How to Ruin a Summer Vacation (Ruined Series #1) (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

I'm not rude, I'm just a teen with attitude.

The immigration officer inside Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv asks Ron (who has dual Israeli and American citizenship) who I am.

"My daughter," he replies.

"Is she registered as an Israeli citizen?" she asks.

Is the woman joking? Me? An Israeli citizen? But when I see the serious look on the immigration officer's face, I panic. I've heard of Middle East countries where American kids are taken and aren't allowed to leave. I don't want to be Israeli. I want to go home, like right now!

I turn around, heading back to the plane. Hopefully the captain will let me back on ...I'll go in the belly of

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the aircraft, in someone's luggage, in a damn animal carrier. Just get me out of here!

I'm almost at the door. Freedom is in sight when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Amy," Ron's familiar brooding voice says from behind me.

I turn around and face him. "They won't let me go back home, will they? You've kidnapped me to this country that wants me to be a citizen. Oh, God. They make everyone, even girls, go into the army at eighteen, right? I've heard that, don't try and deny it."

I know I'm sounding like a crazy sixteen-year-old right now, my voice several octaves higher than usual. I can't help it and I keep rambling.

"You're going to make me stay here and be drafted into the army, aren't you?"

I can just see them making me trade in my Abercrombie
&
Fitch for fatigues. My heart is beating fast and little droplets of sweat are running down my face. I swear they're not tears, just droplets of sweat.

"Ron, to be honest I doubt I'm even your kid. Did you ever get a paternity test? Because I saw a picture of this one guy my mom dated in college who looks just like me."

Ron looks at the ceiling and lets out a breath. When he looks back at me, his brown eyes are darker than usual. His jaw is clenched tight.

"Calm down, Amy. You're causing a scene."

"Dude," I say really tough, getting a grip on my voice. Now I sound like Angelina Jolie, in that movie where she

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kicks everyone's ass that crosses her. "I haven't even
started
to cause a scene."

A soldier with a very, very large machine gun walks up to us. He has an almost shaved head and I can tell just by looking at him he has a twitchy trigger finger. Great, my life is over, I'm going to be stuck in this third world country for the rest of my days ...which are probably numbered now.

"Mah carrah?"
the soldier says to Ron in Hebrew. It sounds either like "Macarena?" or "Kill Amy?" to me.

"Ha'kol b'seder,"
Ron responds.

I never thought I'd be sorry I don't know Hebrew. In school, I take
Espanol.

My heart is still racing when I ask, "What are you saying? What's going on?" I'm afraid of the answer, but I'm trying to be brave so I can tell the American Secret Service agents all the information I obtained before I escaped. The American government will want to know what's going on here, I'm sure of it.

"You're
not
an Israeli citizen," Ron says. "And you're not about to be drafted into any army."

"Then what did that soldier say to you?"

"He asked me what was wrong and I told him everything's fine. That was it."

Likely story, I think. But I follow him back to the immigration lady, mostly because he has a grip on my arm like a vise.

He speaks to the lady in Hebrew this time, probably to make sure I don't understand him. For all I know

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he's negotiating a deal to have me sold into child slavery. Although I consider myself pretty up-to-date on current events and I've never actually heard of Israeli child slavery.

Before long, the lady stamps my passport (which Mom had me get for emergency purposes a year ago and dummy me agreed to it, thinking she was secretly planning to take me to Jamaica or the Bahamas) and we head to the baggage claim area. We only have to walk twelve steps before we're there.

"Come with me while I get a cart," Ron orders.

"I'll just wait here," I say, because I want him to know I refuse to take parental orders from him.

He crosses his arms across his chest. "Amy, with the drama you just created back there I'm not about to play the trusting
fadder
right now."

I'm on a roll and can't resist. "You haven't been good at playing the loving
fadder,
either," I say, the words rolling off my tongue as if someone else is making me say them. "What kind of
fadder
can you play, Ron? You know, so I can recognize it when I see it."

Ron doesn't show anger too often, but even in the small amount of time I've spent with him I know by the sounds he makes or the change in his breathing patterns when something gets in his craw.

"Don't think you're too old to get punished by me, young lady."

I have my famous sneer ready. "Get a clue, Daddy Dearest. Being here with you is punishment enough."

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I'm not usually this rude, truly I'm not. But my resentment toward Ron and insecurity about his fatherly love makes me act bitchy. I'm not even aware of it half the time. I guess if I'm rude to him, I'm giving him a reason not to love me.

Breathing pattern change. "Wait. Here. Or. Else," he says.

He stalks off, but I can't just stand here. I scan the airport and my eyes focus on the one thing most teenagers can't resist.

A Coke machine. (Insert harp music here, because that's what's playing inside my head.)

I walk through the crowd as if in a trance. Cold Cokes are calling out to me, "Amy, Amy, Amy. I know you're hot and cranky. Amy, Amy, Amy. I know you're sweating like a disgusting pig. Amy, Amy, Amy. I'll solve all of your problems."

I touch the Coke machine and immediately feel refreshed. I get ready to put my money in the inviting slot and for the first time in twenty-four hours I feel a smile coming on. It's comforting to know even in the Middle East Coke is available. Then I look at the price. My Coke addiction is about to cost me a sizeable amount of cash.

My mouth goes wide and I give a little shriek. "Seven dollars and eighty cents? That's robbery!"

"That's the price in shekels," a mother with two children hanging on her says in an Israeli accent. "Seven shekels and eighty ah-goo-roat."

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"Shekels? Ah-goo-roat?" I don't have shekels. And I sure as hell don't have ah-goo-roats. Or goats if that's what she'd said.

I only have American dollars, but I find a sign that indicates a bank is in the airport. I follow the sign, heading straight for the bank. It's at the other end of the terminal. If I hurry, Ron won't even notice I'm gone.

But as I get to the bank, there's a line. To top it off, the biggest group of slowpokes are in front of me. I should go back to the baggage claim area, but I don't want to lose my spot in line. If these people would just move a little faster, I'd have my shekels and ah-goo-roats for my Coke in no time.

When I look at my watch, I wonder how many minutes I've been waiting. Ten? Twenty? It's so easy to lose track.

Finally, I'm next. I take a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and hand it to the banker dude.

"Passport?" he says.

"I just want to exchange money," I clarify.

"Yes, I understand. I need your passport number for the exchange."

"My ...dad has it," I say. Ron took it after it was stamped so it wouldn't get lost. "Can't you just give me shekels without it?"

"No. Next," he says, then hands me my twenty back and looks behind me for the next customer.

My mouth drops open. I wasted all this time for a Coke and I still can't get one. Unbelievable.

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I head back to the baggage claim and spot Ron. He's talking to two soldiers and when he looks my way, my first instinct is to run in the opposite direction. I did nothing wrong. Yes, he told me to stay put, but I swear I thought I'd only be gone a minute.

Call it teenage intuition, but somehow I don't think Ron will listen to my explanation with an open mind. He tells the soldiers something and then walks over to me, deliberately slow. I think he's taking so long because he's very likely thinking of ways to kill and dismember me. Do they teach Dismemberment 101 in commando school?

Ron finally reaches me and I brace myself. Sounds like "arrr" and "yuh" come out of his mouth, but then he turns toward the baggage claim carousel with our luggage taking a ride on it. I notice our bags are the only ones left. He yanks them off and tosses them on a cart as if they weigh two pounds.

My suitcase was over the weight limit. I know this because he had to pay over a hundred dollars extra to get it on the plane. Note to self: Ron is very strong.

I just watch him, waiting for his wrath to come. Believe me, I know it's coming. What's scary is I expected it to have come already.

A predictable parent is good. On the other hand, an unpredictable parent is a teenager's worst nightmare.

Now Ron storms off through the area marked "exit" pushing the cart with our bags.

And I'm still standing here, my feet planted on the ground in this strange airport.

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Right about now it occurs to me my dear old daddy just one-upped me.

Damn.

Normally I'd wait it out as long as I could and make
him
sweat. Let him think I may not follow him
ever.
But as I glance at the two soldiers who are now walking toward me, I turn and hightail my ass right through the exit.

Goodbye pride, hello Israel.

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CHAPTER 4

Change makes me itch .

I spot Ron by the car rental counter. He's not even concerned about me or looking to see if I followed him. I stand next to him, but he doesn't acknowledge my presence.

I huff loudly.

He still doesn't look at me.

The lady at the counter hands him a key and tells him something in Hebrew. He smiles at her, says "
Todah"
and starts pushing the cart with our bags on it.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Now stop ignoring me."

He stops. "Does it ever occur to you that I worry about your

I could lie, but what good would it do? "Frankly, no," I say.

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He runs his hand through his hair. Why do guys do that when they're frustrated? Do they think it's macho? I know why girls don't do it. They'd mess up their hair they spent half an hour trying to tame, that's why. And also girls don't have to pretend to be macho.

"Come on," he says. "By the time we reach the
moshav
it'll be dark."

"Moshav?
What's a
moshav?"
Is it "shopping mall" in Hebrew? I mean, from what Jessica was telling me Israeli stores have the latest fashions from Europe. That black dress Jessica has
is
really awesome. I know I'd be selling out if I go with the Sperm Donor to a mall, but I keep thinking about all the great stuff I could bring back home.

It's funny, when I think about the mall, I forget about the terrorist bombing that could happen there.

As we drive along the highway in our red rented Subaru, it's also easy to forget this is a war zone. It looks like a highway in the middle of New Mexico or something like that.

As we hit the Tel Aviv area, traffic jam city starts. I look out the window at the tall buildings.

Ron points to the right. "That's the Azrieli Tower. It's the tallest building in the Middle East," he says proudly.

It might as well have a bull's-eye on it. "What a great terrorist target," I mumble, but then realize Ron is looking at me sideways. "Well, it is." I hope it's well protected, because 9/11 changed just about every American I know. I look out the window as we're passing high tech buildings with names of American companies on them.

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"Israel doesn't look anything like a third world country," I say.

"She's not a third world country."

She? Israel is a "she"? Well,
she's
pretty darn modern. In fact, the traffic looks just like we have back home.

Although I realize pretty quickly Israelis need to go to road rage school.

They're all yelling at each other out the windows and giving each other the finger when cut off. And I shriek when a bunch of people on those little motor scooters and motorcycles ride right in between the cars. They're not even weaving in the lanes; they're riding on the lines themselves!

"We've been in the car an hour. When are we gonna get there?" I say.

"In another hour or so."

"You never answered me. What's a
moshav?
Is it a mall?"

He laughs and I don't think a
moshav
is a mall anymore.

"Have you ever heard of a
kibbutz?'
' he asks me.

"You mean community living where people share
everything?
Listen, if you're taking me to a sick commune--"

"Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Overreact."

"For your information, I do
not
overreact. Mom overreacts, especially when it comes to me coming home after my curfew. Oh, yeah, you wouldn't know anything about that because you're never there," I say sarcastically.

Silence.

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"Then why don't you come live with me for a while," he challenges.

Me, live with him? "Do you have a girlfriend?" I ask. I want him to say no because I have plans for him and Mom. It'll be easier if he's not attached.

"No. Do you have a boyfriend?"

Now wait one second. When did it turn around to him asking me the questions? "Maybe."

"Amy, when are you going to learn to trust me? I'm not the enemy, you know."

"Then tell me what a
moshav
is."

"A
moshav
is a close-knit community. It's similar to a kibbutz, but everyone owns their own property and farmland. The money isn't shared or pooled together."

Still sounds like a commune to me.

"I hope we're not staying there for long," I say. "I need to take a shower at the hotel and unpack. I have stuff probably melting in this heat--"

"We're not staying at a hotel," he says.

Now I'm going to overreact.

"What?" I say really loudly.

"We'll be staying with your aunt, uncle, cousins, and
Sofia."
He pauses. I know what's coming next, I do. But I'm not mentally prepared for it when he adds, "At the
moshav."

"Let's set the record straight, Ron. I'm an ail-American girl with red, white, and blue blood running through these veins. I do not stay at places called
moshavs.
Unless I've signed up for the Girl Scouts, which I didn't. I need amenities. Amenities! Do you know what those are?"

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"Yes. But don't expect many where we're going. Last time I visited, only one family on the
moshav
had electricity and it wasn't mine."

I open the glove compartment.

"What are you doing?" Ron asks.

"Looking for a map so I know which direction to go when I escape from the
moshav"
I say.

He chuckles.

"Ha, ha, funny, funny.
I bet you won't be laughing when you wake up one morning and find I've gone back to civilization."

Ron pats my knee with his hand. "I was just kidding, Amy. They have electricity."

Kidding? Ron was
kidding
with me?

"I knew you were joking. Do you actually think I'm that gullible?"

He doesn't answer, but I know he knows the truth by the quirky way his mouth is moving.

"Will you at least give me the keys to your car so I can drive myself to a mall?"

"Sorry. Driving age here is eighteen."

"What!"

"I'll take you wherever you want to go. Don't worry. Besides, if you get lost you won't know how to get back."

Good, I think to myself. Getting lost sounds like a great idea.

I sigh and look out the window. On one side of the car is the Mediterranean Sea and on the other side are mountains with houses built into them. If I was in a better mood

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I might even think the scenery is beautiful, but I'm cranky and tired and my butt is numb.

I start doing my butt exercises. I was watching a late night talk show a couple of years ago when some action star, maybe Steven Seagal or Antonio Banderas, was talking about how they do butt exercises while in the car.

Just tighten, then release. Tighten. Release. Tighten. Release. I'm "feeling it burn," but after ten minutes my butt cheeks start to quiver on the tighten part and I stop.

By now we've taken a turn away from the sea and all around us are small trees in rows.

"What are those?" I ask.

"Olive trees."

"I hate olives."

"I love them."

Figures. "I hope you're not one of those pit-spitters."

"Huh?"

"You know, those people who spit out the pit right in front of other people at the table. That's totally gross."

He doesn't answer. I would bet my grandmother's underpants Ron is a pit-spitter.

"What kind of food do you like?" he asks. "I'm sure I can get it for you."

"Sushi."

"You mean raw fish?" he asks, wincing.

"Yep."

I used to hate it. When Mom first had me try it I gagged and spit it out (into my napkin, very discreetly I might add, unlike gross pit-spitters). Mom loves sushi. I guess it's like

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alcohol. You want to puke the first time you have it, but then it grows on you and you like it. It's probably why they say there's a thin line between love and hate. Now I don't just like sushi, I crave it. Ron obviously needs to be introduced to sushi with a professional sushi-eater like me.

We're now driving through the mountains on an extremely curvy road and I'm getting nauseous. The last time I noticed civilization was about fifteen minutes ago.

We wind our way down one mountain and stop at the road leading to another one. I read a sign with the words MOSHAV MENORA in English and some words in Hebrew on it.

Ron takes the road to Moshav Menora. Now the place looks like Switzerland, with grassy hills surrounding us on all sides.

He stops at a scenic rest stop built into the mountain.

"This is it?" I ask.

He turns to me and takes the key out of the ignition. "This is the Golan Heights, a very special and beautiful place. Let's go see the view."

"Do I have to?" I ask. "I got to pee."

"Can you hold it for a few minutes longer? I really need to talk with you before you meet my family."

This I have to hear. I open the car door and walk outside. We stroll in silence to the edge of the mountain. When I look over the edge, it reminds me of a scene from a postcard.

"They don't know about you," Ron blurts out.

Huh?

"Who doesn't know about me?"

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"My
mudder,
my
brudder
and his wife ..."

A pang of pain stabs my chest as if something pierced it. My heart starts beating fast and I'm breathing heavily. "Why?" I whisper, barely able to get the words out.

"It's complicated," he says, and then looks away from me. "You see, when I came to America I wanted to prove to everyone back here I could make it. You know, The

American Dream."

"And you didn't expect me to come along and ruin your dream," I say.

"I met your mom the first weekend I was in the U.S. I was a cocky Israeli who just wanted to have a good time. A few months later I found out I was going to be a
fadder."

I start walking away from him. What does he want me to do, apologize for being born?

"I hate you," I say as I head back to the car. I wipe the stupid tears I can't help from falling down my cheeks.

"Amy, please. For once let me set the record straight--"

"Just unlock the door." I hear the click and get inside the car. He's looking at me like he wants to explain more, but I don't want to hear it. "Let's go already!" I yell.

He gets back in the car and we ride up to the top of the mountain. I thought I was ready to meet Ron's family, but now all I want to do is crawl into a hole.

Because he's not just going to introduce me to his family, he's going to tell them for the first time he has an illegitimate daughter.

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