How to Ruin Series Part 4

"I'm not going in until you tell them who I am," I say.

I think he's going to argue and I ready myself for a fight. But Ron just says, "Fair enough."

He gets out of the car and I stay put. I watch as he enters the small one-story house.

The windows are open in the car, but there's no breeze. And it's not only hot, I think the devil himself must live on this mountain because sweat is pouring down my face, neck, and chest. My Abercrombie & Fitch s.h.i.+rt has wet marks on it already from disgusting armpit sweat.

How can these people stand the heat? I look at my nail before biting on it. What is Ron saying to them? Is he sweating as much as I am? I hope so.

I step out of the car and lean against the side of it, listening for the scolding Safta should be giving Ron. Boy is he going to get it. If I were Safta I'd rip him a new one for denying her, well, me. But I don't hear yelling. In fact, I don't hear much coming from the house.

Instead, something hits my arm. Hard.

"Hey!" I yell and panic.

I'm not stupid, I know it's not a bullet.

Not that I wouldn't be surprised if Ron's family decided "do away" with his illegitimate daughter once they heard the truth.

As I have that thought, I look down and see the offending object.

A soccer ball.

"Tizreki le'kan ," a voice bellows from behind the car. As if I can understand. But I can't, so I ignore it. Besides, I already feel a bruise forming on my arm.

The sound of running footsteps echoes before I'm face to face with an Israeli boy about my age.

"Shalom," he says.

He's wearing jeans, has a dusty and ripped white T-s.h.i.+rt on, and is wearing Greek sandals. You know, the ones like the Greek philosophers wore. But that's not the worst part. The guy is wearing white socks along with the sandals. Socks with sandals! Seeing that makes me laugh so I look up at his face instead of his feet. I don't want to insult the guy.

"Hi," I say.

Does he speak English? I don't know so I just stand there in silence.

Two more boys run up to us. One starts to talk to the boy in Hebrew but becomes silent when he notices me.

"I America," I say slowly and loud like I'm talking to a chimpanzee. I'm hoping by some miracle they'll understand me.

They turn to each other with confused looks on their faces and I realize these next three months are going to be like living in a bubble. A bubble with people who don't understand a word I'm saying, except for the Sperm Donor. Could my summer vacation be ruined more?

The first boy steps closer to me. He has dark blond hair and a rugged, boyish grin. I know, I know, rugged and boyish don't really go together. But on this guy it does, trust me. "You speak English?" he asks with a heavy accent.

Huh? "Yes. Do you?"

"Yes. But what does 'I America'

mean?"

"Nothing. Just forget it."

"You a friend us not?" he asks.

Huh? Obviously his English isn't good.

Was he asking if I'm a friend or not? I'm almost afraid to say no. "Yes."

The second guy turns to me. "What's your name?"

"Amy."

"Hi Amy, I'm Doo-Doo," he says. Then he points to the other two guys. "And this is Moron and O'dead."

Now, I've never said these four words in a row before. In fact, I don't think they've ever come out of someone less than the age of sixty, but they come out of my mouth almost automatically.

"I beg your pardon?" I say. My eyes are squinting as if that would clear my ears so I could hear right.

They all look at me like I'm the one who's got the problem. I have this urge to burst out laughing. But I suppress it because they obviously don't get the joke.

Which actually makes it all the more funny.

Okay, so some parts of my trip are actually going to be amusing.

But my amus.e.m.e.nt fades as another guy comes up to us. He's got dark brown hair that matches his eyes. And he's tall, bronzed, and wearing no s.h.i.+rt. He has jeans hugging those slender hips of his, a washboard stomach, and by every measure he's just about the toughest looking teenager I've ever seen.

"Americayit," Moron says, pointing to me.

No-s.h.i.+rt guy says some stuff to Doo- Doo, Moron, and O'dead in Hebrew and ignores me completely. Which just proves one of my many theories . . . the gorgeous guys are always the biggest jerks. At least the other guys smiled and introduced themselves. No-s.h.i.+rt guy just barks some words at his friends, then walks away.

"How long are you visiting for?" Moron asks, eyeing the suitcases in the back seat.

For a h.e.l.luva lot longer than I want to.

"The whole summer."

"We're going to hang out at the beach tomorrow tonight. Do you want to join us?" Doo-Doo asks.

"Sure," I say.

I look over at the house and there's a crowd of four strangers plus Ron standing in the open doorway. They're all staring at me. How could I have forgotten why I was here in the first place?

Ron walks up to me. I want to ask, "How did it go?" but don't.

So now I find myself walking up this muddy pathway, to this small house that's going to be my residence for the next three months. As the cherry on top of the cake called my life, I'm going to live with family members who I've never met before and a biological father who I hardly know.

"Amy, this is my brudder, Chaim."

My uncle holds out his hand and shakes mine. He's a tall guy with a definite resemblance to Ron. They both have that same strong, muscular build.

The guy is smiling, but I can tell there's tension behind that facade. Anger, too, although I don't know if it's directed at me or SD (short for Sperm Donor, I'm too hot and sweaty to think of him as anything other than SD).

"Call me Dod or Uncle Chaim," he says.

As if I could even say that name. He p.r.o.nounces the C-h like he's about to hack a loogie. I swear I can't do those back throat noises for the life of me without making a complete a.s.s of myself. I'll just call him Uncle Chime and leave off the gurgling back-throat noise.

The lady beside Uncle Chime steps forward. I'm shocked when she pulls me to her and hugs me tightly. My first instinct is to push her away, but her embrace is so warm and loving. I find myself leaning into her arms. She releases me after a long time, puts her hands on my shoulders, and holds me at arm's length.

"Beautiful girl," she says with a deep Israeli accent.

She has these earrings with bells on them and no makeup on her face. My mom wouldn't be caught dead outside the house without makeup. Or earrings with bells dangling from them. The truth is, this woman is pretty without makeup and the bells just make her look angelic instead of stupid.

She lets go of me and says with a smile, "I'm your aunt Yikara. Just call me Doda Yucky, okay?"

"Ookaay," I say in a singsong voice to alert SD I'm not comfortable calling this lady Yucky.

"Doda is 'aunt' in Hebrew," SD explains as if that was the part of this whole exchange that needed explanation.

She just asked me to call her yucky!

There are two more people standing there. One is a small boy, probably around three years old, with blond curls spiraling out of his head like Medusa's snakes. He's wearing nothing but a pair of Power Ranger underpants.

"Shalom, ani Matan," he says in a cute little voice. I have no clue what he's saying, but he's so adorable and his curls bounce on his head as he speaks. I step toward him and shake his little hand affectionately.

The last one, a dirty blonde-haired teenager who is a bit taller than me, just stands there with her arms crossed over her chest. She's wearing the tightest jeans I've ever seen on a human being and a crop s.h.i.+rt showing most of her flat stomach. I don't need a sixth sense to know she's royally p.i.s.sed-off.

"This is your cousin, O'snot."

This time my laugh just comes out without warning. Although when I come to my senses and realize n.o.body else is laughing, I stop pretty quick. Okay, now O'snot is not just p.i.s.sed-off, she's got my famous, one-of-a-kind sneer down pat as if she'd invented it herself.

I don't hold out my hand in greeting because I'm pretty sure my snotty cousin will ignore it. So I just say, "Hi."

"Hi," she says through gritted teeth.

Nice.

"Let's go inside so you can meet your Safta," Uncle Chime says.

I'm getting a little piece of satisfaction when I notice Ron's armpits are wet through his s.h.i.+rt. My armpit wet spots are the size of grapefruits, but Ron's are the size of small watermelons. He's more nervous than I am for me to meet my grandmother.

Ha!

6.

You can run from some problems, but then you get caught up in others.

I enter the house slowly and peer inside. A kitchen is right in front of me. I follow Ron to the left and find a woman sitting on a rocking chair next to a window. She has white hair ma.s.sively peppered with dark strands.

She looks at me with bright blue eyes that almost glow. Our gazes meet and I feel like I'm looking in the mirror at my own eyes. I'm so overwhelmed it almost chokes me. Is the air getting thicker?

I start breathing heavier, trying to get air into my constricting lungs.

My Grandma.

My sick Grandma.

She looks small and weak. Is she dying?

Turning to the rest of the family, I realize they're all staring at me. It makes me feel like I'm being judged on some reality show they're watching. An over- excited television announcer's voice in my head says, Will Amy make a mistake and screw up this first meeting? Watch next week's episode of Illegitimate Children and find out if her sick grandmother accepts or rejects her in front of thirty million viewers . . .

Before I even realize it, I turn and run out of the house before anyone can see the tears welling in my eyes. I run and run and run until my legs want to give out. I'm pa.s.sing rows of houses, haystacks, horses, cows, and sheep as if I'm on some kind of farm set in Hollywood.

When I stop running and start walking, I thi nk Safta must think I'm some stupid idiot. I meant to hug her, I really did. But not in front the rest of the family. I feel like they're a.n.a.lyzing my every move.

I keep walking, p.i.s.sed at SD for making my first meeting with Safta a spectacle. A small wire fence is in front of me, and as I attempt to step over it, a voice stops me.

"You can't go there."

I freeze and turn to the harsh voice. It's no-s.h.i.+rt guy standing in front of a pile of hay about three stories tall. A sheen of sweat on his chest sparkles in the suns.h.i.+ne, but I'm trying not to pay attention to it.

Instead, I think about something gross. Like how he must smell like sheep and sweat and how he's in desperate need of a shower. But, for that matter, so am I. I wipe the tears falling down my cheek with my fingertips.

"Isn't this a free country?" I say with att.i.tude.

The last thing I need is for some hard- a.s.s teenager to think I'm weak.

He turns around and flings a whole bale of hay into the sheep pens.

"The sign says a minefield is behind the fence. If you want to take your chances, I won't stop you," no-s.h.i.+rt-cute-jerk says as he enters the sheep enclosure.

At this point I'm still straddling the fence. d.a.m.n. This IS a war zone. I eye my foot on the other side of the wire, feeling lucky it's still there and not blown off. I slowly lift it and bring it back to the side of the wire without minefields.

"You don't know where you are, do you?" he asks gruffly as he gets another bale of hay.

"Sure I do," I say. "I'm on top of a mountain in the middle of Israel." Duh.

"Actually, you're in the northern part of Israel, not in the middle. In the Golan Heights."

"So?"

"Americans," he mumbles, then slowly shakes his head in disgust.

"Okay, what's so special about the Golan Heights?"