The bus is just getting off the highway and onto the streets of Tel Aviv when Alex, who has been reading her email on her iPhone, suddenly gasps. Her eyes are wide when she looks up at me.
“Dylan…” she says, shaking.
“What? What is it?”
She hands me the phone.
It takes me a second to orient myself to her phone—I’ve never actually looked at email on her phone (or on any phone for that matter). Then it takes a second more before it settles in that the Julia the email is from is her sister Julia Wilson,
But it’s the subject of the email that stuns me.
To: Alexandra
From: Julia
Subject: Progress
Dear Alex,
Our detective, Bill Nancy, called me this evening with progress. Over the last few days he’s been visiting homeless shelters and camps in the Atlanta area. He had the picture you sent me of Dylan, and when he finally met some people who knew Dylan, he started asking about his friend. Social security, police and newspaper records turned up nothing about anyone named Spot, of course, but yesterday we got a hit.
A girl named Rachel Grace Bell from Norcross, Georgia was arrested by the Atlanta police last year and charged with misdemeanor possession of marijuana. Bill spoke with the arresting officer. Rachel Bell went by the street name Spot. She spent one month at the Metro Regional Youth Detention Center in Atlanta. The officer remembered her well.
Unfortunately, he’s not sure what happened to her after that. But now that he has her name and other information, there’s a better chance of finding out what happened.
I’ve attached a picture. Ask Dylan to verify if this is the girl he’s looking for.
Love you,
Julia
As I read the email my heart is racing. I can’t quite figure out my reaction, because I’ve got this crazy stupid mix of anticipation, of fear, even of anger at Alex. I’m confused how her sister Julia became involved.
I tell myself to not be an asshole. She was trying to help.
The attachment to the email is a mug shot. It’s Spot. Or rather, it’s Rachel. Crazy, that in the time I knew her, she never said her name. In the picture, she doesn’t look good at all. She had a nasty shiner, and her hair had that flat, dull look people get when they haven’t been eating or sleeping well enough. I take a deep breath.
Alex grabs my arm. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah I am. That’s… that’s her. Can you send me that email?”
She nods. “Of course.”
I almost don’t want to know what happened to her. I’m afraid I’ll find out it was something horrible. I shake my head. “She was a good friend,” I say.
“I know,” Alex whispers.
I failed her. Why didn’t I just bring her home with me when I went back to school? Mom would have taken her in. I’m sure of it.
Rachel Grace Bell. What happened to you? I stare out of the bus into the darkness, trying to imagine what might have happened to her. Maybe that asshole who was beating her up at the Masquerade that night finally caught up with her and killed her. Or one of the predators. Every once in a while you’d see them, cruising around in the bad neighborhoods and homeless camps. Looking for girls like Rachel, because they could be forced into prostitution.
I’d break someone’s fucking neck.
I swallow. The pain of failing her hurts my chest. I was never able to protect anyone—not my mother, when that bastard used to beat her up, not Spot. It kills me. I wish I could just be … better somehow.
“What’s wrong?” Alex asks. Her voice is filled with concern, compassion.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m fine.”
But inside, I’m not. I’m not fine at all.
You’re Crying (Alex)
The next morning is grey and cold. It’s Saturday, December 7, and tomorrow morning we get on a plane to fly back to the United States.
Tomorrow I have to say goodbye.
I feel a sense of almost terror as I get ready for the brunch this morning. I’m sharing a room in the hostel with Elle, and she’s fussing about something, but all I can think about is saying goodbye to Dylan.
I can’t say goodbye. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to lose him.
I shake my head and drop onto the lower bunk in the room, not really listening as Elle prattles on about God only knows what. I’m shaking.
I don’t really notice when Elle stops talking. But next thing I know, she’s kneeling in front of me and her hands are gripping mine. “Alex, what’s wrong?”
I shake my head, unable to control the tears that are running down my face. “Nothing,” I say.
She twists her face in a look of extreme skepticism. “Nothing? Your eyes are just running water like that for … what?”
I sniff, making a gross sound that would have had my mother screaming, Go blow your nose! Serves her right, having six daughters. I say, “I don’t… I can’t… I … I…”
That was really articulate, Alex. I try to talk, but I can’t, because the tears are now running completely out of control.
“Oh, honey,” Elle says. She leans forward and puts her arms around me, a sisterly sort of motion which I’m sure is completely alien. Or maybe she’s decided to join the human race somehow. Or…
“It’s Dylan, isn’t it?” she asks.
I nod my head urgently.
“What did he do?” she asks.
“What?” I cry.
“What did he do to you?” she asks.
“He didn’t do anything! I just… I don’t want to say goodbye.”
“Oh…” she says, her mouth forming a perfectly shaped O. She says, “I didn’t realize you guys were that serious.”
That’s because you never look at anything but mirrors, Elle.
Elle presses forward acting like a friend. “Listen, you just need to talk with him. He graduates high school in a few months, and you do a year later. Just … go to college in the same place. It’s not so hard to figure out, Alex.”
It’s so much more complicated than that, I want to say. How can I suggest we go to college in the same place when he’s never even said he loves me?
For that matter, I’ve never said it either. Are we going to go home and pretend it never happened? Are we going to go home and just… give up?
No. That’s not okay. It’s not. But where do I start?
I finally get my tears under control. It isn’t easy. But the thing is, we’ve got a full day ahead of us. And I am not spending my last day with Dylan crying all day. Not. Going. To. Happen.
By the time we leave for the dining hall, I’ve put myself back together. We make our way downstairs. The room has a dozen large round tables, all of them crowded with students—not just the Americans, but all three sets of our host students for the last six weeks. I spy several people I’ve befriended—mousy little Hadar, American-born Lilah, Rebekah from Jerusalem. They’re all at the same table, which is awkward, because Lilah is directly across the table from Yossi, who sits next to Dylan.
Dylan saved a seat for me, and when he spots me, he comes to his feet. For just a second I feel like the whole world goes silent when he stands. I approach, anxiety tearing me up inside.
How can I say goodbye? The thought of it almost brings tears, but I hold them back. Instead, I walk forward, and take his hand. He leans close and kisses the side of my mouth.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, and everything is all right.
For the next two hours, we have a brunch. I get to catch up with my friends—Hadar is unchanged. Ariel apparently is on the outs with everyone because of what happened when we were in Ramat Gan, so that at least is good news. Not that I wish bad things for him (I don’t) but that kind of thing doesn’t stop unless people make it stop.
Meanwhile, we get to hear speeches. The deputy assistant something or other from the US Embassy, Michael Terry, spots me at the table and walks over. They don’t
pay these guys to forget faces—he fusses for a few minutes, wishes my parents his best and then goes up front to give his speech. As he drones on about some obscure policy stuff, Dylan leans over and says, “Family friend?”
I shake my head. “No idea who he is. He must know my Dad.”
Dylan nods and squeezes my hand.
After Terry comes the deputy mayor of Ramat Gan, then some woman from the Israel-America Friendship League. They all talk forever. I’m serious. Forever. Dylan sneaks off twice during the speeches to go smoke. It almost makes me want to go light up. If the hostel hadn’t run out of food, they’d probably still be speaking. But it’s finally over, and Mrs. Simpson calls us all together.
It’s our last day in Israel. She gives us the rest of the day free. There will be a goodbye party this evening—informal, no dignitaries, thank goodness. But in the meantime, we’re free to go wherever we want as long as we stay in the city.
Elle and John immediately suggest heading back to the pier in Jaffa. Mike joins us, loping along slightly hunched over, chatting with the much shorter Megan, who somehow found the time to die her hair a brilliant blue this week.
Dylan and I both take deep breaths at that suggestion. And of course it makes sense. That was our first night in the country, our first time really connecting.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Dylan doesn’t actually say anything, just nods. I don’t go change into a bathing suit. We’ve been swimming a couple of times this trip, but today it’s too cold. I’ll go to the beach wearing a good sweater and jacket.
It’s slow going getting there. Elle and I stop and shop in two different stores. I buy Dylan a silly tourist t-shirt, and we stop half a dozen times to get our pictures taken in front of buildings, in front of traffic, just — anywhere. Because we both know we don’t want to go.
Dylan is quiet. But John and Elle make up for it, both of them talking a mile a minute. They’re both from New York, and a few minutes ago they were discussing introducing each other to their friends, to their families. They must have gotten back together when I wasn’t looking.
I won’t even pretend I’m not jealous that they get to stay together.
We finally reach the beach. Dylan positions himself with his back to a low stone wall. I lean back against him, my back to his chest, his arms around me. John chases Elle down the beach. Mike and Megan—not a couple—look awkwardly at each other, then shrug and wander down the beach together.
Dylan and I don’t talk. We just sit, his arms around me. I listen to the surf, the waves coming up the beach, whitecaps crashing against the pier. A tear slides down my face again. I can’t stop it. I try. But I just can’t.
I lean back, burying my face against his neck.
He says in a low voice. “You’re crying.”
I sniff and say, “You’re full of astute observations.”
Without hesitation he shifts his fingers into evil little claws and tickles my sides. I shriek, and then we’re laughing, and then he’s looking in my eyes, and he leans forward and his lips touch mine, and now we’re kissing, his lips hard against mine.
I want to say it. I want to say the words. I love you. They catch in my throat, because he’s never said it either, and if I say it and he doesn’t then where does that leave me? I don’t know if he even wants to try to stay together when we go home. What if he doesn’t? Long distance relationships suck. They fall apart. They never last.
Dylan’s kisses move, his lips slipping to my neck, and I lean my head back and close my eyes.
We stay that way for a long time, sometimes just sitting together, sometimes kissing. After a while, Megan and Mike return, and the four of us chat, then Elle and John show up. Me and Dylan wade out into the Mediterranean—which is cold—me trying to hold my skirt above the water, his pants rolled up to his knees. Megan takes a picture of us on my phone. Later, when a flock of seagulls lands on the pier, Dylan runs out there, arms waving, and the birds take off in a great rustling cloud, calling out their alarm to each other.
It’s around four in the afternoon when we finally begin to make our way back to the hostel. We’re all quiet, and we move slowly, stopping every few minutes to look at things, some unique, some common, but all of which we’ll never see again together. The wind whips down Dizengoff Street, blowing dust right into our faces as we move toward the hostel again. Elle and John keep talking in low tones, but I feel impossibly awkward because Dylan is so quiet. I need to know what is happening with him. I need to know what he’s thinking about, but he isn’t talking and it’s driving me insane.
All the same, I keep tight hold of his hand.
What do you want to do? (Dylan)
When we get back to the hostel, we agree to meet back downstairs in an hour. I only reluctantly let go of Alex, but there is a party coming, and she’s gotta go do whatever it is girls do before parties. I, on the other hand, am going to grab a nap.
I go up to the room and just lay down on my side and stare at the wall. John says something—I don’t know what—but I ignore him. He primps and puts gel in his hair and puts on so much cologne it makes my eyes burn. I don’t know if I should do all that. What are you supposed to do when you’re in love with a girl and have to say goodbye?
You tell her, asshole.
Yeah. That’s a plan. Break both of our hearts. Sounds like fun.
I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. But I can’t actually sleep. All I can do is see the last six weeks. Our flight over from New York. Our first night in Jaffa. Alex storming away after I intervened with Ariel, and Alex saying I do when I told her I liked her (loved) and asked her if she felt the same way. I see all those moments together—kissing at En Gedi, walking along the top of Masada, looking in her eyes, holding her in my arms.
Maybe, when I graduate, I should go to California. I could get a job out there, maybe take a couple of classes. I want to travel and write. San Francisco is travel. I’ve never been there, and it’s supposed to be an amazing city.
Of course, she wants to go to college in New York or Boston. And wouldn’t it be a little weird for me to follow her around from state to state? That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense either.
How do I tell her how much I love her?
This is agonizing.
Finally, in frustration, I get up. I grab a quick shower in an effort to make myself presentable, then go upstairs to the rooftop. There’s a small garden area up here, with lounge chairs and a picnic table, and two vaguely twenty-ish girls are leaning on each other on one of the benches.
It’s full dark now, and I can hear the traffic in the street below, horns honking. It sounds as busy as New York did. It makes me miss the relative quiet of Jerusalem. I light a cigarette and sit down in one of the plastic chairs.
Rachel Grace Bell. I’m trying to comb through my emotions about learning Spot’s real name. I don’t exaggerate when I say that she was, in some ways, like a little sister to me. So senseless that she would die so young. She’s younger even than Alex.
Was. She was younger than Alex.
I check my watch. It’s six-thirty. Time to head down for the party and dinner. I move slowly and thoughtfully, with all the deliberation of an arthritic old man. Or someone headed for the gallows. I’ve got a strong sense of anxiety as I head downstairs—I’ve never been one for parties in the first place, and this one is likely to be not the most cheerful of experiences. I imagine at least some of our former host students will be at the party—most likely the ones from Ramat Gan, if no one else. But a much bigger deal than that is all the impending drama.
Not that I don’t have enough drama of my own.
The main hall of the hostel is crowded when I enter. Students from all the groups are here, along with friends, host students and all the chaperones. Mrs. Simpson is somewhere near the front of the room, busily talking with a chaperone from one of the other groups. I look around, but I don’t see Alex at first.
At first. But when I spot her, I
stop cold.
She’s wearing a form-fitting ankle length dress. It’s a deep green that makes her eyes look almost luminous. She rarely wears makeup, but she has some on tonight. I have trouble breathing as I approach her.
“You look amazing,” I say.
She smiles as I take her hands.
We’re buffeted by all the people. John and Elle pop up. He’s obviously drunk, and she’s well on her way. John puts a hand on my shoulder and says, way too loud, “Buddy, it’s your last chance to get her panties off!”
Elle slugs him and I almost do the same. But the two of them slip away, leaving me and Alex in the most awkward silence.
Ever.
Megan comes over, along with another girl I barely know, and they’re chatting with Alex, and I find myself fading into the background a little. They keep talking, so I excuse myself to go grab a cigarette. This time I don’t go to the roof, instead I just step out front of the building. I light a cigarette, and pace back and forth. It’s dark, and there’s a lot of traffic. People walk by on their way to coffee shops and restaurants, wholly unaware that right here my whole life is coming to a crashing end.
I go back in and we make the rounds. Alex and I find ourselves in a group with Rebekah, Alex’s host student from Jerusalem, and Yossi, mine from Haifa. They’re making eyes at each other, and as our conversation proceeds longer and longer, they sit closer and closer to each other. Alex nudges me at one point when Yossi goes to get them both drinks. I nudge her right back.
Soon after, I’m standing outside yet again, smoking a cigarette. Pacing. Trying to figure out what to say to Alex. Because the thing is, when we started this whole business out, we knew it was temporary. It was only for a few weeks. We weren’t going to be something permanent, because that’s impossible. But as the weeks have gone on, I’ve realized that in Alex I have something I could never have imagined. I have someone who I can see spending not just today or this week or this month with. No—she’s someone I can imagine spending my life with.
In the back of my head, the peanut gallery shouts stupid objections. She’s just turned seventeen, I’m eighteen. Neither of us knows what we want out of life. She’s planning to go to college at an Ivy League in the heart of Manhattan—I’m planning on traveling and writing and maybe getting around to college whenever. We come from shockingly different backgrounds. Her father’s a freaking ambassador, while mine probably has a felony conviction if he’s even alive.
A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) Page 16
