me every so often to make sure I was still there.

  “Daddy!” she said when a paunchy, silver-haired man stood at our door. “This is Maya, my new roommate.”

  “Hey, honey.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I see you’ve been busy while I was gone.”

  Payton smiled. The room looked like her closet had exploded. She was developing a “system,” she had explained, and wanted each article of clothing in its proper spot.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Maya,” Payton’s father said, extending a hand. We shook, my hand nearly swallowed up in his. “Payton’s been looking forward to meeting you all summer.”

  He had a nice voice, slow and deep. And an accent mild enough that I understood most of what he said.

  “Me too,” I said. I hadn’t given half a thought to my roommate or who she was. “It’s nice to finally meet her, and you.” I bit my lip.

  “My wife and I were hoping you will join us for dinner.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Come on, Maya,” Payton said. “Just come.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I didn’t have anything else to do and the dorm would be packed and impossible to get away from. “That’s very nice of you.”

  “Nonsense. Come on, girls, Payton’s mom is in the car waiting for us.”

  Payton’s parents were well bred, well mannered, and well off. Exactly what I expected. Her father (“Robert, but please call me Bob”) was a lawyer, working at the same firm his father worked at, his grandfather had worked at, and his greatgrandfather had founded. Her mother (who told me to call her Sissy, but didn’t really seem to mean it) was extremely busy with something called the Junya League, the Republican Party, and their church. Of Payton’s two brothers, one attended Stanford, then UVA law school, and was now cutting his teeth at the firm’s Richmond office. Her oldest brother, a bit of a nonconformist, went to the University of Chicago (“A Yankee school in a Yankee city,” to his parents’ horror), was an investment banker, and currently lived in Hong Kong with his Chinese girlfriend (“lovely girl, very sweet”).

  We spoke about Charlottesville—they told me funny stories about ghosts in the hallways and a cow that had been lifted on top of the Rotunda, a practical joke at the turn of the century.

  “Charlottesville and the university in particular are just lovely areas,” Payton’s mother said. “But you shouldn’t forget that it can be dangerous. Especially for girls like you.”

  She must have seen the disbelief that crossed my face.

  “I know it looks calm and staid, but last year two students were brutally beaten. They were in the hospital for weeks.” She leaned in. “The police never caught the man who did it. They said it was a fraternity hazing gone wrong, but I don’t believe that for a second. Whoever did it is still out there.”

  I made a suitably concerned face. These people might as well have been from Mars.

  “Now, Sissy, don’t go giving the girl nightmares.”

  I tried to imagine what kind of person would develop nightmares from a story like that. I just couldn’t picture it.

  “I just think you need to be aware,” she said carefully. “Both of you. Try to stick together.”

  That evening, as Payton and I settled in for our first night together, Payton sighed and stretched.

  “I think this year is going to be great,” she said. “I was really scared before I came here, but now I’m finally getting excited about all this.” She stretched and sighed. “Yeah, this year is going to be great.”

  I smiled at her in the dark but didn’t say anything.

  I didn’t think this year could be any worse than the last, but you never knew for sure, did you?

  Chapter Two

  ISRAEL

  My high school buddies and I were at our favorite hangout, a café and bar on the beach. Our usual table on the deck was full of our empty glasses and wet napkins. It was only a few weeks before we were scheduled to begin basic training. We tried to be cool and nonchalant, legs sprawled, arms casually folded.

  “You know, it’s up to us now,” Alon said. “We’re the great Israeli hope. Saddam and Arafat won’t know what hit them once we sign up.”

  We all laughed loudly.

  “Yeah, they’ll be like, why is that tank pointing the wrong way, right?” Daphna said.

  “Oh yeah,” David said. “Heck, yeah. They’ll be like—why is that redheaded soldier holding his rifle upside down?” He high-fived Alon, who was infamous at the arcade for shooting aliens, robbers, and vampires holding his gun upside down.

  We whooped and cheered. We clinked our Diet Cokes.

  Life was good. I was excited.

  The day I packed for boot camp, my brother Adam leaned against the doorframe of my bedroom and watched me for a while.

  “I still can’t believe you’re going,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I know.” I flashed him a quick grin.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Naw.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I laughed. “All right, then,” I said. “I guess you know best.”

  “I can’t wait to go,” he said fiercely. At fifteen, he hadn’t hit his growth spurt. It bothered him, made him feel he had to prove how tough he was.

  “Your time will come,” I said. “Everyone goes.” I sat back on my heels, looki
ng at the piles of T-shirts, shorts, and socks around me. “And you’ll give Mom a heart attack and Dad an ulcer by volunteering for some crazy combat unit.”

  He grinned at me and looked so young I felt my heart squeeze.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I said.

  “Yeah, Maya, me too.” His voice was a bit husky, a hint of things to come. “Don’t be scared. You’ll be okay.”

  I stopped and looked at him. His hair was gelled in spikes and he was wearing baggy jeans and high-top sneakers scribbled with Magic Marker. Skater cool.

  “Thanks, Adam,” I said quietly.

  “Any time.” Then a look crossed his face that I knew so well.

  “What? What evil thought did you just have?”

  He had that smug tilt to his smile.

  “What?” I asked again.

  “Well, I was just going to say I hope you become a bad-ass soldier.…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not a big-ass soldier.”

  It was common knowledge that many girls gained weight during their military service. They’d fill out their assigned uniforms until the seams stretched near bursting. I threw my pillow at him and missed. It went sailing over his shoulder. He laughed at me and ran out, suddenly a kid again.

  That night, my mother cooked my favorite meal, noodles with meat sauce. Kipi, our dog, sat near me and I slipped her the big chunks of meat from my sauce. My parents disliked it when I fed her at the table, but this time they pretended not to notice. They kept looking at me and sighing.

  “Come on, guys,” I said. “You’re making me crazy.”

  “Yeah,” Adam said. “It’s not like she’s going to a combat unit. They’ll probably have her answering phones in a week.”

  I leaned over to smack him on the back of the head.

  “You’re going to be a secretary,” he taunted, leaping back from his seat as I lunged after him. “Maya’s a secretary, Maya’s a secretary,” he sang.

  I took off and chased him around the apartment. Kipi ran after us, barking and jumping to nip my heels.

  Before I went to sleep that night, my parents came to my room to say good night.