A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (12 page)

I haven’t met the boys’ father or heard any mention of him. I’m a little sensitive myself about absent fathers, so I haven’t asked. But I’m intensely curious. The only reference I’ve seen is an 8x10 black and white photograph in the living room, showing a man in the green uniform of an Israeli reservist.
In the photo, he looks like he is in his thirties, and he has a broad smile on his face. Yossi casually said, “My father,” when he was showing me around the house. But that’s all I know.

I like Yossi and his family. They sit down and eat breakfast and dinner together, every day so far. Breakfast this morning is a selection of cheeses, yogurt, sliced tomatoes, toast and smoked salmon.
No meat other than the salmon.
The sun radiates warmth through the sliding glass doors from the balcony. Unlike my host in Tel Aviv, who lived in a cramped apartment block, Yossi’s family lives in a hilltop home overlooking Haifa to the north and the nature reserve to the south. They are clearly wealthy—I’ve never been in a more luxurious home—and I’m finding that I’m distinctly uncomfortable with the
surroundings. Yossi and Ramzy both have iPhones, only the second and third ones I’ve ever seen. Alex owns the first, yet another uncomfortable fact.

The great-grandmother, with her unpronounceable name and thick eastern European accent, asks, “What is on your agenda today?”

She’s looking at me as she asks the question. She’s been remarkably welcoming and kind since I’ve been here.

“We’re going to be visiting a different high school,” I say. “I can’t remember the name.”

“It’s the Arab school,” Yossi says.

Ramzy frowns, an angry expression on his face. “I don’t see why they visit it at all.”

Dana says to him, “Ramzy. How are the foreign exchange students supposed to learn anything if they don’t get exposed to different places?”

The Arab school?
I’m a little stuck on that.

Ramzy’s response is bitter. “The only thing they need to know about the Arabs is that they are murderers.”

Silence at the table. Painfully awkward silence. Politics never evokes this kind of emotion where I come from. I say, “I didn’t realize there were separate schools for Arabs.”

Dana says, “Yes. Arabs and Jews go to different schools in Israel.”

“Even the Arab citizens?”

She nods.

“I don’t think there should be Arab citizens,” Ramzy says.

His great-grandmother says something sharp in Hebrew. Ramzy immediately drops his eyes and quiets down.

Dana looks sad. Then she says, in a quiet, toneless voice, “Dylan, you’re probably not aware that my husband was murdered by a suicide bomber six years ago. The boys are… understandably bitter.”

Jesus.
The weight of that statement hits me hard.

“You probably never heard of the attack,” Yossi said. “Hamas sent an
Arab
Israeli citizen to kill fellow citizens. He blew himself up at the train station in Nahariya. A hundred people were injured, and some killed. Our father was one. That was September 9, 2001.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say, automatically, flinching inside just a little at the mention of the date. The handsome man in the photo was killed in a suicide bombing. I kind of understand why they hadn’t said much. It’s one thing to say, “My parents are divorced,” or even that one of them died. But this was a different level of complicated to explain.

Ramzy pushes his chin out, a pugnacious expression, as he says, “It’s what Jews have to live with in this world. Betrayal. Killers within our own borders, who want us dead just because of who we are. And not just now but always.
Savta
will tell you, her whole family was murdered.”

Savta
is how the brothers refer to their great-grandmother
. She stirs and says, “It’s true, my family died in one of the death camps. I was twelve when the camp was overrun, or I would have died too. But I tell you now, you must not hate. It will eat you alive, Ramzy.”

I swallow. I’m not equipped to be involved in this discussion.

Dana echoes her grandmother.
“Your father would never want to see you consumed with rage. He was a joyful man, and loved life.”

“Yes, and look what happened to him,” Ramzy says bitterly. He stands up and says to me, “You should ask them today, Dylan. Ask them if any of them would be suicide bombers. They should all be expelled to the Arab countries, and leave Israel to the Jews.”

He stomps off. A grim silence falls over the family. I wish I could make myself invisible.

Dana looks at me and says, “Please forgive Ramzy.”

“Of course,” I say. But I can’t help but think that the kind of hate Ramzy carries will just perpetuate the conflict. I’ve never been into politics, and I’ve never given even a moment’s thought to the Arab-Israeli conflict. But being here, it is inescapable. It’s everywhere. The conflict is in the memorials, which exist everywhere, the museums, and it is intertwined with the lives of everybody I’ve encountered.

Yossi sighs and says, “It’s time to go.”

We’re quiet as we collect our things. I’m only carrying my backpack today, so I’m ready in just a moment, following Yossi and Ramzy out to the car. I was surprised to learn that their mother drives them to school every day—back home, I take the bus. But I learned yesterday that they stopped taking the bus to school after a bombing on a public bus in Haifa four years ago.

I sit in the back of the car, staring out the glass as Dana pulls the car out of their garage and onto the road. At some point in the last few days it started to sink in that there really isn’t any distinction between the personal and the political. Back home I never thought of it really. Politics, policy, taxes, war—it’s all very remote from the existence of a kid from an urban poor family. Mom certainly never talks about such things at home. But I couldn’t even imagine what it must be like to have to change the way I go to school because of suicide bombers. Or to lose a family member to a bombing. Or to go to a school system where the
other
people go to school somewhere else.

Yossi sits next to me in the back seat—his younger brother up front with their mom. He starts to talk—not changing the subject, but talking more about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. I just listen without responding. Part of me wants to just take a nap. I had a hard time sleeping last night—tossing and turning half the night. The thing is—this isn’t a dream. I can’t just turn it off and change the channel and go back home and everything goes back to
normal
. I wonder if this is what they mean when they talk about culture shock. Part of me wants to curl up into a ball somewhere.

But the other part of me is at the opposite end of the spectrum. Sometimes I’m elated at the experience, the emotions, the sheer overwhelming intensity of Alex. Other times I am just exhausted by the strangeness of it all.

Yesterday our group toured the Baha’ii Temple in Haifa, then met back up with our host students at the high school. We all went to the market in central Carmel after. Our host students, moving in a crowd, kept shouting at each other in Hebrew.
Everyone
in the market was shouting, and none of them spoke English except some of the shopkeepers who crooned, “American? German?” to the tourists who walked by.

But there is one saving grace in all of this chaos.

Alex.

Problem is… in less than three weeks… I have to say goodbye. And I’m falling for her, hard.

The thought of going home and leaving her?

It hurts.

The first thing I notice about the Arab school is that it hasn’t been painted in what looks like many years.

This morning my host student, Lilah, warned me to expect things to be very different. Lilah’s from Los Angeles—her family immigrated to Israel just one year ago.
Sometimes things are crazy here, Alex. You’ll see. The first time we drove past the Arab school, I thought it was a jail.

I can see why she thought it. Dylan and I get off the tour bus in front of the school, a huge cinderblock building in the center of Haifa. We’re hand in hand. Dylan’s been oddly quiet this morning—not that he’s much of a conversationalist even under the best of circumstances, but when we get off the bus he mutters, “Separate but equal.”

The cement blocks of the building were once painted blue. But that was a very long time ago. Lettering, painted next to the main entrance in Hebrew and Arabic, must be the name of the school. But nothing looks like it is being taken care of. The contrast to the modern new school Lilah attends is stark.

I squeeze Dylan’s hand a little harder as the students gather in a circle around Mrs. Simpson. A man in his late forties stands next to her. He has dark curly hair and wears an open, collared shirt. He begins to speak, welcoming us to the school.

“I hope by the end of your visit that you’ll have a little more understanding of the situation of Israeli Arabs,” he says. Then he explains how this morning will be organized. We’re going to go in groups of two to speak in each of the classes at the school for the next two hours. Then lunch in the main lunchroom with the Arab students.

Dylan leans close to me and whispers, “Did you know Yossi’s father was killed by a suicide bomber?”

“Oh my God. No, I didn’t know that.”

“Crazy, ain’t it? I can’t imagine the… the rage it must take to do that.”

I shrug. “I can’t either,” I whisper. “It’s awful.”

Then he says, “Change of subject. You look beautiful this mornin’.”

I feel my skin flush, heat rushing from my cheeks down my neck. “Stop that,” I whisper.

“Stop telling the truth? Why would I want to do that?”

Then he slips his arm around my waist.

Mrs. Simpson gives him a sou
r look. “Dylan….”

“Sorry, Mrs. Simpson,” he says. Then he
winks
at her.

The crazy thing? She looks away, ignoring the wink. He’s a rogue, a scoundrel. He’s charming and kind and mischievous and … he’s mine.

But only for three more weeks.

The thought strikes me right through the heart. Because… I’m falling in love.

There’s no doubt. Nothing else could explain the rush of heat I feel whenever I see him. The churning butterflies in my stomach… the lightheadedness I feel.

I love Dylan Paris.

I love him.

The words strike me with equal parts exhilaration and dread. Because the one thing I don’t want to do is
say goodbye.

Stop, Alex. Stop. You’re
here
today.

My internal turmoil is interrupted when we all move into the school. Inside, the theme continues. The paint is actually peeling in many places. This building is at least fifty years old. The principal and Mrs. Simpson lead us through the school, dropping off pairs of students at each classroom.

Dylan and I go together. It’s an all-girls class. The teacher approaches as we enter and holds out a hand. She has dark, almost black hair, and a smooth, light brown complexion with wide eyes. Her hair is tied up in some kind of complicated bun and she wears more formal clothing than is typical in Israel. Instead of jeans, she wears a long black dress with blue and red patterns on the front. “Good morning. I’m Marya Al-Marayati. Welcome, welcome.” She has a broad smile as she says the words.

This is a fairly typical routine for us when we’re speaking to a class. The idea is to tell the other kids about our lives, including ordinary details. I’m generally comfortable speaking in front of groups, so I haven’t given it too much thought up until now. However, this is the first time I’ve shared a classroom with Dylan. It becomes painfully obvious, almost immediately, that he’s more reticent in front of groups than he is one on one.

I try to help ease his transition by introducing myself first. Despite what my dad does for a living, my upbringing has really been fairly ordinary. I talk for a few minutes about living in China and Moscow, then what it was like to start school in San Francisco when my father finally retired.

Then Dylan begins to speak.

“My name’s Dylan. I’m from Atlanta, Georgia. I get asked this a lot, since people don’t know where it is, but Atlanta’s in the southern United States, and it’s where the 1996 Olympics were held. I turned 18 in June, but I’m still in high school because I started a year late. I haven’t decided where I’m going to go to college, but I’ve been thinking about different options. I want to study writing. Which you can probably tell since I’m no good at
speaking.”

He says the last line with a lopsided grin and it evokes a laugh from the class.

Marya Al-Marayati says, “Girls, if any of you have questions, please raise your hand. Remember to introduce yourselves, please.”

Several of the girls raise their hands. The teacher picks one, a tall girl with strong looking arms. The girl wears a gray cotton skirt and a white shirt. It would look like a school uniform, except the other girls are dressed in a wide variety of clothing.

She immediately launches into her question. “You come from America—what do people think of—”

Miss Al-Marayati interrupts. “Rania, introduce yourself, please.”

The girl pauses and flashes a broad smile. “I’m Rania. It’s nice to meet you. Can you tell me what students in the United States think of the conflict here?”

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 —”