A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (9 page)

I cough. Mike has the bad grace to keep going. “I can’t
believe
you went after Ariel like that. Dude is
huge.
”

“He’s a huge asshole,” Alex says. The rest of them burst into laughter, and I smile. Her comment cuts the tension.

Mike says, in a loud mock Israeli accent, “Get out of way if you want to live.” Then he claps me on the shoulder. I try to restrain my annoyance.

“Damn it, I can’t find my lipstick!” As Elle half shouts, half whines the words, she bounces a little on her feet. In the last ten minutes, she’s torn her suitcase open and strewn her clothing and God only knows what other possessions over half the room. Elle is wearing insufficient clothing for November, and has carefully drawn cat-eyes under her expertly-curled bangs.

Hadar looks almost startled when she enters the room and sees Elle. The poor girl is so self-effacing, it’s a wonder she speaks at all. She gives Elle a timid smile and says, “My mother has some lipstick… maybe you could use some?” H
er statement confirms that Elle’s outburst was loud—Hadar was in the living room watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy at too high a volume.

Elle sighs. Then says, “May I?” in a sickly sweet fake voice.

I really don’t like her much at all. She follows Hadar out of the room—undoubtedly to raid Hadar’s mother’s makeup stash.

I sigh, relieved they’ve left the room. Everything else aside, I was incredibly grateful to sleep in a room by myself last night. Except for summer camps and the occasional sleepover (always at someone else’s house), I’ve never had to share a room before. I feel crowded and stressed, and appreciate these few seconds to myself. I take out my phone—Julia bought me an iPhone the day it was first released last summer. It’s an expensive indulgence, and a nice toy, but it’s also been essential since I got to Israel.

I pull up Facebook on my phone—my data connection has been awful since I arrived here, but Hadar’s family has wifi.

Mike has posted on my wall, again.
I miss you, Alexandra xo xo xo
. He’s starting to get annoying.
We only went out a few times.. He put more xo’s in his wall post than we’ve had dates. I seriously need to talk to him.

Out of curiosity, I visit Dylan’s page, which he just set up. He doesn’t appear to have updated it at all—no photo, no posts, though it says he’s friended several people. I look at their pages. Most of them seem to be from his high school.

I frown when I see
Hayley Briggs
. That’s the girl he said he’s been out with a few times.
It’s not serious
, he told me. Without really paying attention, I find myself looking through her photos. She takes what appears to be 250 selfies every day. Duck
lips
. Lots of them. She looks—vacuous. Overly made-up. Nowhere in any of her pictures, or anywhere on her wall, is there mention of or any sign of a book. Maybe she’s never read one. Plenty of mentions of Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears, Kanye West, Alicia Keys. She posts her opinion almost daily of
Keeping Up With the Kardashians.

What could this girl possibly have to interest a serious, smart guy like Dylan?

Oh—I know.
Blonde hair, tiny waist and big boobs.

I hate her.
She posted on Dylan’s wall the day after he created his Facebook account:
Missed me that much? When you get home, I’ve got something really hot for you.

Slut.

I smile grimly when I realize he didn’t even bother to click
Like
on her post.

Oh no. No. No. I
can’t
get this hung up on a guy. Especially not a guy who lives thousands of miles from me. This trip is only for a few weeks. Have I lost my mind?

I put away my phone.
I hate everything. The door opens and Elle and Hadar re-enter the room. Both of them are wearing garish red lipstick.
Elle sees something in my face—she immediately says, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. I stare at the wall as I say it.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you,” she replies.

I swallow. Then I say, “Do you think Dylan likes me? Like really?”

Elle says in a sarcastic tone, “Ya think?”

I feel my eyebrows scrunch together. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Girl, he’s got it bad for you. Puppy love. His eyes follow you everywhere. How have you not noticed?”

“There’s a girl he’s gone out with back home. Look,” I blurt out. I unlock my phone and show her the photo of Skanky Hayley.

“Nice phone,” Elle says.

I immediately pout, and she looks at the picture. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, I bet
she’s
not a virgin.”

Hadar blushes three shades of red. I want to sink into the floor. Elle sits on the bed next to me. “Alex—Dylan is a different kind of guy. I mean—he’s real. Like
really
real.”

What the hell does that mean?
She keeps going. “I don’t think he’d fall for that for long. He’s a smart guy. You should tell him you like him.”

I shake my head violently.

Elle smiles and leans close. “Get some confidence, girl. Confidence is attractive. And he seriously likes you already. Blow him a kiss or something and he’ll come running. I guarantee it.”

I’m nervous. So nervous. Because he agreed to be at the party at Rami’s tonight, and I’m going to be there, and I hardly know what to say to him. I hardly know what to do or to think.

What if he hates me?

We have dinner with Hadar’s parents at seven, and it seems like it takes four hours. In fact,
we eat in
an intense silence, finishing in just a few minutes. Then we sit there fidgeting while the rest of the family eats. Hadar's father Samuel stares at his plate. Her mother and sister chatter away about some Israeli television show, then move on from that to who knows what. I don’t, because they unconsciously shifted into Hebrew, which makes sense really since the rest of us aren’t talking. Eventually even the Hebrew conversation drops off.

It’s almost as tense as dinner at home.

After a few minutes, Samuel sighs. Then he says at a near shout, “All right. Go!”

Hadar jumps to her feet, then gives her Dad a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Daddy.” Then she runs out of the room.

Elle and I follow. As we’re getting light jackets on, Hadar kisses her father on the cheek. Then we’re out on the street, walking the five blocks to Rami’s apartment.

The air outside is crisp, though not quite cold yet. I can’t really tell if the sky is clear: Ramat Gan has a dense skyline, including some of the tallest skyscrapers in this part of the world, so even on a good night the stars are nearly invisible.

This neighborhood, a mile or so south of the Diamond Exchange, features a series of blocky-looking apartment buildings, each about three stories high and standing on narrow stilts, with parking below the buildings. I’ve never liked houses on stilts, though you see them often enough in San Francisco. It seems crazy to me. Every few months we have minor earthquakes, and every few years we have major ones.
Why would anyone put their house on top of a bunch of toothpicks?

Rami’s building is more or less indistinguishable from Hadar’s. We follow her under the building, then inside and up the stairs. It’s easy to tell which apartment is Rami’s—I can hear music coming from the apartment as we reach the top of the stairs. I recognize the song—
Push the Button
by Teapacks. The song is wildly popular in Israel. The exhortations of the singer to
Push the Button
gives a window into just how jaded and cynical young people here are. I’ve seen a lot of it in the last few days. Everyone here needs a dose of anxiety medication.

Of course, if you live with the periodic threat of rocket attacks and suicide bombers, you’d need meds, too.

Rami’s door is propped open with a chair, and the tiny apartment, laid out almost exactly like Hadar’s, is crowded with teenagers. As we enter, Rami shouts, “Hello! Hadar! Alex!
Elle!!!”
He calls Elle’s name in a growling, mock-masculine way. He might as well shout
please fuck me.
Elle purses her lip and ignores him. Hadar blushes. I just keep moving, into the apartment and past Rami. Hadar, who seems to have shrunk three sizes, stays close behind me.

Elle, on the other hand, immediately starts talking with Kobi, one of the guys from the high school. I think Mike is staying with him.
Kobi is a big guy, muscular, one of those overly masculine bodybuilders who might look pretty from a distance but probably has little more than a couple of marbles rolling around in his head
. That’s about her speed—I have the feeling Elle’s going to want to dominate any guy she ever comes into contact with.

Beyond the small foyer and entryway is a rectangular living room and a small balcony. I look around,
disoriented at first, overwhelmed by the large number of teenagers jammed into the small space. Then I spot Dylan Paris.

He’s in one corner of the room. A can of Coke, letters in Hebrew, sits open in front of him, and a burning cigarette dang
les from his mouth. He has his eyes closed, head leaning back, his right hand strumming his guitar, his left hand fingering the chord
s. He doesn’t look at the instrument as he plays, and he doesn’t notice me as he pops the cigarette out of his mouth and drops it in the Coke can, then begins to sing.
House of the Rising Sun.
I only know the song because Julia is such a snob about music, there’s always something unusual playing whenever she’s visiting.

His singing voice is untrained, a little artless, but sincere in a way I think Julia would appreciate. Rough around the edges, a little gravelly. I catch my breath as he launches into the song. I’m not the only one. Hadar, standing next to me, stops talking and stares openly. Megan, her hair unusually erect and colorful this evening, can’t take her eyes off of him. I want to punch them both.

But then he opens his eyes and looks directly at me. He nods, just slightly, as if to acknowledge my presence, and continues playing. He ignores everyone else in the room.

I’m in an intense state of anxiety, fear and anticipation. My stomach is tied up, my heart is beating fast, the skin on my face is hot
. I step out of the room and
head to the kitchen, then get myself a drink of water. I need to get a hold of myself.

I stand at the sink, gulping the water down. I close my eyes as I set the glass down, taking a long, calming breath. Okay. I can do this. I’m being ridiculous. I open my eyes and turn around, intending to head back into the living room, and bump directly into Dylan Paris.

Give me some credit. I don’t squeak or squeal or anything else my mother would call unladylike. But I am
very
startled. By the looks of it, so is he, because he takes a sudden step back.

“Dylan?”

“Hey,” he says. “Um…”

“Uh….” I say, adding to the awkwardness.

“Listen, do you have a minute?” he asks.

Do I have a minute? For what? Is he going to tell me he doesn’t want me around? To leave him alone?

Alex:
Get. A. Grip.

I cough. “Yes,” I say. My voice cracks a little. He says, “Can we talk in private?” His eyes dart to the other people in the room. I nod, and he leads me toward the back of the apartment, and we slip into a bedroom. I assume it’s Rami’s, for no adult would have a room with posters of rock stars, among... other things.

Dylan gestures to the bed. I stop, startled, then blush horribly. He couldn’t have meant
—

“Oh…” he says. “I mean… sit down?” He says it like a question, and he sits, too suddenly. His eyes are looking everywhere but me. Like he’s nervous.

I sit down too. Next to him, but slightly away, so I’m turned slightly toward him. And I wait.

And wait.

He swallows, looks at me, then looks away.

What?
Is there something on my face?

I almost reach for my face to see, when he blurts out, “I was telling John earlier that if he likes Elle, he should just tell her, you know? Because, if he never tells her, it’s definitely a no, right? And if he does, the worst that can happen is she says no, so why not?”

I blink, feeling a sinking, sad feeling. I’d hoped… I’d
really
hoped… that Dylan was… you know. Asking me out. And … instead he’s talking about John. Probably wants to know whether or not Elle likes John. I start to say, “I don’t really know if she—”

He interrupts. “No. I’m not asking about her.”

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s just, since I’m giving out advice to people, I guess I should follow it, right? But the thing is, we’re only here for a few weeks. And then that’s it. We go back to the United States, and I live in Atlanta and you live in California and…”

As he talks, I feel heat rising to my face. Is he… wait… he’s not asking about John and Elle…

“Anyway, the thing is, Alex, I’m… really attracted to you. A lot.” As he says the words, his blue eyes keep me pinned to my seat.

He sits there, waiting for me to respond. And I’m struggling to know what to say. So he continues. “Anyway, I guess I was wondering if you felt the same way. And if so… if … I mean… I … we…”

He starts drowning in a pool of inarticulateness, so I throw him a lifeline. “I do.”

“You do?”

I nod.

He smiles. “We’re only here for a few weeks.”

I reply. “It couldn’t be anything permanent.”

He shrugs. “Right. But for now…”