A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) by Charles Sheehan-Miles
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, Ariel 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?
Chapter Five
Leave her alone (Dylan)
“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. Ar
“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.”
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!”
He’s not a bad boy (Alex)
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.”