A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3)

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  “Sabra?”

  “Uh… a Jew who is born here.”

  “I see,” I say. Hearing facts make me feel a little more stable. “So… you’re American… why do you live here anyway?”

  She says, “Well, that’s complicated. I suppose technically I’m not American anymore—I’m an Israeli citizen. I served my three years in the military when I first moved here.”

  “You were in the Army?” I ask, surprised.

  She nods as she scans for an opening in traffic. “Everyone serves in the army.”

  I nod. “What was that like?”

  She shrugs. “I was in the Mishmar Hagvul—the, uh, border police. I spent a year in the territories near Hebron, then the rest of my enlistment in Jerusalem. That’s where I met Josef.”

  “Did you like it?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. But it was part of becoming a citizen. You sometimes have to do what you have to do. But I’m not looking forward to Ariel serving.”

  “Oh?”

  She nods. “When I was in the territories, in the early 90s—there was hope. The Oslo Accords had been signed, and the Palestinian Authority was a new thing. I think we all held our breath for a few years. And then it all blew up in our faces in 2000 when the Arabs started killing Jews again.”

  I wince a little. Maybe I’m too politically correct. But I find it uncomfortable when I hear someone generalize an entire ethnic group that way. But who am I to judge? It’s not like I was here to see what happened seven years ago. All I know was what I’ve read in books or absorbed from the news and the internet over the years. Basically, I know nothing.

  For the first time in my life, I understand my dad, and have a brief moment of actually wanting to follow him into the Foreign Service. Imagine being in a position to help negotiate the end of a seventy-year conflict. Wouldn’t the negotiators of the end of a war be responsible for saving thousands of lives? Tens of thousands? More? I told Carrie the other day that I wanted to do something meaningful with my life, after all.

  But then I picture dragging my children from one country to the next. Never feeling rooted or at home. Never feeling like they were really part of something. No one talks about it, but it destroyed my parent’s marriage. I’ve never really asked Julia what it was like when she was little, but in my entire life I’ve never seen my parents hold hands, or kiss each other casually, or give each other looks of affection. I always assumed that was normal, until middle school, when I would occasionally stay at friends’ houses and see how their parents interacted with each other. I’m certain it was the stress of all the moves, and all the times my father has been away, sometimes for years at a time. I don’t want that for my life. One thing I know for sure, I’ll never get involved with a diplomat or a soldier.

  Rebecca pulls the car to a stop, double parked in front of the youth hostel where we stayed the first night in Israel. She leaves her emergency lights blinking as she steps out of the car. I get out, and pull my bags out.

  “I’ll walk you in,” she says.

  I feel—awkward. And sad, really. I would have liked to have gotten to know Rebecca better. As it is, I won’t have an opportunity to do so. We walk into the lobby of the hostel, where we find Marie Simpson.

  Mrs. Simpson looks pensive… almost angry. As we approach, I say to Rebecca, “Thank you so much. For everything.”

  Rebecca gives me a sad smile. “Of course. And I’m so sorry you had to deal with that.”

  Awkwardly, she reaches out and hugs me. I hug back, not knowing how to feel or what to think. Rebecca backs away, leaving me with the remote and apparently angry Mrs. Simpson.

  Mrs. Simpson doesn’t speak until Rebecca is out of the room. Then she turns on me and says, “You couldn’t wait five more days? We’ll be gone two of them for the field trip anyway.”

  As she spits out the words, I feel myself shrink a little. I say, “What was I supposed to do? He was propositioning me constantly. Staring at me. I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life.”

  “Which normally I would be very sympathetic to. But in your case, I’m wondering if you’re just over-reacting. You’ve already asked for special treatment once this trip.”

  “I asked for nothing,” I say. “In fact, I asked my parents to stay out of it.”

  She sniffs, a dismissive gesture that does nothing to calm me. “We don’t have a host family for you to go to. Which means you’ll be here at the hostel tonight, and probably until we leave Tel Aviv. I’m sure if I don’t do that I’ll be hearing about it from your father, right?”

  I shrug. I don’t know what to say to that. I hate how she’s making me feel. Like I did something wrong. Should I have just kept quiet? After all, Ariel didn’t touch me. He was just rude, and overbearing. What if I was wrong? Will he get in trouble? Will it cause trouble for me? My mother warned me to be very careful here, that everything I did would be scrutinized and exposed.

  You’re the child of a diplomat, Alexandra. Whether you like it or not, everything you do is public.

  Sometimes I wish I was like Dylan—with parents who were invisible, at least as far as the public is concerned. From what he’d said, his family had major issues, not the least of which was his abusive father. On the other hand, he was unlikely to ever find himself on the front page of the paper because of a bad choice. My sisters and I had all learned that was a possibility the hard way. I never really learned the details—I was pretty young then, and of course no one talks about it—but years ago there was some kind of scandal involving Julia.

  I try to imagine the headline: Diplomat’s daughter accuses Israeli of sexual assault. Or worse. Reporters don’t bother to find out facts, they report whatever they think will increase ratings or page views. I didn’t want to be used that way.

  I let out a sigh, then follow Mrs. Simpson as she leads me to what will be my new quarters. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I’m afraid that whatever it is, it won’t be good.

  Chapter One

  Peer Pressure!

  Alex looks tired this morning, tense and unhappy. She has dark circles under her eyes, and as she walks toward the tour bus, she smiles less than normal. She doesn’t seem to want me to approach her—since arriving at the school this morning, she’s stayed close to Elle and Megan, the multi-colored-hair girl who reminds me of Spot.

  Outside, the sky is grey and the air has the faintest chill of winter. Dark clouds crowd the sky, and much darker ones appear to the west. It feels like a storm coming.

  I climb onto the bus and sit down next to John Modesta. John is usually pretty good about reading people, so when I close my eyes and lean my head back, he takes the hint and talks to Mike from Chicago, who sits across the aisle from us. I’m not sleepy. I just don’t want to talk.

  I finally set up a Facebook account night before last, as requested by Alex. After I set it up, I searched her out and added her as a friend, then promptly went looking for Spot. Unfortunately, no one using that name is on Facebook—or on MySpace, I checked that site too. If she’s still alive, she’s not going by her old street name.

  I hate it that I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I’ve been haunted by that. She was a good kid, and didn’t deserve the crap she got. All because she liked other girls. Who the hell does that? Who rejects their children for being who they are?

  I don’t even have any pictures of her. It’s not like I owned a fancy cell phone then (I don’t now, actually). How do you look for someone when you don’t have a picture of them, don’t know their real name, and don’t even know if they are alive?

  You don’t.

  I looked at Alex’s page last night, of course. She updates her status twenty-seven times a day. Or maybe three or four. Lots of pictures she’s taken all over Tel Aviv. But this morning’s status update was mysterious. It was a question.

  How do you know if you’re making a big deal about nothing?

  I also noticed that some guy posted to her page. Michael Harrington. He said:
I haven’t heard from you, babe. Miss you. Message me.

  She mentioned on the plane that she’d casually dated a guy named Mike in San Francisco. A couple of dinners and movies, nothing serious. But from the tone of his post, he seemed to think it was.

  But I looked through his profile and hers, and there wasn’t a single photo of the two of them together. That’s a good sign. Isn’t it?

  I can’t get my mind off Spot. It took me about twenty minutes on Facebook to find and connect with a number of friends. I didn’t realize a lot of people from my school are on there, Haley included. But it’s Spot I want to know about. Is she still alive?

  Whatever. I have no way of knowing, and if I couldn’t find her by searching in person for weeks, and now online, I probably never will. In the meantime, I’ve got this trip to deal with. We’re headed to the Eretz Israel Museum, just on the north side of Tel Aviv. I’m not sure exactly what that’s all about, but I’m hoping to find out more.

  I keep my eyes closed, but start to listen in on the conversation around me. John and Mike are talking about Rami’s party tonight, apparently excited about it. I’ve got a bad feeling. Rami was so insistent that I have a drink last night, it pissed me off. I don’t drink, and I don’t see any reason why anyone should try to pressure me into it. Maybe I should skip the party.

  But as I glance to where Alex is sitting with Elle, I think maybe I should go after all.

  Something about her.

  Every time I look at Alex Thompson I feel almost overwhelmed. I’ve never seen a girl as beautiful as her. I’ve never seen a girl who arrested attention the way she does. She’s not just beautiful—she’s smart as hell.

  She’s as out of reach as if she were a princess. I’m the kid of a drunk, just a poor white trash Southern boy who got lucky enough to get nominated for this program. She’s the daughter of an ambassador.

  Don’t get attached, Dylan. Don’t let your fantasies run away with you. Because she’s so far out of your league, she’ll break your heart if she even looks your way.

  “You all right, man?” John says the words in a low voice, not long after I opened my eyes. The bus is moving through the crowded streets of northern Tel Aviv now.

  “Yeah, just tired,” I say. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  I glance toward the back of the bus again. Alex and Elle are having an animated conversation with Megan. Megan throws her head back and laughs and at that moment she looks so much like Spot it makes me want to cry.

  In a quiet voice John asks, “What do you think of Elle?”

  Uh-oh. When somebody asks a question like that, they don’t want to know the truth. What I really think about Elle is that she’s a giant bitch. But the words I say to John are more like, “She’s great. And those legs.”

  He nods. “Do you think she’s into me?”

  I don’t think she’s into anyone but herself.

  “Could be… I haven’t seen you guys together much. What do you think?”

  He shrugs. “We talked a long time the other night. And she seemed like she was leaning close to me.”

  “Do you like her?”

  He nods. “She’s beautiful.”

  I shrug. “If you like her, you should tell her.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “What if she shoots me down?”

  “Then… everything will be the same as it is now?”

  “Huh. Good point, I guess.”

  My eyes land on Alex, sitting a few rows back with Elle and Megan. I give a lot of good advice to other people, don’t I?

  If you like her, you should tell her.

  It’s different with me, though. Why would a girl like her be interested in me? It’s one thing to suggest to John that he talk to Elle—they’re not all that different, other than the fact that John seems to be a genuinely nice guy.

  At least he’s not like Mike with his politics fetish. Yes, a fetish. The first day we spoke, Mike asked me my political party, and every once in a while he still needles me, trying to get an answer. Sometimes, like when he’s talking about girls like any other normal teenager, he seems human. But most of the time? No.

  He leans forward from the seat behind me and John and says, “Do you know, if McCain is elected, he’ll be seventy-two years old when he take office? That’s even older than Ronald Reagan was. And everyone knows Reagan was…”

  His voice trails off into blah blah blah.

  It’s way too early in the morning for all this political talk. I nod and say uh-huh at what seems to be the appropriate places, but I’m not following Mike. He moves on from Ronald Reagan to a special election in Pittsburgh and how that shows that Democrats will be something or other in the coming Presidential election.

  John says, “Mike, give it a rest, okay? No one cares.”

  By the time the bus arrives at the museum, the sky is considerably darker. My mood, too. Fat drops of rain are starting to fall from the sky. John, standing next to me as we wait to pile off the bus, says, “I didn’t think it rained much here.” Our chaperones, led by the grey-haired Mrs. Simpson, urge us into the museum. We crowd in, a milling mass of teenagers. John and I find ourselves jammed in directly behind Alex, Megan and Elle.

  John says, “Hey, Elle.” He sounds like he swallowed dry leaves before speaking.

  She looks over her shoulder at him and gives him a wry smile. “You feeling okay, John?”

  He coughs into his fist, then says, “Yeah. Just had something in my throat.”

  Alex doesn’t look at me. Instead, she’s on her tiptoes, trying to lean around the taller people in front of her so she can see the front of the room where Mrs. Simpson is speaking. Since John and Elle seem to be occupied, I slip in next to her and say, “Are you still mad at me?”

  She drops down from her tiptoes and looks me square in the eyes. She looks calm. “No. I’m not. Still friends?”

  “Yeah.” I want to be a lot more than friends.

  “Are you mad?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” I say. “What ended up happening, anyway?”

  Mrs. Simpson says in a sharp tone, “Stop talking in the back, please.”

  I lower my voice, but repeat, “What ended up happening?”

  She whispers, “I stayed at the youth hostel last night. Mrs. Simpson told me I’ll be staying with Hadar, Elle’s host student.”

  “Good news,” I reply. Hadar is a mousy girl, short and thin, dark haired, her posture always a little slumped. She’s friendly enough, but she walks around looking at the ground all the time. She needs to get some confidence. Ironically, her best friend is Levona, Megan’s host student. Levona is one of the loudest girls I’ve ever known. They make a funny pair.

  Mrs. Simpson shoots me a dirty look. I stop talking. A man is now addressing the students. He’s tall, and like everyone in Israel, he is casually dressed, wearing blue jeans and a green golf shirt. It’s an awful green, really, not quite lime-colored. He begins to speak, introducing himself as the director of the museum.

  For the next three hours we move in the group throughout the several buildings of the museum looking at archeological finds: jewelry and pottery, weapons and coins. The museum sits on the site of a 12th Century BCE archaeological mound, an ancient Philistine city. It’s interesting stuff, and as I walk through, I find myself wondering if I should start thinking more seriously about college. Alex was shocked the other day when I told her I hadn’t picked any schools to apply to. It’s November of my senior year in high school.

  What am I going to do next year?

  Unlike most of the kids I’m walking through the museum with, I don’t have the kind of grades that will get me into an Ivy League college. My SAT scores were very high, but I’ll be lucky to graduate in the top half of my class. That said, Georgia State is still in option. I’d also considered a couple of other state universities—SUNY Stony Brook, for instance, has a good creative writing program. But then I get stuck on wondering how I would possibly pay for college. It’s not
like my Mom is rolling in money. I can’t ask her to take on student loans for me. It’s been nearly three years since she got sober, and she’s still pulling her life together. Saddling her with fifty thousand dollars in debt is just not an option. I can take my own student loans, but the math doesn’t work out. And with my pathetic 2.4 grade point average, I won’t be getting any scholarships.

  Which still leaves the option of the Army. I’ve talked to the recruiters more than once. They come around to the high school every couple of months. I get emails from the Army almost every week. Postcards too, though my mother throws those in the trash. I’ve spoken with her once about the Army—she was opposed to the idea.

  There’s a war going on, Dylan. A stupid war, a pointless stupid war that is destroying people’s lives for nothing.

  I don’t know what to say to that. Of course I know there’s a war on—it’s been going on since I was ten years old. But the existence of the war shouldn’t keep me from going into the military. In fact, it should be the opposite. Sometimes I feel like I need to join the Army because we’re at war. I mean, if no one enlists, if no one goes voluntarily, then how does our country defend itself?

  I may not be into politics like John is, but I do love my country. I’m not afraid to go to war. And it would pay for me to go to college.

  By lunchtime, it has long since stopped raining. Our group moves outside to a covered outdoor dining area with picnic tables. I end up bunched at one table with Mike from Chicago, John, Alex, Elle and Megan. As soon as we sit down, Mike says, “Who’s going to Rami’s party tonight?”

  John and Elle both say, simultaneously, “I’ll be there.” Then they burst into laughter. Megan nods. “I’m going. You?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there,” Mike says. He slaps me on the shoulder. “What about you, Dylan?”

  I swallow. If I’ve judged Dari correctly, the party is going to involve a lot of alcohol. “I don’t know,” I say.

  Elle turns to Alex. “Well, you have to come, Alex. I already talked with Hadar, she’s planning on going, and you can’t just stay at home alone.”