A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (11 page)

He nods and squeezes my hand—not hard, just reassuring. “I get it. My mom—she’s pretty squared away now, but back in the day she was one sandwich short of a picnic. Always liquored up. Dad too. Maybe not the same kind of crazy as yours, but crazy.”

I take a deep breath and squeeze his hand back. Then I find myself, in horror, yawning.

“Sleepy?” he asks, his smile quirking up.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Me too. Why don’t you lay on my shoulder?”

Oh. My. God.

Yes, he just said that. I think he even meant it.
I do, pulling my legs up close so I can turn in my seat and rest my head on his shoulder. He slumps down a little and leans his head against mine.

Will I even be able to sleep like this? I’m so aware of his skin against mine. He has a little stubble on his chin, and I can just make out the slight tobacco smell in his hair—not stinky, because it’s very faint.

His breathing slows, and mine does . I can’t shut off my stupid brain. It circles and circles. We’re only together for a few weeks. Then it’s back to our normal lives. And the thought of going home, of saying goodbye, already scares me.

I slowly drift off to sleep. And find myself dreaming.

Dylan is in San Francisco, the two of us walking along Golden Gate Park. It’s a fanciful day, the sky blue, flowers blooming in a riot of colors. A confusing crowd of people surrounds us—crowds in China, a paper dragon, a group of frowning, dour diplomats lined up in a row
. But Dylan is smiling and laughing.

In the way of dreams, however, we don’t stay there. Instead, we’re standing in front of my parents, who stare at me and Dylan in disapproval. Dad is talking, and his words are harsh, but I don’t understand him. But it’s clear enough what he means. Because Dylan lets go of my hand and turns away. Dad folds his arms across his chest, a self-satisfied look on his face. Mom turns her back on him.

I jerk awake, my heart pounding.

Oh, God, that was awful.

I’m still leaning on Dylan’s shoulder, his head against mine. Our hands aren’t touching. He’s breathing deeply—far gone in slumber. I shift
position
s a little and close my eyes again.

I reach out and put my hand on his.

Drama.

It started in the late afternoon, not long before we arrived at the Ein Gedi Guest House after a long journey. Through the course of the day, we’d visited an air base in Be’ersheva, including the museum there which depicted Israel's many wars with its neighbors. From there, we’d gone to an art gallery after lunch, then gotten on the bus again for the ride here.

Ein Gedi is an oasis not far from the Dead Sea (where we will be going tomorrow) and the Qumran caves, where the Dead Sea scrolls were found. The hostel is almost luxurious, but right now things are tense as John and I get ready to head to dinner.

That’s because, after all of 12 hours of dating, Elle and John broke up.

I don’t know what it was about. All I know is that as Alex and I were huddled together in our seats on the tour bus about an hour into the drive, Elle suddenly appeared at my shoulder.

“Excuse me. Alex, can I talk with you?” Elle’s eyes were filled with tears.

Christ on a crutch, what now?

Of course, Alex went with Elle, leaving me sitting alone. After the long day sitting together, walking together in the museums and at the air base, I felt bereft.

Unfortunately, moment’s later John filled that spot.

“Kids, stay in your seats,” Mrs. Simpson said. “No more moving around.”

Great.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Elle dumped me.”

“You guys haven’t been together long enough for her to dump you.”

“No, really.” He looked distraught.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know!”

And that was about as much as I learned during the final thirty minutes of the drive. I was thanking God when we arrived at the hostel. At least I could get something to eat soon, and grab a cigarette.

It hasn’t gotten any better in the half hour since. John seems despondent, and he has no clue what is going on. I’m no closer to getting a smoke than I was an hour ago. Finally I say, “Hey, I’m going outside before dinner, all right? You can join me if you still want to talk.”

Of course he does. He follows me down the hall, to the stairs, then out front. I want nothing more than to be left alone right now. Well, that’s not true. I want to see Alex right now. But if I can’t do that, then let me have some blessed solitude. That’s been the one downside of this trip—
I just don’t get enough time alone.

That doesn’t look like it’s going to change anytime soon. I find my way out of the hostel to a balcony overlooking the valley and the Dead Sea below. It’s a remarkable sight.
Just on the other side of the promenade, and stretching all the way to the Dead Sea and the mountains beyond, is a barren brown landscape. In the distance, the mountains of Jordan tower over the Dead Sea, fading into deep reds and purples. The sun will be setting soon.

The oasis, surrounding the guest house, is
green.
Lush trees and bushes, palm and olive trees, thick grass.

I cup a flame in my hand, lighting my cigarette, then take a deep drag. The smoke going down my throat is calming, and I close my eyes and just soak in the environment. The air is warm, and the smells from the lush plantlife of the oasis are sweet, almost floral.

This would be a good place to meditate.

Well, it would be if I didn’t have John standing beside me.

“I just don’t understand
why
,” he says.

“Maybe you should ask her.”

“Ask her? What am I supposed to say?”

I sigh. And open my mouth. Then close it, because nothing I would say right now would be constructive. What goes through my head is that Elle is a giant bitch, and she’s probably just playing with him. Normally I’m not this judgmental of people—no, seriously. But in this case, I’m pretty sure I’m right. Yesterday she was all over him like a cheap suit, and now she’s dumped him? She’s playing some kind of game with him, and it isn’t very nice.

“I don’t know, man,” I finally say. “I don’t know Elle that well, but it seems to me, if you guys can’t stay together for more than twelve hours….”

“Don’t say it,” he replies.

I shrug and take a last drag of my smoke. The cigarette, a Palestinian brand called Farid, has a noticeably sweet, pungent smell, nothing like American cigarettes—but also much cheaper. I stamp it out under my foot, then toss the filter in a trash can and head back inside, trusting that John will follow.

He does. A few minutes later we walk into the large dining hall in the hostel. The students from our group take up four large round tables. Each table has plain brightly colored plates in front of each place, and several large dishes in the center. Hummus, meats of various kinds, breads, desserts.

Alex and Elle are sitting at the same table, with two empty spaces beside them, which may prove to be awkward. I don’t consult with John about this—instead, I walk directly toward Alex and slip into the seat beside her.

“Hey,” I say.

She immediately brightens, her teeth showing white, and that makes me want to touch her lips. We haven’t kissed.

I don’t know when or if we will.

But I want to.

Then John sits down in the seat next to Elle, who looks decidedly ornery. Neither of them speaks. In fact, none of the others at the table say a word. Instead, they all watch the unfolding drama that is John and Elle.

I’m not getting into that. Instead, I reach forward and pull a half sandwich to my plate along with some pita bread, then take a large helping of hummus. There are several pitchers on the table, including a carafe of what looks like coffee. Score. I pour myself a cup of coffee, mix in too much sugar and milk, and get started eating.

“Baby,” John whispers, as if the rest of the kids at the table weren’t straining their ears trying to listen in.

“Shut up,” Elle responds.

“So,” Megan says. “What did you guys think of the art museum?”

Well, that’s awkward.

Mike adds to the awkwardness by saying, “That place was … something.” It was that. Something. The museum, housed in an Ottoman style former governor’s mansion, was in fact pretty interesting. But right now, no one could remember any of the exhibits.

“Baby,” John pleads.

I swear Elle’s face turns red and her eyes turn up in the corners. “You should tell all of them what you did.”

Mike says, in a conversational tone, “I don’t know that’s really necessary—”

“All right!” John says. He turns toward the rest of us, and says in a whining, too loud tone, “I tried to grab her boob! All right? Is that so bad?”

The entire room goes silent. Including our chaperones, led by Mrs. Simpson, who sits in the corner, her eyes now fixed on John.

“Smooth,” Elle says. “Real smooth.”

I shake my head. Alex looks at me, and appears to be biting her lip in an effort to keep from laughing. I lean toward her and say, “What do you say we finish eating and blow this joint?
Go take a walk.”

She nods. She’s still biting her lip, but her expression is different. A little excited.

When Dylan and I walk out of the hostel to the promenade, it’s dark. The sky is clear, and I can see more stars than are ever visible in San Francisco. Dylan walks along beside me, holding my hand, staring up at the sky.

“Look at that,” he says. “That’s heaven, right there in front of us.” He points at the sky. “There’s the Big Dipper. And the Little Dipper. And Orion.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know anything about stars.”

He smiles, then pulls me close to him, putting an arm around my waist. He stands close behind me and points so I can follow the line of his arm.

“See… the Big Dipper’s right there. You can see the handle, and the cup. Right?”

I do sort of see it. Seven stars, looking all the world like a sauce pan with a bent handle. “
Why don’t they call it the Big Sauce Pan?”

He says, “Don’t ask snarky questions. Now, look here… if you follow those two stars at the end of the Big Dipper…”

“Where?” I ask. The cool air is blowing at me, but I don’t feel it. All I feel is the warmth of his arm around my waist.

“Follow it right along the line of those two stars. Right… over … here… do you see the Little Dipper? And right there on the end is the North Star.”

“Really?” It looks faint, just a pattern of stars, the one of the end—the North Star—not even closest to the brightest of the bunch. “I always assumed the North Star would be brighter, or something.”

“Nah,” he says. “Nothing special about it like that. It’s just that it’s lined up with the north pole, so if you can find the Big Dipper… and from that the Little Dipper and the North Star… you can always find your way, because you always know which way is north.”

I shiver a little. “Did you take an astronomy class or something?”

“My Dad taught me. Back when I was little. Before he got too mean. I was a Cub Scout for a little while.”

“Really?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. But … then I couldn’t stay in. I don’t know what happened. Dad got in a fight with somebody about something on the first camping trip we went on. I’d guess he was drinking, and someone said something to him. We didn’t go back after that.”

I find myself picturing Dylan as a little boy. Blue uniform, with his father on a camping trip. Then not being able to stay in the scouts, and not knowing why.

“You must have been sad,” I say.

In a guarded tone, he says, “I don’t know. I tried not to have too many expectations.”

We sit down on the stone wall along the edge of the promenade. Far below, we can see the road along the edge of the Dead Sea, a tiny pair of headlights, all alone, moving from south to north.

“What about now?” I ask. “Do you have expectations now?”

He shrugs. “You start expecting too much, you set yourself up for disappointment.”

I find myself intertwining my fingers with his. I whisper, “You know… we don’t have to worry about that. About disappointment. I mean… we don't have much time anyway.”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Then he leans forward and kisses me.

It happens so suddenly I didn’t expect it. Or plan on it. I’ve never kissed a boy before. But he is confident, his lips pressing against mine, everything suddenly washed in a warm glow, but I'm also incredibly self-conscious. What if I’m doing this wrong? Will he think I don’t know what I’m doing? He’s been with girls before. He’s eighteen. But what if I
am
good at it? Will he think I’ve kissed boys before? Will he think I’m easy? I find myself shaking a little, shivering with sensation as he puts his left hand on my waist. His right hand runs along the base of my jaw, fingertips just barely touching my skin.

It’s a full minute before we come up for air. Then we’re staring in each other’s eyes. Even in this dim light, I can see the striking blue.

“This could get complicated,” I say.

He just grins. “It already is.” Then he leans forward and kiss
es me again.

When I sit down at the table, I’m seated to the right of Yossi’s great-grandmother, a sour-faced woman who seems to spend most of her days sitting on the balcony overlooking the national park, slowly knitting with knobby hands.

To her left is Yossi’s mother, Dana. She’s not quite forty, and looks young for her age, but has worry-lines on her face. Yossi, my host student, is a seventeen-year-old high school senior. His younger brother Ramzy sits to my right.