Mackenzie, Lost and Found Read online

  I nodded silently as my thoughts flicked back to that return ticket.

  No, Dad. There’s not going to be a next time.

  On the fifth day, I was on my own while Dad went to meet some colleagues at the university. It was time to start exploring the neighbourhood. With Professor Anderson’s advice still fresh in my head, I was a bit apprehensive about leaving the apartment by myself. But in the end, I was more restless than nervous. I figured it would probably be safe enough to check out the local sights.

  A few doors down from our building, I stumbled upon a little corner store that was like no other corner store I’d ever seen before in my life. There was no sign outside — no storefront name — just a door and a big cigarette advertisement marking the spot. I stepped inside to look around.

  “Oh, wow!” I gasped under my breath. The entire store was just a tiny little hole in the wall, jam-packed with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. The shelves were stuffed with things like toilet paper, bags of chips, bottles of pop and water, cleaning products, and cigarettes.

  A dark-skinned boy about my age stood behind a narrow counter laden with sweet rolls and candy. Even from a distance, I noticed his eyes. They were gorgeous — big and round, and the exact colour of caféau-lait. Although he looked tall, I still couldn’t help wondering how he was able to reach up to the top row of shelves that grazed the ceiling of his store.

  Noticing me noticing him, the boy nodded and smiled at me. I smiled shyly back. I wanted to say hello, but didn’t know how.

  Smart move, Mack-on-Crack! Next time maybe you’ll look up some Hebrew phrases before walking out the door!

  And since I hadn’t brought any money along, I couldn’t buy anything from him. Feeling stupid and not knowing what else to do, I left the store to continue exploring.

  A few steps further down the street, I came across the busy intersection I’d seen from my window. Traffic was flying past at a frightening pace and a never-ending symphony of horns filled the air. I stood a safe distance back from the curb and watched the commotion of cars with horror and awe. For the first time in my teenage life, I was actually grateful that I was too young for a driver’s licence.

  Suddenly, a low mumbling caught my attention. I turned and saw a young, bearded man standing next to me, bowing his head and reciting some strange-sounding words. I listened carefully, but couldn’t make out what he was saying — I could only assume it was Hebrew. I knew I shouldn’t be staring, but it was hard not to. I’d never seen anybody pray in a public place before and it left me with a funny feeling — curious and uncomfortable at the same time. It seemed so personal, like he’d decided to take off his clothes right beside me.

  Crossing the street, I watched the hustle and bustle of the intersection for a while. When the heat and the dust became too much to handle, I turned to head back to the safety of the apartment. Coming in from the heat was a welcome relief. I kicked off my sweaty sandals, enjoying the feel of the chilly tiles on my hot feet.

  Peeling off the rest of my clothes, I jumped straight into a cool shower to wash off the coating of dust that was clinging to my body. It seemed like everything in this country was covered in a layer of powdery archaeology.

  I guess it was finally making a bit of sense why Dad wanted to come and work here so badly.

  On the sixth day, I met Marla.

  I decided to venture out a little bit further and bring along some money, although truthfully, I didn’t know how to count it or how much I had. I walked past the busy intersection until I came to a series of stores. There was a pizzeria, a flower shop, a movie-rental store, a café, a falafel stand, and a tiny accessory store, all getting ready to open up for business.

  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, which made my heart swell with pride for Canada and my stomach queasy with homesickness all at the same time. She pointed out all the posh, swanky hotels where royalty, ambassadors, and heads of state came to stay on their official visits to Jerusalem.

  And then the next day she taught me how to sneak into the posh, swanky hotel pools.

  “All you need is one of these to look like you belong,” she explained, pulling a pair of towels out of her beach bag.

  I took one and examined it. It was thick and fluffy and soft. And embroidered in fancy print were the words, The King David Hotel.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a whole bunch of them at home,” she explained. “My grandmother is rich, but cheap. Nothing gives her more pleasure in life than to get stuff for free. She stashes hotel towels in her suitcase every time she visits from Buffalo. I have towels from all the nicest hotels in Jerusalem.”

  I couldn’t believe she was bragging about this!“

  “So, your grandmother’s a kleptomaniac?” I asked, handing her back the stolen towel before anybody saw me holding it. She just laughed and stuffed it back into her bag.

  “Don’t be so paranoid, Mack!”

  Paranoid or not, the first time we snuck into a hotel pool I felt like a criminal.

  “What if we get caught?” I moaned. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I’d never done anything so reckless before.

  “We won’t,” Marla said, pulling me towards the lounge chairs. “Just act like you belong. And pay with shekels for anything you buy.”

  I was so nervous. I chose a chair as far away from the pool as possible, pulled the brim of my hat down over my face, and started nibbling my fingernails furiously. I fully expected the police to show up and haul us off to jail. My skin was itchy under my bikini. I tugged awkwardly at the straps, and prayed we wouldn’t get caught.

  Marla, on the other hand, seemed totally relaxed. She stretched out her towel, pulled out her iPod, and started sunbathing. I have to admit, after an hour I began to ease up a bit. I even took off my hat and let my face show. And at the end of the day, when I realized that nobody was going to arrest me for trespassing, I was hooked. After that, it got easier and easier every time.

  In between the sights and the pools, Marla taught me how to “coffee.” Coffee, you see, is a whole cultural movement in Israel. Espresso bars and outdoor cafés are everywhere. In the early afternoon, everything slows down for a couple of hours while people flock to the coffee shops to relax and escape the heat.

  Marla almost fell off her chair when I told her I’d never tasted coffee before.

  “What are you talking about? Not even a sip? Are you from this planet?”

  “I guess I never thought much about it.” I shrugged. My mind skipped back a couple of months to Hailey Winthrop and her story of her date with Harrison Finch. We’d all been so shocked when she’d tasted his coffee.

  “Doesn’t caffeine stunt your growth?” I asked Marla.

  “Um, are you planning on a career in professional basketball?”

  “No,” I muttered stupidly.

  Marla sighed and pushed her steaming cup into my hands. “Look, Mack, I used to be an outsider in this country too, so here’s some advice. You don’t smoke and that’s okay. But if you don’t learn to like coffee, you’ll never fit in. So drink up!”

  I took a tentative sip and grimaced. It was black, burning hot, and bitter.

  “Ugh! You like this stuff?” I asked, handing her back the cup.

  Marla giggled. “I do, but I’ve had a lot of practice. Maybe I should have started you off with something a bit easier.”

  She got me another cup and sweetened it with milk and sugar until it tasted like a hot dessert. Better, but still not as satisfying as a hot chocolate on a wintry afternoon. Despite my protests, Marla kept dragging me back into coffee shops every day.

  “It’s for your own good!” she’d insist, pushing cup after cup into my hands.

  Wouldn’t you know it? By the time August was over, I was drinking it like a pro. I was also getting around the city like a pro and even speaking the language. I guess the Ulpan was doing its job.

  So there I was, a million miles away from my old life in Canada. I’d gone from a nervous tourist to being almost as street savvy as a native Jerusalemite. I’d developed a caffeine habit and spent my mornings learning Hebrew and my afternoons floating on an air mattress in the King David Hotel pool, rubbing elbows with princes and prime ministers.

  Oh my God — it was turning into the best summer of my entire life!

&
nbsp; Chapter 5

  She was coming into the store almost every day now and, even though Nasir knew it was wrong, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her skin was so pale, it seemed to be almost transparent. And with her long yellow hair and blue eyes, he thought she looked just like the American doll that his sister Amar kept hidden under her bed — away from the disapproving eyes of their parents.

  He wanted to say something to her. He wanted to say, Hi, my name is Nasir … what’s yours? He was so sure that’s what they would say in America. He was sure that’s where she came from.

  Every time she came to the store, he would watch her wandering up and down the aisles pretending to shop. He knew she was pretending because all she ever bought was gum and candy. He thought she looked timid and lost — like she didn’t know how she arrived or where she was going next. Lately, he spent most of his free time at work daydreaming about her beautiful face and staring out the grimy store window, waiting for her to come back.

  His keys jangled in his jeans pocket with each step he took towards home. With no customers in the last hour, he’d decided to close up the store a few minutes early. He knew his boss wouldn’t mind — it’s not as if business had been booming. In fact, lately their best customer had been the “gum girl.”

  As he neared his home, he shook his head to clear his mind of her, worried that his thoughts would somehow shine through his eyes and betray him to his parents. The sun was starting to go down behind the Old City walls as he entered the building and climbed the stairs to his family’s apartment. As soon as he opened the door, a familiar smell filled his nose. His stomach growled with hunger: he knew right away Mama was cooking baed u batata, his favourite dish. Heading straight for the kitchen, he kissed his mother and leaned down to greet his sisters. Sameera and Amar were helping with dinner while Rana crawled underfoot, mop-ping the floor with her favourite rag doll. Hearing his son arrive, Mr. Hadad hurried over to say hello.