A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (14 page)

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 utterly 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?

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.”

I switch the computer on and wait for it to boot up while he gathers up his things and steps out of the room. I don’t know why, but I’ve got this anxious feeling coming on, a tight feeling in my chest. It’s been a week since I messaged Scott looking for her. I’ve only been online once since then, and he hadn’t responded then.

But tonight, the Inbox link has a number 2 beside it. I’ve got two messages. I click on the link.

The first message is from Alex. The second from Scott.

I take a deep breath. I start to click on Scott’s message—but then stop at the last second and click on Alex’s instead.

It says,

I had a great time at the beach tonight. I know we only have a few weeks, but I’m so happy we get to spend that time together. I know you don’t think so, Dylan, but you’re really a great guy. You’re kind and sweet and considerate. You treat me better than any boy I’ve ever dated. I wish I could introduce you to my sisters! I know they would love you.

I haven’t been able to say it, but I’m dreading going home. When I think of my life at home, compared to now, it all seems colorless and sad.

Thank you for being my friend,

xo xo xo

Alex

I close my eyes, letting her words sink in, thinking of kissing her tonight on the beach, thinking of the fullness of her lips, the curve of her waist. She wrote
xo xo xo.
That’s… significant?
I love her. I haven’t told her yet, but I love her.

I sigh and open my eyes. Then I click into Scott’s message.

Dylan, dude. Sorry, man. Spot’s dead.

As soon as I read the words, I gasp and my eyes water.
She’s dead? How? When?
It’s been almost a year since I last saw her, a year since I saved myself and left her behind.
A year since she disappeared.
What happened?
Why didn’t Scott give me any details?

Grief and rage I’ve never experienced in my life flood through me. She was dead because her parents kicked her out, because they couldn’t accept her for who she was. Instead of loving their daughter, they’d pushed her out into a world that did horrible things to young women on their own.

A wave of images of my friend. Spot laughing, a deep laugh that seemed to start near her toes, rocking her body as she leaned back, eyes wide. Spot on her first day at her attempt at a job, wearing a silly uniform with a bow tie and serving ice cream. She got fired because they changed her schedule and there was no number to call her, and she didn’t know the schedule had changed. She cried that night—Spot had wanted off the streets, and thought the job might get her there.

I had known better, even then. No minimum wage job was going to be enough to pay for a place to live.

I had been so afraid. Afraid, because she was a young, pretty girl. Whether or not she was a lesbian wouldn’t turn off a rapist or a pimp. I’d looked at her as a little sister, and would have done anything to protect her.

Anything but stay on the streets myself. I’d chosen to go back to school, to move back home, and she disappeared before I could do anything to help her.

I close my eyes and wrestle my face into something resembling calm. I don’t want to have to answer questions. I don’t want to have to tell Yossi about Spot. I turn off the computer. I climb to the upper bunk, still in my clothes, and roll over, turning my back to the room. When Yossi comes back in, I pretend I’m asleep.

But I don’t sleep. Instead, I remember Spot the last time I saw her. It wasn’t fair. She’d done nothing wrong. She didn’t deserve to be pushed out on her own. She didn’t deserve to be alone.

At that moment, I make a promise to myself. A promise that I’ll never let someone helpless go unprotected. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but in that moment I feel the urge to change directions. To become … a cop, or a firefighter, a social worker, even a soldier. Somebody who protects and helps others.

I can’t believe she’s dead.

Hours pass before I fall asleep.

When we gather outside the high school this morning, Dylan is standing off to the side smoking a cigarette, away from everyone else. It’s a pale, washed-out sunrise, long shadows and blue-black darkness seeming to hide distasteful emotions.

Normally Dylan is wide awake, alert. He paces around. He fidgets. His eyes are everywhere. But today? Today he just stands, staring into the distance. He doesn’t even notice me. Was it something I did?

“Hey,” I say quickly. I’ve got a tight feeling in my stomach.

He jerks a little, but recovers quickly.

“Mornin’,” he drawls.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. He shrugs. “Tired. You?”

I reach out to take his hand. He takes it, but a fraction of a second slower than usual. Something really is going on. I run through the day before in my mind. Maybe it was something I did or said at the beach party last night? I’m sure he’ll tell me—if not soon, then at least when we’re on the
bus. We have a longer trip today, visiting sites in Nazareth and around the Sea of Galilee, or, as the Israelis call it, Lake Kinneret. I can be patient.

I don’t press.
Not even as we board the bus, and the chaperones call the roll to make sure we are all there, and the bus departs Haifa.

But what if it’s something awful? I left the party before he did. Did something happen? Is he—am I—?

Stop.

I tell myself to get a grip. He’ll talk about it, whatever it is.

The drive to Nazareth from Haifa is less than an hour, winding through largely-urban areas, traffic circles and Arabic and Hebrew lettering everywhere. But it seems a lot longer, because Dylan leans against the window, staring out. He’s quiet. I don’t nag him. Something’s obviously wrong, and I presume he’ll tell me
eventually. In the meantime, we sit together and hold hands quietly.

The urban neighborhoods give way to dusty hills, the few bare trees looking like invaders. Orange traffic signs, all of them marked in three languages, alternate with signs which I can barely guess the meaning of, despite the fact that I’ve lived in a lot of different countries.

Nazareth is a city of hills. A riot of colors, languages, fragrances.

Graffiti I can’t understand covers walls beside the road. A giant yellow frowny face holds a stop sign with Arabic lettering, next to words I don’t understand. People wait at the bus stop near the frowny-face, huddled over, wearing jackets against the pending chill which is expected to set in later today.

A block later, a small cafe—lettering in Arabic only, except the large Coca-Cola sign—with green plastic lawn furniture out front. Four elderly men sit at the plastic table. A few blocks later, a computer store next to a convenience store next to a parking deck next to a park. No—not a park. A cemetery. A few doors down from there, a vegetable market spills out into the street, crates of colorful lettuce, oranges and other unidentifiable vegetables piled up in and outside the market. A voice whispers that there’s something wrong with the fact that I don’t recognize half of these plants or even know if they are edible. I grew up knowing how to order in French at fancy restaurants, but I can’t cook much more than boxes of macaroni and cheese. And I’m regretting that. I want to know more.

The bus finally stops on a crowded, narrow street on a hill, double-parked and blocking traffic. . The bus driver gets out just as a shopkeeper boils out of his shop, rage on his face. The two men stand there, in the street for several minutes, waving their arms, shouting at each other in Arabic. Dylan watches them, but not with any level of interest. Finally his eyes just wander off.

What is wrong with him?
If he doesn’t start talking soon, I’m going to get very bent out of shape.

The argument outside seems to quiet down, and finally, the bus driver steps back on board the bus. In his thickly accented English, he says to Mrs. Simpson
, “Here. The guide will be here in fifteen hour.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

The driver closes his eyes, as if consulting an inner dictionary. Then he says, “
Soon
. The guide will be here
soon
.
In’shallah.
”

That phrase I recognize.
God Willing.
In this context, it generally indicates that the speaker isn’t sure of when something is going to happen, or even if it will happen at all.

Whether or not the guide is coming seems to be an open question. In the meantime, we pile off the bus.

The neighborhood we are in is clearly a regular tourist stop. Shops line both sides of the street—souvenirs, cameras, phones, gifts. The next block over is another vegetable market, crates and boxes piled high, blocking the sidewalk, with a riot of colors and fragrances.

Mrs. Simpson gathers us into a circle. “I don’t know when the guide will be here, so I’m going to give you thirty minutes. Stay on this block, and feel free to walk around, but I want you to stay in pairs.”

Freedom.
It’s unusual that we get to just walk around even for a short time—most of our stops have been guided, scripted and led every step of the way.

We walk in a small group—John and Elle, who seem to be tolerating each other’s company again, and me and Dylan. Elle keeps up a continual patter of talk, which obscures the fact that Dylan is completely silent. He’s not typically the most talkative of people anyway—the others don’t seem to notice his mood.

We’re walking on foot through a market of a completely different culture, and yet Dylan looks around with no interest at all.

Around us is a scene that I suspect is both timeless and yet very tied to the tourist trade. The strong aroma of spices drifts out of a building.
We look in to see large vats and bags of spices. Cinnamon, cloves, ginger, paprika and more, bright colors spilling out of open containers. Just beyond the spice shop is a tourist shop—John buys himself a kuffeyah, the traditional black-and-white checkered headdress worn by Arab men. Then he buys a bracelet for Elle. It’s not a terribly expensive bracelet, but all the same, I get a sinking feeling. Dylan has a lot more pride than money (or sense).