A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (7 page)

I stare up at him. I don’t know what
fri’er
means, but it’s probably not good. “Work it out, asshole. How’s it going to look for you if you get kicked out of this program because of sexual harassment. Huh? You’re smarter than that.”

Dari, attention finally yanked away from Elle, mutters, “I doubt that.” But the good news is, he stands
and comes around the table next to me
. Dari is as thin as one of
his drumsticks, but it’s still helpful to have him beside me against another Israeli.

Rami stands as well. He walks up behind Ariel and stands on his tip-toes (Rami is easily the shortest person in the room) and stage-whispers something in Hebrew. I don’t know what it is, but it convinces Ariel. He sags a little, as if someone had pricked a balloon. Then he turns and walks out of the pub.

Then Rami says, “Cheers for Dylan, eh?” Everyone at the table suddenly claps, except Alex.
“Now I
have
to buy you a drink.”

With an exasperated growl, I say, “I don’t drink, Rami! Let it alone!”

I return to my seat.

Alex doesn’t say anything. She just stares forward.

I frown. I wasn’t expecting her to jump at me or to throw flowers at me as if I were her champion or something, but a simple
thanks
might have been nice. What the hell? Instead, she’s sitting there, not looking at me, not saying anything. She looks
angry.

Then she stands. And walks to the door and out.

What. The. Hell?

I jump to my feet. “Excuse me, guys; I’ll be back.”

The door bangs open as I get out onto the street. This is a crappy little street, lined with fast-food joints and a few electronics and convenience stores. Alex is already fifty feet away and moving at a fast pace.
Where does she think she’s going?

“Hey! Alex!”

She doesn’t stop.
Christ on a crutch
. I run after her.

“Where are you going?” I ask when I finally catch up.

“Back to my host family, of course. Where else am I going to go?” She’s almost in tears.

“What the hell, Alex? What did I do wrong?”

She stops and turns toward me. “What did you do wrong? More like, what did you do right? You don’t own me, Dylan Paris. You don’t even really know me. We aren’t dating. We aren’t
anything.
”

I want to say: we could be. But I don’t. Instead, I say, “I was just trying to help.”

“You can help by listening,” she says. Then her eyes cut to our left, and she mutters something. Our compatriots are approaching: Dari and Rami, Elle and John and Mike.

Rami announces, with a shout, “Party at my place. 9 o’clock Friday. Be there!”

Despite my anger, Dylan insists on walking me back to Ariel’s. Which means, of course, that Dari, his host student, also tags along. Dari is gangly, with close-cut dark curly hair and a face covered in a mess of freckles and dark brown eyes. Behind him trails his best friend Rami. Rami isn’t hosting a student, but runs in the same circles as most of the kids who are. Honestly, I’m liking
all
of them less and less each day I’ve been here. Ariel, especially.

We finally arrive outside the apartment building. Josef and Rebecca’s car is parked underneath the building—good news, since I wasn’t going in if they weren’t home. I’m not looking forward to the conversation I’m about to have.

“Okay. This is where I go up alone.”

Dylan looks concerned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Look, Ariel’s parents are home, their car is right there.”

“If he touches you…”

“Dylan. Shut up. First of all, he hasn’t, and won’t. Ariel is a giant dick, but he’s all words and looks. I’m going to talk with his parents, then with Mrs. Simpson, and then Mrs. Simpson is going to find me a new place to sleep. The end. Okay?”

He swallows. I can see the tension in his body, his upper arms slightly flexed, his feet almost shoulder width apart. He looks like he’s ready to find Ariel and beat the crap out of him right this minute.

No one needs that. Especially not Dylan, who would be in all kinds of trouble if he got in a fight. I ought to be annoyed. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need some hyped-up, testosterone-filled guy to protect me.

“Okay,” he says. Then he blurts out, “Sorry,” almost as if he really means it.

He doesn’t move. It’s awkward, but I turn away, cross the street, and enter the apartment building.

Ariel and his family live on the second floor. I don’t know what standards people in Israel are used to, but to me, it seems
very
cramped. But I live in a four-story Victorian in San Francisco, and even when we lived in Washington we were in a large six-bedroom condominium. Josef and Rebecca rent an apartment that maybe has six hundred square feet centered around a combined living area and dining room. They were just as surprised to find a female foreign exchange student as I was to find a male host student. Originally they’d planned on having their visiting student take the top bunk in Ariel’s room.

That plan was scrapped the moment they met me. Instead, I’ve slept the last couple of nights on the couch, which is uncomfortable and lacks privacy. I wanted to go to sleep early last night—and couldn’t, because Josef was up late watching BBC News. Then I was awakened by Rebecca before six in the morning, as she prepared for work.

I’m looking forward to our field trip to the Dead Sea, beginning Saturday morning. We’ll be staying overnight at a hostel somewhere near Masada and I can’t wait to get out of here
.
In the meantime, I have to deal with this. What I told Dylan was true—Ariel hasn’t laid a hand on me. But his advances have been painfully obnoxious and I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life.

I trudge up the stairs—that’s the best I can do right now. When I enter the apartment, it’s clear that Ariel said
something
to his parents, but I don’t know what. At the moment he’s standing in the kitchen area, back to the counter, while both of his parents speak to him in rapid, sharp words in Hebrew. I don’t think they’re praising his academic abilities at the moment. And when I enter the room, his eyes dart to me—then his parents’ do.

Rebecca immediately turns and walks to me.

“Alexandra. Ariel tells me the two of you have had a disagreement.”

With a quickly arrested laugh, I say, “You could say that. He won’t leave me alone.”

Josef says something in an angry tone to Rebecca. I don’t know the words. She turns on him in anger and shouts something. Then she says to me, “I’m very sorry about Ariel’s behavior.”

Josef’s eyes narrow. In his none-too-strong English, he says, “You led him on. Ariel is a good boy.”

I feel instant heat on my cheeks. “I led him on?” I ask in a near rage.

“Don’t listen to him,” Rebecca says. “Josef is—”

She’s cut off by a torrent of words in Hebrew. Not just Josef—Ariel is defending himself—at least I assume so. It’s a very real handicap not knowing what anyone is saying. I turn my back on them and begin packing my bag.

That silences the room. I take the opportunity to speak. “While you all sort out who to blame, Rebecca, could you please call the exchange program? I’m afraid I can’t stay here any more.”

Rebecca looks almost pained. But she says what I want to hear. “Of course.”

Thirty minutes later, Rebecca drives me to the hostel where our chaperones are staying. In the car, she’s silent at first as she navigates through traffic. Finally, she says, “He’s not a bad boy, you know. Just—things are different here.” She glances at me as she says the words.

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

Her expression is one of anger.
“Back home people have been concerned about sexual harassment for decades. It happens—rape happens, harassment happens—but it’s not socially approved of. Here, everything is hyper-masculine. Israel has laws against sexual harassment, but few complain. It just—it’s approved of. It’s covered up. Josef is wrong, but he’s normal. Of course he defends Ari. Our son says he didn’t
touch
you, so nothing was wrong at all.”

Irrationally, I defend Ariel. “He didn’t touch me.”

“I know. But he wouldn’t leave you alone when you asked.”

“So why are you helping me now?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not helping you. I can’t fix my society. But I’m a mother. I can teach my son to respect women.”

I blink, trying to push back unfamiliar tears. Then I whisper, “Thanks.”

A moment later, after I’ve processed some of what she’s said, I speak again. “You said, ‘Back home.’”

She doesn’t respond immediately. Finally she says, “I did, didn’t I? Israel is my home now. But … maybe sometimes I still think of Minneapolis that way. Everyone I know here is from somewhere else: eastern Europe, or the United States or South Africa. Josef and I are visitors. It’s only
sabras
like Ariel who are
really
Israeli.”

“Sabra?”

“Uh… a Jew who is born here.”

“I see,” I say. Hearing
facts
make me feel a little more stable. “So… you’re American… why
do
you live here anyway?”

She says, “Well, that’s complicated. I suppose technically I’m not American anymore—I’m an Israeli citizen. I served my three years in the military when I first moved here.”

“You were in the Army?” I ask, surprised.

She nods as she scans for an opening in traffic. “Everyone serves in the army.”

I nod. “What was that like?”

She shrugs. “I was in the
Mishmar Hagvul
—the, uh, border police. I spent a year in the territories near Hebron, then the rest of my enlistment in Jerusalem. That’s where I met Josef.”

“Did you like it?”

She shook her head. “Not really. But it was part of becoming a citizen. You sometimes have to do what you have to do. But I’m not looking forward to Ariel serving.”

“Oh?”

She nods. “When I was in the territories, in the early 90s—there was hope. The Oslo Accords had been signed, and the Palestinian Authority was a new thing. I think we all held our breath for a few years. And then it all blew up in our faces in 2000 when the Arabs started killing Jews again.”

I wince a little. Maybe I’m too politically correct. But I find it uncomfortable when I hear someone ge
neralize an entire ethnic group that way. But who am I to judge? It’s not like I was here to see what happened seven years ago. All I know was what I’ve read in books or absorbed from the news and the internet over the years. Basically, I know nothing.

For the first time in my life, I understand my dad, and have a brief moment of actually
wanting
to follow him into the Foreign Service. Imagine being in a position to help negotiate the end of a seventy-year conflict. Wouldn’t the negotiators of the end of a war be responsible for saving thousands of lives? Tens of thousands? More? I told Carrie the other day that I wanted to do something meaningful with my life, after all.

But then I picture dragging my children from one country to the next. Never feeling rooted or at home. Never feeling like they were really part of something. No one talks about it, but it destroyed my parent’s marriage. I’ve never really asked Julia what it was like when she was little, but in my entire life I’ve never seen my parents hold hands, or kiss each other casually, or give each other looks of affection. I always assumed that was normal, until middle school, when I would occasionally stay at friends’ houses and see how
their
parents interacted with each other. I’m certain it was the stress of all the moves, and all the times my father has been away, sometimes for years at a time. I don’t want that for my life. One thing I know for sure, I’ll
never
get involved with a diplomat or a soldier.

Rebecca pulls the car to a stop, double parked in front of the youth hostel where
we stayed the first night in Israel. She leaves her emergency lights blinking as she steps out of the car. I get out, and pull my bags out.

“I’ll walk you in,” she says.

I feel—awkward. And sad, really. I would have liked to have gotten to know Rebecca better. As it is, I won’t have an opportunity to do so. We walk into the lobby of the hostel, where we find Marie Simpson.

Mrs. Simpson looks pensive… almost angry. As we approach, I say to Rebecca, “Thank you so much. For everything.”

Rebecca gives me a sad smile. “Of course. And I’m so sorry you had to deal with that.”

Awkwardly, she reaches out and hugs me. I hug back, not knowing how to feel or what to think. Rebecca backs away, leaving me with the remote and apparently angry Mrs. Simpson.

Mrs. Simpson doesn’t speak until Rebecca is out of the room. Then she turns on me and says, “You couldn’t wait five more days? We’ll be gone two of them for the field trip anyway.”

As she spits out the words, I feel myself shrink a little. I say, “What was I supposed to do? He was propositioning me constantly. Staring at me. I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life.”

“Which normally I would be very sympathetic to. But in your case, I’m wondering if you’re just over-reacting. You’ve already asked for special treatment once this trip.”

“I asked for
nothing,
” I say. “In fact, I asked my parents to stay out of it.”

She sniffs, a dismissive gesture that does nothing to calm me. “We don’t have a host family for you to go to. Which means you’ll be here at the hostel tonight, and probably until we leave Tel Aviv. I’m sure if I don’t do that I’ll be hearing about it from your father, right?”

I shrug. I don’t know what to say to that. I hate how she’s making me feel. Like I did something wrong. Should I have just kept quiet? After all, Ariel didn’t touch me. He was just rude, and overbearing. What if I was wrong? Will he get in trouble? Will it cause trouble for me? My mother warned me to be very careful here, that everything I did would be scrutinized and exposed.