A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (6 page)

“Watch your step,” I say. It looks like steps leading down, not far. Then we pass through another archway, and we’re in a courtyard.

The courtyard is lit only by the moon, but it’s lit well enough to tell that it was once a garden. Now, it’s overgrown with vines and bushes, flowers everywhere. The fragrance is overwhelming.

“Oh my God, it’s beautiful,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I say. I squeeze her hand, then both of us let our hands drop, like we’d been stung by bees.

We only stay for two or three minutes. From the street, Elle calls, “Alex? You okay?”

“Yes!” Alex responds. “Be right out.”

She sighs after a minute. “I don’t want to leave,” she says. “It’s magical.”

I smile at her, though she probably can’t see that well. Five minutes later, we get back out to the street. John says, “What was in there?”

“Nothing,” Alex says, apparently wanting the same thing I so, to keep the courtyard a secret. “Just dust.”

Our eyes meet, and she gives me a faint smile, and we continue on our way.

The next morning, we gather for breakfast in the main room of the hostel. Coffee, toast, Nutella. I sit with John and Mike, Elle and Dylan, and I find myself laughing and enjoying myself. Dylan does a passable imitation of President Bush, which keeps us all laughing through breakfast.

I don’t mention to Dylan, or anyone else, that I’ve met George Bush and eaten at the White House. I already feel alien enough. And I’m still mentally out of breath from last night and our adventure in the abandoned building. I don’t know how old it was, but it
felt
ancient, and the courtyard was like something out of a fairy tale.

I grabbed Dylan’s hand
automatically. I felt … safe with him, even in a dark and abandoned building. Crazy, I know. But something about his confidence made me feel completely comfortable walking through there, and
that
made it magical finding that courtyard.

A
s breakfast is finished, the tour organizers stand up to give more speeches and information. We’ll be breaking apart into three groups—one group headed to Haifa, the other to Jerusalem, and the final one staying here in Tel Aviv. After 8 days, we’ll rotate, so each group spends about a week in each of the three cities.

I feel a momentary panic that I’m to be separated from Dylan. And that scares me. First, because we aren’t anything. We aren’t dating, we aren’t a couple, we aren’t in love, we aren’t
anything.
Second, because even if we were any of those things, well, this whole trip comes to an end in just a few weeks. I need to get a serious grip. Plus, I still haven’t gotten around to writing Mike. Mike, whom I’m supposedly dating, even if it has only been a couple of dinners.

After breakfast, we separate into our groups, and I’m relieved to see that Dylan is in my group. It’s time to meet our host families.

A few minutes later, I find myself faced with a couple in their fifties and their teenage son.

Teenage
son.
He has blonde sculpted hair, muscular upper arms and a five-o-clock shadow.

“I’m Ariel,” he says.

I cough. “I’m Alex.”

He grins. I look at his parents. Would it be wrong of me to ask where their daughter is?

I look back. “It’s nice to meet you
,
Ariel. Excuse me for a moment.”

I walk directly over to Marie Simpson, one of the chaperone’s from San Francisco. She looks stressed. Why the hell would I get placed with a guy? Did they get our names mixed up? Maybe someone on this end though
Alex
was a guy’s name, or
Ariel
a girl’s. I don’t know.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Simpson.”

“Yes, Alex?”

“Um… I’m confused… Ariel… my host student? It’s a guy.”

She frowns. “That can’t be right,” she says. “Are you sure?”

“Um… yeah. I’m sure. It’s pretty unmistakable.”

She closes her eyes and rubs a hand on her forehead. “That sounds like a mixup. You’re supposed to be staying with a girl, of course.”

“That’s what I thought,” I say.

“We don’t have any more host families,” she says.

I lean closer and say, “Maybe there’s a guy in our group who was put with a girl? Maybe we got switched?”

She looks like she isn’t sure what to say. And I’m certainly not sure. She finally settles on, “I’ll check. In the meantime, go with your host family, and we’ll get back with you today.”

I swallow, then glance over my shoulder. Ariel is standing there, practically salivating. I don’t know him yet, but I already want to punch him in the throat. Probably not the ideal start. “Are you sure?” I ask. “This isn’t what I expected.”

Mrs. Simpson puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “Alex… we’ll take care of it. I promise.”

I sighed. Nothing else to be done. I walked back to the waiting family. “Sorry about that,” I say. “It’s all set.”

“Do you have all of your bags?” the mother says. “I’m Rebecca. This is my husband Josef”

Rebecca’s English is as good as mine—possibly better. She holds out her hand to shake—I take it. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” I say.

“And you, young lady,” Josef says. Unlike his wife, he has a strong eastern European accent. “Is there anything you need before we go?”

I shake my head no. On second thought, it’s a Russian accent. But if Rebecca isn’t from the midwest, I would be shocked. Josef picks up one of my bags, and I reach for the other, but Josef says, “No, Ariel. Take the young lady’s bag.”

Ariel flashes me an unreadable look. Then he picks up my bag.
I search around the area. Dylan is getting into a car about a hundred yards away. He sees me and his face brightens into a smile. He waves.

I wave back, trying not to show my worry. Swallowing, I follow Rebecca down the street to a perfect-condition, bright-blue Mitsubishi. Josef opens the trunk—it looks as if it has never been used. Perfectly clean carpet inside; not a speck of dust. The four of us get into the car, Josef and Rebecca in front, Arie
l and myself in back. Ariel twists in his seat and openly stares at me, but his mother says something in a sharp tone in Hebrew. He turns his eyes to the front and buckles up.

“Is Alex short for Alexandra?” Josef asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“My mother was an Alexandra. It seems a pity to shorten a beautiful name.”

I shrug, then make use of my very limited Russian to ask him if he is from Russia. “
Вы из России?
”

His face erupts into a huge smile. “Changing the subject, I see. Da—I’m originally from Saint Petersburg. I moved to Israel in 1991 with my parents. I’m surprised you can distinguish the accent?”

“My family lived in Moscow for a year when I was younger. But that’s just about all the Russian I remember.”

“I see!” Josef replies.

“Where do you live now?” Rebecca asks.

“San Francisco.”

“Beautiful city.”

I look at her. “Where are you from?”

“Minneapolis, actually.”

Ariel interrupts. “I was born in Tel Aviv.”

Josef pulls the car into the heavy traffic along Dizengoff Street, but soon turns off, getting out of the traffic by maneuvering through a bewildering set of twists and turns.

“How did you end up in Israel?” I ask.

Josef says, “You know about when Soviet Union collapsed? My parents moved here then—about a million Russian Jews come to Israel then.”

A million?
This is a tiny country. “I had no idea.”

Rebecca smiles. “I came here a couple years after that. I was an idealistic girl.”

“Now, not so much,” Josef comments.

She frowns at him. “Speak for yourself, husband.”

He chuckles. “I always speak for myself, wife.”

I can’t help but smile at how they refer to each other. The couple begins a lighthearted debate about who is more cynical,
and then as the discussion becomes more passionate and animated, they lapse into Hebrew.

I comment quietly to Ariel, “I like how they call each other
husband
and
wife.”

Ariel says, “They do that because they only just got married last year.”

“Really?” I’m a little shocked, though I ought not be.

Josef overheard the exchange and lets out a loud, bark like laugh. “It’s because even though we were so Jewish the Russians hated us, I wasn’t Jewish
enough
for the Rabbis here.”

I am a little confused.

Rebecca says, “In Israel, marriage has to be approved by the religious authorities. Josef couldn’t prove his mother was Jewish, so they wouldn’t let him marry me. We held out for years, hoping they would do the right thing, but finally decided to get married in Minneapolis. The government recognizes marriages conducted in other countries.”

“That makes no sense,” I say. “How do you prove you are Jewish?”

“The birth certificate has to note that the mother was a Jew. And you have to be able to prove you were circumcised as a baby.”

“Huh,” I say. Josef steers the car onto a highway. Traffic is awful.

“We live in Ramat Gan,” Josef says, “If you are curious.”

“Where is Ramat Gan?” I ask.

“It’s a suburb to the east of Tel Aviv,” Josef replies. “
You will like it. All of the host families for your program are in Ramat Gan. You’ll see all of your friends tomorrow morning at the high school.”

I sigh with some relief. I’ve got phone numbers for our chaperones, of course, as well as the program headquarters. I’m glad I’ll be seeing everyone in the morning.

“In the meantime,” Rebecca says, “we have big dinner plans. Josef’s parents and brother will be coming over for dinner. You’ll love them.”

I struggle to maintain an enthusiastic smile, because that’s what my mother trained me to do. But inside, I’m almost crying. I’ve reached my fill of people for the day, though it’s
only ten in the morning. I
’m on my way to who knows where, and I didn’t realize until I got into this car just how much I’ve taken it for granted that my host student would be another girl. It’s not that I feel unsafe, but… I’ve never had any brothers.

I look over at Ariel. Why did they have to screw up my placement?

“I dare you. You have a beer. I pay.”

I close my eyes. Rami might be Dari’s best friend, but he’s also a giant dick. I look at Dari, my host-student. He’s oblivious, his eyes glued on Elle, who is dressed, tonight, in a flared mid-thigh length skirt and a skin-tight white tank which shows an exceptional amount of cleavage. It’s hard to blame him, really, though I’ve drifted from indifference to Elle over the last few days to genuine dislike. She’s superficial, self-absorbed and generally an all-around bitch, but it’s also a fact that she’s easy on the eyes.

So Dari is no help. I turn back to Rami. “Listen—Rami. Thanks for offering, but I don’t drink. I’ll just have a coffee.”

A moment later, Alex storms into the pub. Her face is set with an angry expression, lips compressed, a fierce line between her eyebrows. I stand up as she approaches. “You okay?”

She nods. “Can I sit with you?”

I wave to the seat next to me—one of the only two empty seats left at the table. It’s our third day in Ramat Gan, and our host students had gotten together and agreed to meet here at the Boston Brewery and Pub. The decor in the bar seems to be loosely based on the bar in the TV show
Cheers,
which is still syndicated in Israel. Alex drops into the seat just as the door to the pub opens.

Ariel, her host student, marches in. He looks frustrated. Ariel is little more than a large ball of glands and hormones dressed in modern clothing, so I have few doubts what he’s frustrated about. And that makes me want to pound him into a very
tiny
ball of hormones.

I lean close to Alex and whisper. “Is he still bothering you?”

She frowns. Then nods, her lips set in a bitter line.

The waitress arrives and begins taking orders. Rami orders a beer for me. I interrupt and say, “Just coffee for me, thanks.” The waitress continues taking down the order, then steps away.

I whisper, “What did Mrs. Simpson say?”

“They haven’t settled on a host family yet.” Her eyes are
a little wet.

“Maybe you should call your father.”

Her eyes meet mine. In a firm voice, she says, “I’d rather sleep on the street.”

I snort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do you,” she responds. “You don’t show weakness with my parents, or they’ll use it to twist a knife.”

Jesus.
Ariel approaches the end of the table,
where Alex is seated and stands facing her, looking down. He’s breathing heavily, and his face is red.

“Leave me alone, Ariel.”

“I didn’t mean it, Alex.”

Didn’t mean what?

“I said, leave me alone.”

He leans toward her, hands gripping the table. His angle above her is intimidating. “Alex, listen to me.”

“We’re done here,” she says.

“We’re
not
done.”

I stand up. I don’t think about it. I just back away from the table and walk around it toward Ariel. He’s taller than I am, and heavier, more muscular. But he’s also an idiot. My heart is beating rapidly, too rapidly. I’m moving too quickly to think, too quickly to realize I’m afraid.

“Dylan, stop,” Alex says. “I don’t need—”

I come to a stop in front of Ariel, whose attention is now fully on me. I poke him in the chest with a finger and say, “You heard her. Leave her alone.”

He looks at me astonished. This close up, he’s
really
tall. Taller than six feet. And his upper arms look like small tree trunks. He works out. “Get out of my way
fri’er,
if you want to live.”