Dylan shifts uncomfortably. We meet each other’s eyes, then he answers. “Honestly, most of the students I know don’t think about it at all. They’re like—teenagers anywhere I guess. A little self-absorbed. Interested in what’s going on in their own lives.”
Muttering seems to sweep across the classroom. I interject, “For most Americans, it seems so distant. I mean—we see news about it. I think everyone knows about the —”
I stop myself. Because I was about to say suicide bombings. But this is the Arab school.
Dylan doesn’t seem to have the diplomacy I do. “Look—I wasn’t part of the smart crowd at my school. So most of what I know is just conventional wisdom. And I hate to say it—but the conventional wisdom is that Arabs are terrorists. Americans are afraid.”
Silence. Dead silence.
I swallow, then say, “That doesn’t mean—”
The girl—Rania—interrupts me. “What do you think?” she says. “Are we all terrorists?” Her tone is belligerent.
“Of course not—” I say.
“Not you,” she says. She doesn’t even look at me. Her gaze—not friendly—is fixated on Dylan.
He says, “I expect you’re probably not any different than I am. You like music, right? Do you hang out with your friends? Go out to eat? Go to the mall? It’s not you and me that makes war. It’s the crazies. The rest of us are just kind of along for the ride, right?”
Rania smiles. Then another girl raises her hand. The teacher points.
“Dylan, I’m Janine.”
Why just Dylan? I wonder. I’m here too.
A second later I figure out the answer to that. The girl pauses, blushes, starts to speak, then blushes again. Two of the other girls giggle. Then Janine—petite, thin, big breasts—says, “How long are you staying in Haifa? And do you want to go dancing?”
Half of the girls burst into laughter. But I can tell Janine—who is a striking girl—is dead serious.
Dylan shakes his head and chuckles a little, then gives that stupid—and incredibly endearing—sideways grin of his. “I’d love to go dancing, but I’m already in love with a girl. I think I’ll take her dancing instead. But thank you for the invite.”
I’m already in love.
Did he just say that?
Did he say I’m already in love?
With me?
I feel lightheaded. I stand there, heat rushing up my cheeks. But then he looks at me. He looks at me. And I know he can see my face is red. He looks me dead in the eye. And what does he do?
He winks.
What the hell?
What does that mean?
Does it mean he was joking? He’s not really in love with anyone? What is he playing some kind of game? Is this all some fun and games for him? He grins all the damn time, what’s wrong with him?
Take a breath Alex. Get a grip.
I do. I take a breath, realizing that a third girl is asking yet another question of Dylan. I don’t even catch the question, but it sounds like it is more nonsense, like what does he do with his free time and are you on MySpace?
I hate everyone.
Nothing but Drama (Dylan)
It’s already dark when Yossi and I arrive at the Carmel Beach.
It’s selfish of me, I guess, but I’m relieved Ramzy isn’t along for the ride. We took the public bus here—it took almost an hour—and Ramzy is so depressing it’s hard to know what to say around him. I have my guitar case slung over my shoulder.
We don’t talk politics or war or the Palestinian/Israeli conflict on our way to the beach. Instead, we talk girls, a much more interesting topic. Here’s what I learn: Yossi is very interested in a girl named Hannah. She’s a junior, sixteenish (Alex’s age) and she’s really really pretty.
In actuality, I’ve met Hannah, because Hannah is Megan’s host student. She’s … well… not all that pretty. Hawk nose, pinched little eyes, she looks angry. But Yossi doesn’t see that—and he shouldn’t. He clearly loves her. He spent almost the entire hour of the ride down to the beach talking about her. I know that she plays viola. I know her parents are sabras (a sabra is someone who was born in Israel, unlike most of the Israelis I’ve met who are either from Russia or the United States). I know she wants to go to school at the Technion and study microbiology.
Yossi also spends a lot of time questioning me about Alex. Questions I’m not really prepared to answer. Especially the most important one, the one he asked just as we were getting off the bus.
Do you love her?
I go kinda quiet after he asks that.
The thing is… I’ll be honest. I am falling in love with her. She’s everything I ever wanted in a girl, and then some. She’s smart and cool and seriously freaking beautiful. In fact, she’s more than what I’ve ever wanted—she’s so much better than me that I hardly know what to think. Like, how can she really be interested in me? Is this just a short-term game? After all—we both agreed in advance, no long-term commitment here. This is a short-term relationship. We’re here for a few weeks, then we go home, then we—
Don’t see each other any more.
I don’t want to think about going home.
I don’t want to think about saying goodbye.
Jesus, Dylan. Get a hold of yourself. Almost three weeks left here. Why am I panicking already?
Instead of getting all weird about what’s going to happen, I need to focus on appreciating what I have right now.
And it’s moments after that thought hits that I see her.
A large group of high school students, both American and Israeli, are congregated on the beach. A fire is burning, illuminating them in flickering orange and yellow light. I can hear the waves crashing onto the beach, and a breeze blows in off the water. It’s beautiful.
She’s there. I see her, chatting in an animated fashion with Hannah—Yossi’s girlfriend.
Yossi and I approach. Alex sees us first, and she meets my eyes, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised.
I’m no idiot. She caught my statement earlier, about how I’d fallen in love.
But how do you say that directly to someone you’re going to lose anyway? There’s no rules here. There’s nothing that makes sense.
In any event, she stands and walks toward me. I find myself reaching for her hands as naturally as she reaches for mine, and then we’re touching each other, eyes locked on each other. It’s cool tonight, and she wears a thick sweater. My left hand slips down her right side and I can feel the firmness of her waist under the sweater.
“You were fantastic today,” she whispers.
“So were you,” I reply. “It’s a miracle they didn’t crucify me.”
“It’s a miracle they didn’t kidnap you for sex.”
The words shock me. “What? I don’t—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Dylan. That girl Janine? She practically tore her clothes off.”
That’s crazy, I think. Instead of saying that, though, I grip her hands a little tighter. “I can’t even imagine. Except maybe with you.”
She flushes a deep red, visible even in the failing light of the sunset. I lean forward and say, “I didn’t mean to make you off balance, Alex. But I do want you to kiss me. Let’s take a walk?”
She swallows visibly. Is she nervous? That’s not even possible. I’m the one who is nervous. But all the same, we step away from the fire, and moments later we’re engulfed in the darkness. The sound of the surf calms me, it gives me a strange confidence.
We hold hands as we walk, her right in my left. I try to figure out something… I don’t know… normal? … to say. I settle on a question. “How is your host family?”
She lets out a breath, as if she’s been holding hers. Her shoulders actually lower a little. She was nervous. “I like them,” she says. “Have you met Lilah?”
I shake my head.
“You can’t miss her, I’ll point her out when we get back. She’s got … a big personality. Wild curly hair.”
“Wait… I thi
nk I did see her. Was she talking with Elle earlier? It looked like she had her cornered.”
Alex laughs, hard. “Poor Elle. She gets nothing but flak.”
“That’s because she causes nothing but drama.”
“True.”
Alex turns toward the ocean and says, “God, it’s beautiful here. You know Haifa reminds me a lot of home.”
“San Francisco? Really?”
She nods. “I love it, really. It’s beautiful. Colorful. I love the blues and the ocean breeze, and the best part is, my parents aren’t here. For once in my life I get to be me. You know? Why the hell should I always have to be what they want? Why can’t I be what I want for a change?”
As she says the words, she sounds bereft.
I pull her to me. “You don’t have to be anyone with me but yourself, Alex.”
She wraps her arms around me. “You mean it?”
“I mean it.” I squeeze her a little tighter as I say the words. And right now, I mean it. I’d do anything at all for her. Anything. I want to tell her the words that catch in my throat, the words I’m afraid to say, the words that night ruin everything. Three simple words. I love you.
I don’t say them. Instead, I hold her, and stare off to the horizon, and feel her warmth next to me.
I don’t say them, but I think them. Over and over again. I try them on for size. In my head, I sing them. I whisper them. I shout them at the top of my lungs.
I love you, Alex Thompson.
Chapter Ten
Then there’s Dylan (Alex)
I’m intoxicated as we walk back up the beach to rejoin the others. Drunk. High. Elated. I feel giddy, lightheaded, excited. For the last—how long? Thirty minutes? An eternity?—Dylan and I have been on the beach, away from the others, side by side, kissing. Kissing so much my lips are sore. We hold hands comfortably, and I feel a warmth in his presence that I’ve never known before.
The fire is still blazing, but at least one thing has changed in our absence. First, a glass bottle of something has made an appearance and is being passed person to person. It has a medicinal smell, like gin. My first thought is to try some, but my second is to look at Dylan. He doesn’t drink, and with plenty of good reasons. I’ll wait.
One of the Israeli girls—I don’t know her name—has taken out Dylan’s guitar, which he left in its case when we walked off down the beach. At first I think he’s going to be angry, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. Instead, he stops walking and listens, a half smile on his face. He murmurs, “She’s good.”
A stab of jealousy rips through me, but I quickly suffocate it under a pillow. Keeping my face under the kind of plastic, strict control my diplomatic parents taught me, I say, “She is.”
Lilah waves and I grab Dylan’s arm and pull him away from the guitar-playing harpy.
“Hey, have you met Lilah? My host student?”
I more or less ignore Dylan’s answer as I pull him over to that side of the fire. He has a somewhat bemused look on his face as we approach her.
“Hey, Lilah,” Dylan says.
“Dylan! Thank God, someone real.”
He chuckles. “Hardly that. What are you up to?”
She shrugs. “Just bumming around. You have no idea how happy I was when I found out I was going to be able to host a student.”
Dylan and I sit down. He leans against a bench, and I lean against him and look at Lilah. She’s my age, and she’s from California, but that’s where our similarities come to an end. She’s tiny, with jet-black hair, giving her an appearance almost like my sister Sarah, but without all the spikes and weird colors. I bet the two of them would get along just fine. Lilah has her eyes heavily made up, with cats’ eyes drawn on with black eyeliner.
“How come?” he asks.
Lilah says, “Let me count the reasons. I don’t speak Hebrew worth a damn. I miss Burger King and Starbucks and American accents.” She leans close to us both. Her eyes dart around us as if checking who is close by. But she doesn’t blink. She scoots closer to us and whispers, “And I hate it here. I hate my parents for bringing me here.”
“Yeah?” Dylan says.
“You would too. Leaving everything you know to go colonize someone else’s country? Mom and Dad are trying to get a spot in one of the Settlements. They’re crazy. It’ll be awesome. Live in a crowded apartment on land stolen from some poor farmer, surrounded by people who hate us and not-so-well-protected by the Army that I’ll be forced to join in just two years? That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
I swallow. “That’s not how the rest of the kids here seem to describe it.”
Lilah shrugs. “Of course not. They’re rats inside the trap. I bet every single one of them knows someone who was injured or killed in the last uprising. So they hate. The Palestinians hate. Even my parents hate, and they’re from fucking Santa Ana. Want to see how much good hating does anyone? Go look at the aftermath of one of the bombings. Or an apartment block that’s been blown up because one asshole from Hamas decided to hide in the basement, no matter how many kids live there.”
A voice behind me almost makes me jump. It’s Yossi, Dylan’s host student. “And that, Lilah, is why we don’t date anymore. You’d rather hand our home to the Palestinians than defend it. You should go home.”
Yossi and Lilah dated? I didn’t realize.
Lilah replies in a fierce voice, “Trust me, I would if I could. I’ll be on a plane the day I turn eighteen.”
“Sheket! Crazy bitch.” Yossi storms off. What an ass.
Lilah sighs. Dylan looks worried.
I ask the most important question. “You two used to date?”
“Yeah,” she says, her tone wistful.
“It’s hard not to blame him for his reaction,” Dylan says.
I think about what Dylan told me this morning—Yossi’s father killed by a suicide bomber. “I guess if my father had been killed that way, I’d hate too.”
“There was a big war going on here, then,” Lilah says. “I’ve read about the bombing that killed Yossi’s father. 94 people were wounded, four killed. The thing was, it wasn’t even a Palestinian from the territories who did it. It was an Arab-Israeli—a citizen.”
I feel Dylan shake his head. “All the more reason to be angry.”
Lilah’s expression is fierce. “No. No, it’s not. You don’t see it. It just gets worse and worse. Each side gets worse weapons, commits worse atrocities, and blames the other side for their part in it. The Palestinians lob missiles into Israel, or send suicide bombers who blow up buses and children and weddings, and the Israelis send fighter jets and blow up apartment blocks, or bulldozers to destroy people’s homes, or walls to separate them from their land.”
Dylan looks doubtful. But the thing I notice is that the eyes of all the Israeli students are now on us. Which doesn’t mean we should stop talking about it, but seriously, couldn’t she have a little discretion?
But then the craziest thing happens. Lilah’s eyes suddenly water as they fix on some spot behind me. I twist around and see it.
Yossi. He and Hannah are walking off into the darkness with a girl. I think it’s Megan’s host student… I don’t know her name. But Lilah clearly knows her. Her face shifts into a frown and she says, “I need to get going soon, Alex. Are you coming with me?”
Oh, no. I’m suddenly painfully torn. I can imagine how Lilah must feel right now. And she is my host-student, which means I pretty much have to go home with her. It’s not like I’ll be able to find my way to her house on my own.
But I don’t want to leave Dylan.
Lilah stares at me, waiting for an answer. The answer I don’t have.
Dylan breaks the impasse in his calm southern accent. “It’s okay, Alex. I don’t mind, and it looks to me like Lilah could use some company. Lilah, can you give us a few moments?”
I sigh. I can’t decide what I like the most about Dylan. But his concern for others is near the top of the list. Most of the guys I know? They’re u
tterly self-centered. Not just the teenagers, but even the adults I come into contact with. My whole life has been a procession of self-centered, self-seeking people who only look for what they want to get out of other people.
And then there’s Dylan. He’s nothing like any guy I’ve ever known. And sometimes I think he’s unlike any guy I ever will know.
What will I do when it’s time to go home?
Sorry, man (Dylan)
Back before I started to try to get my life together, I used to do a fair amount of drugs. Nothing heavy, except once or twice, but I smoked more than my share of pot and drank way too much. It’s why I’m so militantly against drinking now, because despite that initial high, the after effect was always nothing but grief.
Tonight, though, as we catch the bus back to Yossi’s neighborhood, I feel almost as if I’m high. I’m lightheaded, and all I can think about is Alex. I ended up playing guitar for a little while, then passed the guitar off to one of the other students who knew how to play. I really wanted to just have my arms around Alex. Holding her, I was content in a way I’d never experienced. Once she was gone, I was restless and ready to go.
I don’t talk much at all on the bus ride back. Yossi doesn’t seem to mind—he takes out his expensive phone and plays a game on it while we ride the bus. I think he’s still angry about Lilah. It’s a little after ten at night when we get back to the house.
Yossi’s mother is still awake and has guests, three other women. They’re sitting around the living room talking and drinking. Yossi’s mother throws her head back and laughs. For just a second, she looks twenty years younger, and it sinks in again how incredibly painful the loss of her husband must have been.
Yossi walks to his mother and kisses her on the top of her head. Then, very polite, he introduces me to the other three women. A moment later we’re headed back to his room.
“Mind if I use the computer?” I ask.
He waves a hand in assent. “I’m going to go take a shower.”
A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) Page 10