A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (2 page)

Everyone else on the bus has grouped up and spends the ride into New York talking. But Dylan Paris just sits there quietly looking out the window. Who is he?

“Alexandra?” Marie Simpson, one of the counselor/chaperones, knocks on the door and pokes her head in the room.

“I go by Alex, actually.” I respond.

Technically this isn’t true. I’ve gone by
Alexandra
my entire life. But something compelled me to introduce myself to my two roommates last night as Alex. This is the first time I’ve ever travelled without my family; the first time I’ve ever been anywhere on my own. Somehow, introducing myself as
Alex
makes me feel almost like a different person. So, Alex it is.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Simpson responds. “Alex. Anyway, small change of plans. You won’t be required to attend tonight’s reception.”

“Oh?” I actually
wanted
to attend the reception—all day long we’d sat through lecture after lecture, and occasionally I’d sensed the eyes of that boy on me. But there ha
d
n’t been an opportunity to be introduced. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to….” I trail off, realizing this is absurd. The reception must have been cancelled, because there’s no reason I’d be singled out to—

“Actually, we received a call from—I believe it was your father—Ambassador Richard Thompson?”

I close my eyes, feeling a sudden mix of resignation and anger flash through me. “Yes. He’s my father.”

“He was apparently outraged that you weren’t being allowed to see your sister while you were in the city.”

I frown. “I’d love to see my sister, but I assumed there wasn’t going to be time.”

A slightly disapproving frown passes over her face. “Well, now there is time.”

I sigh. “I didn’t ask for this, Mrs. Simpson. I didn’t ask for special treatment.”

She arches her eyebrows. “Well, then. Your father is a U.S. Ambassador—it wouldn’t do to disappoint him now, would it?”

I smile bitterly, thanking God that my roommates weren’t in the room to hear all of that. “
Of course not. One doesn’t disappoint Richard Thompson.
” Mrs. Simpson’s face takes on a sour expression at my sarcastic words.

“I understand your sister is at Columbia University? Your father indicated you would be all right taking a cab?”

“I guess,” I reply.

What about when
I’m
disappointed?

I sigh. Whatever. Mrs. Simpson leaves the room, and I glumly chang
e clothes. Twenty minutes later, after texting Carrie for directions, I’m in a New York City taxicab.

I arrive at Jewel Bako in the East Village a few minutes early. I’ve never been here before, though I’ve visited Carrie in college a couple of times in the last two years. She directed me here, saying that it was the best sushi in New York. It’s dark already, with winter well on its way, and a light drizzle falls on the city, leaving the streets slick and slightly reflective
. A few storefronts line the ground floor of East 5
^th
Street, but this block is mostly residential, though the corner with 2
^nd
Avenue is busy with traffic and noise. The
noise drops, however, as I enter the restaurant. Two rows of tables line the walls of the well-lit room,
which looks almost like a tunnel because of the curved bamboo ceiling arching over the diners. I unzip my raincoat a few inches as the hostess approaches.

“Two, please, for dinner. My sister made reservations.”

When I give her Carrie’s name, I’m whisked to a table in the back corner, directly across from the sushi chef. She must be a regular here. I barely have time to sit down when I see her approaching.

Carrie and I
couldn’t look more different. At a couple of inches over six feet, she’s gorgeous—
model-thin, always glamorous, even when casua
l. Tonight she’s dressed in jeans,
boots and a black raincoat, but somehow she makes it seem like she’s walking on a runway. I always feel like I disappear next to her.

I stand and we embrace. She kisses me on the cheek, then as we sit down, she pulls a gift bag out of her purse.

“Happy birthday,” she says.

I’m startled. I wasn’t expecting anything like that. I smile and take the bag. Inside I find a grey scarf, silk, with fine metallic thread. As I would expect, Carrie’s taste is right on—this will match a lot of my clothes. My birthday isn’t actually for another week, but I’m absurdly pleased that she planned ahead.

“That’s so sweet,” I say.

“You like it?”

“Yes! Thank you so much.”

“Oh, Alexandra, it’s so good to see you,” she says. “I feel like it’s been forever.”

I nod. “Yeah.” Carrie just started graduate school at Columbia, and she spent the summer teaching undergraduate biology courses instead of coming back home to California. “How have you been?”

She shrugs, a mysterious smile on her face. “I’ve been well. I’m kind of excited: I’m going to be doing a lot more fieldwork this year.”

“I missed you this summer,” I say. She spent her summer tracking down mountain lions. I spent the summer at home with a mother who has
been crazy for the last few months—undoubtedly Carrie knows that. They talk on the phone very frequently. Nor do I tell her that I haven’t seen Dad in almost three months—he’s been away on a super secret State Department mission of some kind or another. I don’t even know what country he’s in.
But she knows. After all, she’s the one who passed down the mantle of
protector
to me, whether I wanted it or not.

“I missed you, too,
” Carrie says. “It was really weird not coming home this year. Though I have to admit, I love my apartment
, and I love the fieldwork. Finally moving out of the dorms was fantastic. Do you think you’ll have time to come see it before you leave town?”

I slowly shake my head. “I don’t think so, honestly. I’m missing one of the receptions right now, actually.”

Carrie gets an odd expression. “Don’t look so bummed about it. You’ve been to enough receptions over the years—I’m glad we got to see each other.”

I smile. “I am too. To tell you the truth, it wasn’t the reception itself that interested me.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Oh? Tell me. Wait… is it… a guy?”

I frown. “Carrie….”

She smiles. “You can tell me anything. Cross my heart.” She does, first making a sign of the crucifix, which would drive mother
insane
if she saw it, then she pretends to turn a key in her mouth and throw it away. But we’re interrupted when the waitress appears. We order specialty rolls, and Carrie orders white wine for both of us.
The waitress gives me a
very
skeptical look, but doesn’t ask for ID.

“There is a guy who fascinates me on this trip,” I say.

“What’s his name? Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know anything about him,” I say. “That’s why I’m so intrigued. His name’s Dylan Paris—he’s a senior, from Atlanta—and that’s all I know. He doesn’t really talk with anyone.”

“Stuck up?”

I shake my head. “The opposite, I think. All of the other guys are preppies. He’s not, and I think maybe he’s intimidated.”

Carrie smiles. “You should take him under your wing then, before you leave for Tel Aviv.” Vintage Carrie there, to want to rescue someone.

“Well, I’d have to get up the courage to talk with him first.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “You’ve got a point, sister. Just keep me in the loop. You’re running off to a foreign country with a strange guy.” She gives the barest of mischievous smile as she says, “It’s very romantic.”

“He’ll probably turn out to be gay,” I say with a grimace.

“Most of the good guys are. Enough about that. Catch me up on home, will you?”

I shrug. “Not much to say. Um… let’s see… Andrea spent two weeks with us in the summer.”

“Oh, good! God, I miss her.”

“Me too.” Our youngest sister, Andrea, has lived in Spain with our grandmother almost full time for the last couple of years. “You won’t believe it when you see her. She’s taller than I am already, and looks a
lot
like you did when you were little.”

Carrie sits back. “That tall already? What is she, eleven?”

“Ten. And I bet she’s going to be just as tall as you are.”

“Weird. How did
we
get so lucky?” she asks in a sarcastic tone. “Have you seen Julia?”

I shake my head. Twenty-five year old Julia, our oldest sister, is a law unto herself. “They’re on tour again.”

“Yeah, I know—I went to the Allan Roark concert last winter; they were opening.” She shakes her head. “I’d have liked to have seen Andrea.”

“None of us knew she was coming,” I reply. “Mom said she wanted it to be a surprise.”

“That is so weird,” Carrie says.

“No kidding. You know what the latest is? Mom’s absolutely
obsessed
with the British Royal family.”

“What, William and Kate and all their drama?”

I shake my head. “No—Prince George-Phillip and Lady Anne Davies… she’s having a baby soon, apparently.”

“Never heard of her. But I know who
he
is, he spoke at my graduation. He was Ambassador to the UN at the time.”

“He’s second cousin to the Queen?”

“Something like that. Basically, what you’re saying is that Mom’s gone off her meds.”

It takes no more than half a second before I can’t contain the laugh. Then both of us are giggling
, hard. It’s not often I get to spend time with Carrie, and the twins are still in middle school and don’t really get some things. I wipe a small tear from my eyes.

“It’s so good to see you, Carrie.”

She smiles, the warm and loving smile I’ve always known from my big sister. “It’s good to see you, Alexandra. What about you? What’s happening in your life? Are you still thinking about Columbia?”

I nod. “Yes. Dad is
not happy
about that. He wants me to go to Harvard.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad choice,” she says. “Though obviously I’m in favor of Columbia.”

“I’d be locked into his future, Carrie. I don’t want to be a diplomat. I want to live in the same city, not move every three years until the airports and embassies become a blur and I can’t remember what year I was in what country. You know?”

She nods. “I do. You know, though, just because you go to Harvard doesn’t mean you’re committing to his life. Look at Julia. She went off the track
completely.”

“True,” I say. “Though I don’t see any rock bands in my future. Dad still hasn’t forgiven her.”

Carrie shrugs. “He’ll come around.”

I suppress my doubts. “I’m seriously thinking about law school.”

“Yeah?” Carrie looks skeptical. “Like corporate law?”

I shake my head. “No. That sounds horrible. I want to do something meaningful. Can I tell you a secret?”

Looking slightly amused, she nods. I mockingly half whisper, “I want to go to work for the ACLU.”

Carrie’s eyes widen. Then she snickers. Just once. “Dad would rather you married a punk rocker, I think. Bravo.” She’s probably right. The American Civil Liberties Union is an organization best not mentioned in our home.

We laugh, hard now, and I find myself wishing my stay in New York was going to be longer—long enough to spend a lot more time with my sister. Even though I hadn’t asked for it, in the end I’m grateful my parents got involved and that I got to see her.

Blah, blah blah.

That’s what the speakers have been saying for the last forty-five minutes at the reception at the American-Israel Friendship League.

Blah blah blah.

First they’ve been thanking people none of us have ever heard of for making cooperation between the two countries possible. A retired ambassador speaks, followed by someone from the Anti-Defamation League, then two speakers from the Council of Great City Schools. On and on and on.

“Check that girl out,” Mike from Chicago says, his voice none too quiet. His eyes are on one of the girls from the Milwaukee delegation. She’s probably a junior, and she’s leaning forward with one knee crossed over the other. She stands out in this crowd of preppies: colorful spiked hair, a black leather jacket and bright pink combat boots. She’s cute, really—if anything, she kind of reminds me of Spot, a girl I used to know who hung around the Masquerade and a few other lesser alternative clubs. Spot—I don’t know what her real name is—was creative as hell, smart, cute, and addicted to painkillers. Her parents had kicked her out, and there were a few times we ended up shacking up together. Not out of lust or attraction—she was strictly a lesbian—but out of a need to stay warm on cold, homeless nights.

Yes, homeless. See, my Mom is a parent of the tough-love variety, and when I dropped out of high school, she gave me an ultimatum. Go back to school and quit drinking, or get out. I couch surfed for a while—after all, I had plenty of friends. But parents of sixteen year olds become curious—too curious—when a sleepover turns into an extended stay.

I found occasional work in the fall—landscaping, day labor. Show up at the 7-11 in the morning and stand in line with the illegal immigrants and other homeless looking for a day’s backbreaking labor for 25 bucks. Then I’d go hang out with the guys and smoke pot.

I met Spot the weekend before Thanksgiving. I was standing with a couple of guys behind the dumpster in the back of the Masquerade having a smoke when I heard a short, muffled scream. I got up and walked down the alley, my friends trailing behind me. In the dark I could barely make out what was happening—a big guy, maybe six feet, and built, was shaking a girl who stood maybe
five-feet two
and probably weighed 95 pounds. Her head was flopping back and forth as
he
shook her hard, using his massive strength to shake her like a rag doll.