A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) by Charles Sheehan-Miles
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.”
I cough. Mike has the bad grace to keep going. “I can’t believe you went after Ariel like that. Dude is huge.”
“He’s a huge asshole,” Alex says. The rest of them burst into laughter, and I smile. Her comment cuts the tension.
Mike says, in a loud mock Israeli accent, “Get out of way if you want to live.” Then he claps me on the shoulder. I try to restrain my annoyance.
And if so… if … I mean (Alex)
“Damn it, I can’t find my lipstick!” As Elle half shouts, half whines the words, she bounces a little on her feet. In the last ten minutes, she’s torn her suitcase open and strewn her clothing and God only knows what other possessions over half the room. Elle is wearing insufficient clothing for November, and has carefully drawn cat-eyes under her expertly-curled bangs.
Hadar looks almost startled when she enters the room and sees Elle. The poor girl is so self-effacing, it’s a wonder she speaks at all. She gives Elle a timid smile and says, “My mother has some lipstick… maybe you could use some?” Her statement confirms that Elle’s outburst was loud—Hadar was in the living room watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy at too high a volume.
Elle sighs. Then says, “May I?” in a sickly sweet fake voice.
I really don’t like her much at all. She follows Hadar out of the room—undoubtedly to raid Hadar’s mother’s makeup stash.
I sigh, relieved they’ve left the room. Everything else aside, I was incredibly grateful to sleep in a room by myself last night. Except for summer camps and the occasional sleepover (always at someone else’s house), I’ve never had to share a room before. I feel crowded and stressed, and appreciate these few seconds to myself. I take out my phone—Julia bought me an iPhone the day it was first released last summer. It’s an expensive indulgence, and a nice toy, but it’s also been essential since I got to Israel.
I pull up Facebook on my phone—my data connection has been awful since I arrived here, but Hadar’s family has wifi.
Mike has posted on my wall, again. I miss you, Alexandra xo xo xo. He’s starting to get annoying. We only went out a few times.. He put more xo’s in his wall post than we’ve had dates. I seriously need to talk to him.
Out of curiosity, I visit Dylan’s page, which he just set up. He doesn’t appear to have updated it at all—no photo, no posts, though it says he’s friended several people. I look at their pages. Most of them seem to be from his high school.
I frown when I see Hayley Briggs. That’s the girl he said he’s been out with a few times. It’s not serious, he told me. Without really paying attention, I find myself looking through her photos. She takes what appears to be 250 selfies every day. Duck lips. Lots of them. She looks—vacuous. Overly made-up. Nowhere in any of her pictures, or anywhere on her wall, is there mention of or any sign of a book. Maybe she’s never read one. Plenty of mentions of Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears, Kanye West, Alicia Keys. She posts her opinion almost daily of Keeping Up With the Kardashians.
What could this girl possibly have to interest a serious, smart guy like Dylan?
Oh—I know. Blonde hair, tiny waist and big boobs.
I hate her. She posted on Dylan’s wall the day after he created his Facebook account: Missed me that much? When you get home, I’ve got something really hot for you.
Slut.
I smile grimly when I realize he didn’t even bother to click Like on her post.
Oh no. No. No. I can’t get this hung up on a guy. Especially not a guy who lives thousands of miles from me. This trip is only for a few weeks. Have I lost my mind?
I put away my phone. I hate everything. The door opens and Elle and Hadar re-enter the room. Both of them are wearing garish red lipstick. Elle sees something in my face—she immediately says, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. I stare at the wall as I say it.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you,” she replies.
I swallow. Then I say, “Do you think Dylan likes me? Like really?”
Elle says in a sarcastic tone, “Ya think?”
I feel my eyebrows scrunch together. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Girl, he’s got it bad for you. Puppy love. His eyes follow you everywhere. How have you not noticed?”
“There’s a girl he’s gone out with back home. Look,” I blurt out. I unlock my phone and show her the photo of Skanky Hayley.
“Nice phone,” Elle says.
I immediately pout, and she looks at the picture. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, I bet she’s not a virgin.”
Hadar blushes three shades of red. I want to sink into the floor. Elle sits on the bed next to me. “Alex—Dylan is a different kind of guy. I mean—he’s real. Like really real.”
What the hell does that mean? She keeps going. “I don’t think he’d fall for that for long. He’s a smart guy. You should tell him you like him.”
I shake my head violently.
Elle smiles and leans close. “Get some confidence, girl. Confidence is attractive. And he seriously likes you already. Blow him a kiss or something and he’ll come running. I guarantee it.”
I’m nervous. So nervous. Because he agreed to be at the party at Rami’s tonight, and I’m going to be there, and I hardly know what to say to him. I hardly know what to do or to think.
What if he hates me?
We have dinner with Hadar’s parents at seven, and it seems like it takes four hours. In fact, we eat in an intense silence, finishing in just a few minutes. Then we sit there fidgeting while the rest of the family eats. Hadar's father Samuel stares at his plate. Her mother and sister chatter away about some Israeli television show, then move on from that to who knows what. I don’t, because they unconsciously shifted into Hebrew, which makes sense really since the rest of us aren’t talking. Eventually even the Hebrew conversation drops off.
It’s almost as tense as dinner at home.
After a few minutes, Samuel sighs. Then he says at a near shout, “All right. Go!”
Hadar jumps to her feet, then gives her Dad a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Daddy.” Then she runs out of the room.
Elle and I follow. As we’re getting light jackets on, Hadar kisses her father on the cheek. Then we’re out on the street, walking the five blocks to Rami’s apartment.
The air outside is crisp, though not quite cold yet. I can’t really tell if the sky is clear: Ramat Gan has a dense skyline, including some of the tallest skyscrapers in this part of the world, so even on a good night the stars are nearly invisible.
This neighborhood, a mile or so south of the Diamond Exchange, features a series of blocky-looking apartment buildings, each about three stories high and standing on narrow stilts, with parking below the buildings. I’ve never liked houses on stilts, though you see them often enough in San Francisco. It seems crazy to me. Every few months we have minor earthquakes, and every few years we have major ones. Why would anyone put their house on top of a bunch of toothpicks?
Rami’s building is more or less indistinguishable from Hadar’s. We follow her under the building, then inside and up the stairs. It’s easy to tell which apartment is Rami’s—I can hear music coming from the apartment as we reach the top of the stairs. I recognize the song—Push the Button by Teapacks. The song is wildly popular in Israel. The exhortations of the singer to Push the Button gives a window into just how jaded and cynical young people here are. I’ve seen a lot of it in the last few days. Everyone here needs a dose of anxiety medication.
Of course, if you live with the periodic threat of rocket attacks and suicide
Rami’s door is propped open with a chair, and the tiny apartment, laid out almost exactly like Hadar’s, is crowded with teenagers. As we enter, Rami shouts, “Hello! Hadar! Alex! Elle!!!” He calls Elle’s name in a growling, mock-masculine way. He might as well shout please fuck me. Elle purses her lip and ignores him. Hadar blushes. I just keep moving, into the apartment and past Rami. Hadar, who seems to have shrunk three sizes, stays close behind me.
Elle, on the other hand, immediately starts talking with Kobi, one of the guys from the high school. I think Mike is staying with him. Kobi is a big guy, muscular, one of those overly masculine bodybuilders who might look pretty from a distance but probably has little more than a couple of marbles rolling around in his head. That’s about her speed—I have the feeling Elle’s going to want to dominate any guy she ever comes into contact with.
Beyond the small foyer and entryway is a rectangular living room and a small balcony. I look around, disoriented at first, overwhelmed by the large number of teenagers jammed into the small space. Then I spot Dylan Paris.
He’s in one corner of the room. A can of Coke, letters in Hebrew, sits open in front of him, and a burning cigarette dangles from his mouth. He has his eyes closed, head leaning back, his right hand strumming his guitar, his left hand fingering the chords. He doesn’t look at the instrument as he plays, and he doesn’t notice me as he pops the cigarette out of his mouth and drops it in the Coke can, then begins to sing. House of the Rising Sun. I only know the song because Julia is such a snob about music, there’s always something unusual playing whenever she’s visiting.
His singing voice is untrained, a little artless, but sincere in a way I think Julia would appreciate. Rough around the edges, a little gravelly. I catch my breath as he launches into the song. I’m not the only one. Hadar, standing next to me, stops talking and stares openly. Megan, her hair unusually erect and colorful this evening, can’t take her eyes off of him. I want to punch them both.
But then he opens his eyes and looks directly at me. He nods, just slightly, as if to acknowledge my presence, and continues playing. He ignores everyone else in the room.
I’m in an intense state of anxiety, fear and anticipation. My stomach is tied up, my heart is beating fast, the skin on my face is hot. I step out of the room and head to the kitchen, then get myself a drink of water. I need to get a hold of myself.
I stand at the sink, gulping the water down. I close my eyes as I set the glass down, taking a long, calming breath. Okay. I can do this. I’m being ridiculous. I open my eyes and turn around, intending to head back into the living room, and bump directly into Dylan Paris.
Give me some credit. I don’t squeak or squeal or anything else my mother would call unladylike. But I am very startled. By the looks of it, so is he, because he takes a sudden step back.
“Dylan?”
“Hey,” he says. “Um…”
“Uh….” I say, adding to the awkwardness.
“Listen, do you have a minute?” he asks.
Do I have a minute? For what? Is he going to tell me he doesn’t want me around? To leave him alone?
Alex: Get. A. Grip.
I cough. “Yes,” I say. My voice cracks a little. He says, “Can we talk in private?” His eyes dart to the other people in the room. I nod, and he leads me toward the back of the apartment, and we slip into a bedroom. I assume it’s Rami’s, for no adult would have a room with posters of rock stars, among... other things.
Dylan gestures to the bed. I stop, startled, then blush horribly. He couldn’t have meant—
“Oh…” he says. “I mean… sit down?” He says it like a question, and he sits, too suddenly. His eyes are looking everywhere but me. Like he’s nervous.
I sit down too. Next to him, but slightly away, so I’m turned slightly toward him. And I wait.
And wait.
He swallows, looks at me, then looks away.
What? Is there something on my face?
I almost reach for my face to see, when he blurts out, “I was telling John earlier that if he likes Elle, he should just tell her, you know? Because, if he never tells her, it’s definitely a no, right? And if he does, the worst that can happen is she says no, so why not?”
I blink, feeling a sinking, sad feeling. I’d hoped… I’d really hoped… that Dylan was… you know. Asking me out. And … instead he’s talking about John. Probably wants to know whether or not Elle likes John. I start to say, “I don’t really know if she—”
He interrupts. “No. I’m not asking about her.”
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s just, since I’m giving out advice to people, I guess I should follow it, right? But the thing is, we’re only here for a few weeks. And then that’s it. We go back to the United States, and I live in Atlanta and you live in California and…”
As he talks, I feel heat rising to my face. Is he… wait… he’s not asking about John and Elle…
“Anyway, the thing is, Alex, I’m… really attracted to you. A lot.” As he says the words, his blue eyes keep me pinned to my seat.
He sits there, waiting for me to respond. And I’m struggling to know what to say. So he continues. “Anyway, I guess I was wondering if you felt the same way. And if so… if … I mean… I … we…”
He starts drowning in a pool of inarticulateness, so I throw him a lifeline. “I do.”
“You do?”
I nod.
He smiles. “We’re only here for a few weeks.”
I reply. “It couldn’t be anything permanent.”
He shrugs. “Right. But for now…”
“We can…”
He nods.
I do too.
Chapter Seven
Why wasn’t I invited? (Dylan)
It’s quiet—almost 2:30 am. Dari, across the room from me, is snoring lightly. It’s not loud. Just loud enough to keep me awake, tossing and turning.
Except, let’s be honest. It isn’t Dari’s snoring that’s keeping me awake. It’s the party at Rami’s.
My mind pores over the evening. I stayed in the corner for the first hour, just smoking and playing my guitar. Sticking to myself, because everyone was drinking, and I don’t drink, and I’ll never drink, because for me drinking is death. Or close enough to death you can hardly tell the difference. One look at Lawrence Paris is enough. One thought of him, one thought of his sarcasm, his bitterness, his abusive words and fists, is enough to remind me that I don’t ever want to be him. I don’t want to be anything like him.
I don’t know what I was thinking asking Alex out.
Anyway, the thing is, Alex, I’m… really attracted to you. A lot.
I’m laying on my back, staring at the ceiling. Asking myself over and over again, did I make a mistake? That moment when she answered. Her eyes widened a little as I spoke, her pupils dilated, slight color on her cheeks. Her lips separated just enough to let a breath out before she whispered the words “I do.”
I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of those words. The warmth of her eyes. We stayed and talked for a long time, before she finally left with Elle and Hadar. After, I walked the three blocks back to Dari’s apartment in a daze. He asked me what was wrong on the way back. My answer: “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
He must have thought I was crazy.
I do.
This can never last. We’re only here for a few weeks, and that’s probably a good thing, because I would screw it up for sure. I’m not cut out to be her boyfriend. She’s an ambassador’s daughter. I’m a … a nobody.
I sigh, thinking of how the light played over her hair. We hadn’t kissed. We just talked. For a long time. On her way out of the apartment, she put a hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I like you, Dylan Paris.”
Those words made me feel like I’d had a few drinks. I won’t lie. Lightheaded. Dazed. I can still smell the faint strawberry smell of her hair.
I
Then I sigh. I’m wide awake. I sneak a peek out from under the blanket to the clock on the table beside Dari’s bed.
2:45. I’ve been laying here almost two hours.
I sit up. I’m wasting my time trying to sleep right now. Instead, I slip out of the bed, trying to be quiet. I don’t want to wake Dari up. I tiptoe toward the door. He doesn’t stir. I slide the pocket door open, step into the hall and slide it closed.
In the living room is an old iMac. It’s on, the screensaver showing a succession of images of Dari, his parents and siblings on their various trips around Israel and Europe. The screensaver vanishes when I move the mouse. I check first to make sure the volume is off, then open a browser.
I don’t know where Spot is, but I do know the names of a few people who knew her. Scott McLellan knew her—I went to school with him freshman year, before both of us dropped out and went our separate ways. I’d returned to school. He ended up in rehab. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible he had an account.
Bingo.
Scott McLellan of Atlanta, Georgia. 19 years old. I didn’t realize he was older than me. In his profile picture, he looks a lot older than last time I saw him. He had a scraggly beard covering his pockmarked face in uneven patches.
My mouse hovers over the “Add Friend” for too long. I finally click on it.
I take a breath. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. But I had. I close my eyes for a second and give myself a pep talk. Something like, Dude, get it together. Then I take another long breath and click on the message button. Quickly I type in a message:
Scott! How’s it going? I know we were never good friends, but we knew some of the same people. I’ve been looking for Spot. You ever hear anything about her? Take it easy. Dylan.
I almost gasp as I finish typing the message. Scott represents some of the worst of my past. I remember sitting around in the alley behind the Masquerade, passing around a joint and sometimes a bottle. Scott was a major asshole sometimes—he would jerk people around. Take their money, make promises he couldn’t keep. For a while there he let Spot think he might have a place she could go to stay long term. He was angling to get her to sleep with him, no matter that she wasn’t into guys. What she wanted wouldn’t have mattered to a guy like Scott anyway.