A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (8 page)

You’re the child of a diplomat, Alexandra. Whether you like it or not, everything you do is public.

Sometimes I wish I was like Dylan—with parents who were invisible, at least as far as the public is concerned. From what he’d said, his family had major issues, not the least of which was his abusive father. On the other hand, he was unlikely to ever find himself on the front page of the paper because of a bad choice.
My sisters and I had all learned that was a possibility the hard way. I never really learned the details—I was pretty young then, and of course no one talks about it—but years ago there was some kind of scandal involving Julia.

I try to imagine the headline:
Diplomat’s daughter accuses Israeli of sexual assault.
Or worse. Reporters don’t bother to find out facts, they report whatever they think will increase ratings or page views. I didn’t want to be used that way.

I let out a sigh, then follow Mrs. Simpson as she leads me to what will be my new quarters. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I’m afraid that whatever it is, it won’t be good.

Alex looks tired this morning, tense and unhappy. She has dark circles under her eyes, and as she walks toward the tour bus, she smiles less than normal. She doesn’t seem to want me to approach her—since arriving at the school this morning, she’s stayed close to Elle and Megan, the multi-colored-hair girl who reminds me of Spot.

Outside, the sky is grey and the air has the faintest chill of winter. Dark clouds crowd the sky, and much darker ones appear to the west. It feels like a storm coming.

I climb onto the bus and sit down next to John Modesta. John is usually pretty good about reading people, so when I close my eyes and lean my head back, he takes the hint and talks to Mike from Chicago, who sits across the aisle from us. I’m not sleepy. I just don’t want to talk.

I finally set up a Facebook account night before last, as requested by Alex. After I set it up, I searched her out and added her as a friend, then promptly went looking for Spot. Unfortunately, no one using that name is on Facebook—or on MySpace, I checked that site too. If she’s still alive, she’s not going by her old street name.

I hate it that I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I’ve been haunted by that. She was a good kid, and didn’t deserve the crap she got. All because she liked other girls. Who the hell does that? Who rejects their children for being who they are?

I don’t even have any pictures of her. It’s not like I owned a fancy cell phone then (I don’t now, actually). How do you look for someone when you don’t have a picture of them, don’t know their real name, and don’t even know if they are alive?

You don’t.

I looked at Alex’s page last night, of course. She updates her status twenty-seven times a day. Or maybe three or four. Lots of pictures she’s taken all over Tel Aviv. But this morning’s status update was mysterious. It was a question.

How do you know if you’re making a big deal about nothing?

I also noticed that some guy posted to her page. Michael Harrington. He said:
I haven’t heard from you, babe. Miss you. Message me.

She mentioned on the plane that she’d casually dated a guy named Mike in San Francisco.
A couple of dinners and movies, nothing serious
. But from the tone of his post, he seemed to think it was.

But I looked through his profile and hers, and there wasn’t a single photo of the two of them together. That’s a good sign. Isn’t it?

I can’t get my mind off Spot. It took me about twenty minutes on Facebook to find and connect with a number of friends. I didn’t realize a lot of people from my school are on there, Haley included.
But it’s Spot I want to know about.
Is she still alive?

Whatever. I have no way of knowing, and if I couldn’t find her by searching in person for weeks, and now online, I probably never will. In the meantime, I’ve got this trip to deal with. We’re headed to the Eretz Israel Museum, just on the north side of Tel Aviv. I’m not sure exactly what that’s all about, but I’m hoping to find out more.

I keep my eyes closed, but start to listen in on the conversation around me. John and Mike are talking about Rami’s party tonight, apparently excited about it. I’ve got a bad feeling. Rami was so insistent that I have a drink last night, it pissed me off. I don’t drink, and I don’t see any reason why anyone should try to pressure me into it. Maybe I should skip the party.

But as I glance to where Alex is sitting with Elle, I think maybe I should go after all.

Something about her.

Every time I look at Alex Thompson I feel almost overwhelmed. I’ve never seen a girl as beautiful as her. I’ve never seen a girl who arrested attention the way she does. She’s not just beautiful—she’s smart as hell.

She’s as out of reach as if she were a princess. I’m the kid of a drunk, just a poor white trash Southern boy who got lucky enough to get nominated for this program. She’s the daughter of an ambassador.

Don’t get attached, Dylan. Don’t let your fantasies run away with you. Because she’s so far out of your league, she’ll break your heart if she even looks your way.

“You all right, man?” John says the words in a low voice, not long after I opened my eyes. The bus is moving through the crowded streets of northern Tel Aviv now.

“Yeah, just tired,” I say. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

I glance toward the back of the bus again. Alex and Elle are having an animated conversation with Megan. Megan throws her head back and laughs and
at that moment she looks so much like Spot it makes me want to cry.

In a quiet voice John asks, “What do you think of Elle?”

Uh-oh.
When somebody asks a question like that, they don’t want to know the truth. What I really think about Elle is that she’s a giant bitch. But the words I say to John are more like, “She’s great. And
those legs.”

He nods. “Do you think she’s into me?”

I don’t think she’s into anyone but herself.

“Could be… I haven’t seen you guys together much. What do you think?”

He shrugs. “We talked a long time the other night.
And she seemed like she was leaning close to me.”

“Do you like her?”

He nods. “She’s beautiful.”

I shrug. “If you like her, you should tell her.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “What if she shoots me down?”

“Then… everything will be the same as it is now?”

“Huh. Good point, I guess.”

My eyes land on Alex, sitting a few rows back with Elle and Megan.
I give a lot of good advice to other people, don’t I?

If you like her, you should tell her.

It’s different with me, though. Why would a girl like her be interested in me? It’s one thing to suggest to John that he talk to Elle—they’re not all that different, other than the fact that John seems to be a genuinely nice guy.

At least he’s not like Mike with his politics fetish. Yes, a fetish. The first day we spoke, Mike asked me my political party, and every once in a while he still needles me, trying to get an answer. Sometimes, like when he’s talking about girls like any other normal teenager, he seems human. But most of the time? No.

He leans forward from the seat behind me and John and says, “Do you know, if McCain is elected, he’ll be seventy-two years old when he take office? That’s even older than Ronald Reagan was. And everyone knows Reagan was…”

His voice trails off into
blah blah blah.

It’s way too early in the morning for all this political talk. I nod and say
uh-huh
at what seems to be the appropriate places, but I’m not following Mike. He moves on from Ronald Reagan to a special election in Pittsburgh and how that shows that Democrats will be something or other in the coming Presidential election.

John says, “Mike, give it a rest, okay? No one cares.”

By the time the bus arrives at the museum, the sky is considerably darker. My mood, too.
Fat drops of rain are starting to fall from the sky. John, standing next to me as we wait to pile off the bus, says, “I didn’t think it rained much here.” Our chaperones, led by the grey-haired Mrs. Simpson, urge us into the museum. We crowd in, a milling mass of teenagers. John and I find ourselves jammed in directly behind Alex, Megan and Elle.

John says, “Hey, Elle.” He sounds like he swallowed dry leaves before speaking.

She looks over her shoulder at him and gives him a wry smile. “You feeling okay, John?”

He coughs into his fist, then says, “Yeah. Just had something in my throat.”

Alex doesn’t look at me. Instead, she’s on her tiptoes, trying to lean around the taller people in front of her so she can see the front of the room where Mrs. Simpson is speaking. Since John and Elle seem to be occupied, I slip in next to her and say, “Are you still mad at me?”

She drops down from her tiptoes and looks me square in the eyes
. She looks calm. “No. I’m not. Still friends?”

“Yeah.”
I want to be a lot more than friends.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“Of course not,” I say. “What ended up happening, anyway?”

Mrs. Simpson says in a sharp tone, “Stop talking in the back, please.”

I lower my voice, but repeat, “What ended up happening?”

She whispers, “I stayed at the youth hostel last night. Mrs. Simpson told me I’ll be staying with Hadar, Elle’s host student.”

“Good news,” I reply. Hadar is a mousy girl, short and thin, dark haired, her posture always a little slumped. She’s friendly enough, but she walks around looking at the ground all the time. She needs to get some confidence. Ironically, her best friend is Levona, Megan’s host student. Levona is one of the loudest girls I’ve ever known. They make a funny pair.

Mrs. Simpson shoots me a dirty look. I stop talking. A man is now addressing the students. He’s tall, and like everyone in Israel, he is casually dressed, wearing blue jeans and a green golf shirt. It’s an awful green, really, not quite lime-colored. He begins to speak, introducing himself as the director of the museum.

For the next three hours we move in the group throughout the
several buildings of the museum looking at archeological finds: jewelry and pottery, weapons and coins. The museum sits on the site of a 12
^th
Century BCE archaeological mound, an ancient Philistine city. It’s interesting stuff, and as I walk through, I find myself wondering if I should start thinking more seriously about college. Alex was shocked the other day when I told her I hadn’t picked any schools to apply to. It’s November of my senior year in high school.

What
am
I going to do next year?

Unlike most of the kids I’m walking through the museum with, I don’t have the kind of grades that will get me into an Ivy League college. My SAT scores were very high, but I’ll be lucky to graduate in the top half of my class. That said, Georgia State is still in option. I’d also considered a couple of other state universities—SUNY Stony Brook, for instance, has a good creative writing program. But then I get stuck on wondering how I would possibly pay for college. It’s not like my Mom is rolling in money.
I can’t ask her to take on student loans for me
. It’s been nearly three years since she got sober, and she’s still pulling her life together. Saddling her with fifty thousand dollars in debt is just not an option. I can take my own student loans,
but the math doesn’t work out. And with my pathetic 2.4 grade point average, I won’t be getting any scholarships.

Which still leaves the option of the Army. I’ve talked to the recruiters more than once. They come around to the high school every couple of months. I get emails from the Army almost every week. Postcards too, though my mother throws those in the trash. I’ve spoken with her once about the Army—she was opposed to the idea.

There’s a war going on, Dylan. A stupid war, a pointless stupid war that is destroying people’s lives for nothing.

I don’t know what to say to that. Of course I know there’s a war on—it’s been going on since I was ten years old. But the existence of the war shouldn’t keep me from going into the military. In fact, it should be the opposite. Sometimes I feel like I need to join the Army
because
we’re at war. I mean, if no one enlists, if no one goes voluntarily, then how does our country defend itself?

I may not be into politics like John is, but I do love my country. I’m not afraid to go to war. And it
would
pay for me to go to college.

By lunchtime, it has long since stopped raining. Our group moves outside to a covered outdoor dining area with picnic tables. I end up bunched at one table with Mike from Chicago, John, Alex, Elle and Megan. As soon as we sit down, Mike says, “Who’s going to Rami’s party tonight?”

John and Elle both say, simultaneously, “I’ll be there.” Then they burst into laughter. Megan nods. “I’m going. You?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Mike says. He slaps me on the shoulder. “What about you, Dylan?”

I swallow. If I’ve judged Dari correctly, the party is going to involve a lot of alcohol. “I don’t know,” I say.

Elle turns to Alex. “Well,
you
have to come, Alex. I already talked with Hadar, she’s planning on going, and you can’t just stay at home alone.”

Alex’s eyes meet mine, then jerk away. Then she smiles, a second too late, and says, “I’ll be there.”

“Come on, Dylan!” John yells. “Peer pressure! Peer pressure!”

I laugh
. “Fine. But just know, I don’t drink, and if Rami keeps pushing me on it, I’ll end up popping him in the nose.”

Mike says, “I believe it, after yesterday.”