How to Ruin Series Part 35

Since Avi and I have this long-distance relations.h.i.+p, I get insecure. When I'm in bed at night, thinking about how much I miss him, I wonder: Did he forget about me? Has he met someone else who's cuter or nicer or just ... doesn't have as many hang-ups as me?

I'm feeling a bit better as I rip open the letter, but then notice my dad staring at me ... gauging my reaction.

"Why don't you read it out loud," he suggests.

"Yeah, right," I say sarcastically. I stick the letter in my pocket, I'll read it later when I'm in bed ... alone.

"Wait!" Marla calls out as we're about to leave. She's holding a backpack. "Do you know that boy who was sitting on one of the chairs over there? He left this."

"It's Nathan's," I say. "I'm sure he'll realize it and come back to get it."

"Don't be silly, Amy," my dad says.

"You can return it to him on the way home."

8.

Deborah was a great prophetess of Israel, even led Israel for a time (Judges 4:4).

She ordered a man named Barak (relation to me, perhaps?) to take ten thousand men into battle.

Barak told Deborah that he'd only do it if Deborah came with him. Kind of parallels my life, doesn't it? Also reinforces that men need women to back them up.

I want to protest, but the backpack is being shoved into my hands. "Dad, I'm sure he'll come back to get it once he realizes-"

"Amy, don't be a sn.o.b."

My mouth opens wide in shock. My own flesh and blood just called me a sn.o.b. I head out the door and into our condo building entrance. I wave to the doorman, who buzzes me into the elevator banks.

"Amy, come back here," my dad says.

I put my hands on my hips. "I can't believe you, of all people, called me a sn.o.b."

My dad never backs down. I guess being an ex-commando makes you act like a tough guy in your personal as well as army life. Occupational hazard. "Just because he doesn't look like the kids you hang out with doesn't mean you can't be friends with him."

"Dad, he told Kyle Sanderson I joined a dating service because I couldn't get a date for the Valentine's Dance."

Who's the sn.o.b now?

My dad looks concerned; his eyebrows are furrowed as he contemplates this new piece of information. Taking a deep breath, he tells me, "Then confront him about it."

Spoken like a true Israeli.

We're in the elevator, which has just reached our floor. Stepping off, I turn around to face my father and hold out Nathan's backpack (which weighs a ton, I might add). "You give it to him. Then you can ream him out for spreading rumors about your daughter."

"We'll go together."

Ooh, partners in crime. "Fine."

"Fine."

I follow him to Nathan's aunt and uncle's condo right down the hall from us.

My dad knocks obnoxiously loud, like he doesn't know the power of his own strength. That's my dad.

Mr. Keener opens the door, but doesn't invite us in.

"Nathan left his backpack in the cafe,"

my dad says. "Amy wanted to bring it back to him."

Mr. Keener smiles and opens the door.

"You can go give it to him. He's in the guest room. It's the second door on the right."

My dad puts his hand on the small of my back and pushes me forward. I've never been into their condo. Mr. and Mrs.

Keener keep pretty much to themselves. I step inside the foyer. I'm feeling awkward so I'm glad my dad is backing me up.

A cell phone rings; it's my dad's ring tone. The national anthem of Israel. Dorky, but totally him. He's still in the hallway as he answers the call. "Sorry, motek, I have to take this," he says as he waves and leaves me in the Keeners' condo.

Oh, just great.

So now I'm faced with going into Nathan's room. All alone. With absolutely no backup.

Mr. Keener waves me toward Nathan's room. Okay, I'll do it. I'm not afraid of that guy. In fact, after I shove his backpack at him, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind.

Because n.o.body makes a fool out of Amy Nelson-Barak.

I walk with purpose to the second door on the right. The door is closed, so I have to knock. Looking back, I see Mr. Keener hasn't followed. I knock lightly at first with the hand not holding the backpack. No response. I knock a little harder.

After I get no response again, I think he might not be home after all. Which is a good thing, I think. I mean, I want to confront him and everything but I'm not sure I want to do it on his turf. I know the advantage to warfare. On your own turf you have the upper hand.

I check the doork.n.o.b to see if it's locked. Nope. I turn the k.n.o.b and crack the door open so I can peek inside. Nathan's in the room, but he's listening to his iPod while banging a pencil against a binder, so he can't hear me.

Sure enough, as soon as I look at his face I catch two green eyes narrowing at me.

"I can see you," he says.

d.a.m.n. I open the door wide and walk in, watching as he takes the earphones out of his ears. "You left your backpack at Perk Me Up! I brought it as a goodwill gesture."

The guy just shrugs. Thanks would have been nice. Nathan is in dire need of etiquette lessons.

As I drop his backpack, I scan the room.

It's obviously the guest room. Old bookshelves line the side wall and a pullout bed is open and takes up most of the room. Nathan is leaning on the bed, against the back, just staring at me.

"Who's the girl?" I ask, picking up a picture of a cute blonde girl in a bikini with short hair and abs I can't even imagine having. "Your sister?"

Nathan pushes his gla.s.ses up his nose and says, "It's my girlfriend."

Yeah, right. There is absolutely no way this is Nathan's girlfriend. I'd bet my dog on it.

"What's her name?" I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

"Bicky."

Wait. What did he say? "Becky?" I ask.

The other alternative is downright ludicrous.

"Bicky," he says again.

"Bicky?"

"Now you're acting Barbie all over again."

"Was she born with that name or is it a nickname?" I ask, ignoring the insult.

Nathan slides off the bed and s.n.a.t.c.hes the picture out of my hand. "Her name is Bicky. No nickname. Just Bicky."

While he shoves the picture into his half-zippered suitcase, I say, "You accuse me of being so Barbie when you're the one who's deliberately spreading untrue rumors about me just so you could seem cool."

"I did no such thing," he says. "And I definitely don't want to hang around with your friends, if that's what you mean."

"You told Kyle I joined a dating service. For your information ... and not that it's any of your business, but I signed my dad up."

Nathan shrugs, as if falsely tarnis.h.i.+ng my reputation is no biggie.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

He rubs his hand on top of his s.h.a.ggy, light brown hair that resembles the color of maple syrup, and sighs. "I don't hate you, Amy. I just hate people like you."

"Same difference," I say, then storm out of the condo. When I stomp into my own place, my dad is sitting at the dining room table, still on the phone as he shuffles through some papers.

Men. I feel the taste for revenge. I head to the back office, where the computer is, and type in www.pjsn.com. It prompts me to type in my login name and pa.s.sword.

I have fifty-five new people who left messages on my dad's profile and the two women I asked out for my dad responded.

Wow. The human resources worker, Kelly, would love to do coffee, how about next week? and the lawyer, Wendy, says she's looking for an American guy so she's not interested.

Good. I didn't want a lawyer to be my stepmom anyway. Lawyers probably follow all the rules and regs in life. That's not my style. I live inside the gray areas and love it.

I e-mail the human resources lady back and ask her to meet me (aka my dad) at Perk Me Up! tomorrow night at seven.

As I settle into the chair, I hear a crinkling sound from my back pocket. Oh my G.o.d. I can't believe I forgot with all the Nathan-and-my-dad commotion to open Avi's letter. Is my forgetfulness a betrayal of our relations.h.i.+p?

Uncrinkling it, I sink back in my bed and open the envelope.

"Sorry, Avi." He can't hear me, but maybe my conscience can.

As I unfold the letter, my heartbeat starts racing.

Amy, You know I'm not good with letters, but I promised to write so I'm writing. I'm a.s.signed to a new army base, but I can't tell you where it is. Top secret stuff. I can tell you that I shot a new gun today. I know you hate guns, but this one was cool. It shoots around corners. We run every day until I think my legs are going to fall off. Tomorrow my unit will be dropped off in the Negev in the middle of the night to see if we can navigate with nothing but the stars to guide us through the desert. I guess that's it. If I survive desert training I'll write you again. You know I miss you, don't you?

Avi I hold the letter to my chest, concentrating on the last sentence. You know I miss you, don't you? Avi isn't one of those sappy guys; he's guarded because he lost his brother in a bombing and hasn't let himself open up, be vulnerable, and grieve. And I know he doesn't want me to wait around for him while he spends his required three years in the Israeli military, so he doesn't write romantic and mushy letters.

I don't want a romantic and mushy guy, anyway. I want Avi. Oh, I know I'm not going to even see him until the summer when I go back to Israel. I'm not holding my breath that he'll be waiting for me.

Okay, I am. But I'm not admitting it publicly.

Leaning over my nightstand, I open the drawer and pull out Avi's silver chain link bracelet. He gave it to me after we started dating this past summer. I also pull out a picture of him. It was after our last official date, when he gave me Mutt and a sus.h.i.+ dinner. I s.n.a.t.c.hed a photo with my dad's camera right before our last goodbye.

I stare at the picture, him with his mocha eyes and thick head of dark hair to match.

Not to mention his signature half-smile, which can make my heart stop. There is no way the girls in Israel are going to leave him alone; that's a given. It scares me and brings out my worst insecurities. I'm not pretty enough, my b.o.o.bs are too big, I'm not skinny enough.

Ugh, I hate when I pick myself apart and focus on the negatives. Avi likes me for who I am. I know he does.

Kissing his picture would be the dorkiest thing. I'd never do that. But I do clutch his picture to my chest and hug it.

It's still dorky, but less so than actually kissing it.

"Amy, I'm sorry but it was an important call."

Great, now my dad is invading my personal s.p.a.ce and witnessed me hugging a picture. The only thing keeping me from telling him how important knocking on a teenager's door is the revenge date I'm setting him up on. "You know what your problem is?" I tell him.

"What."

"You think work is more important than your personal life."

He takes life way too seriously, but I'm trying to help him loosen up and not be such a stiff. It's the work part that worries me. I swear he's gonna have a heart attack one of these days if he doesn't let up on the work hours.

He walks closer to my bed and I slip the picture of Avi and his letter under my pillow.

"I have responsibilities, Amy. Ones I've committed to long ago."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, sitting up. "I've heard the spiel before. What now, the president of the United States needs you to act as his bodyguard?"

"The Secret Service does that."

"Then what's so important?" I ask him.