How to Ruin Series Part 169

With my hands on either side of my shoulders and the tips of my toes on the pavement, I straighten my arms.

I look up, and stare straight into Avi's eyes. He's squatting right in front of me.

For him, pushups are no big deal. For me, on the other hand ...

"Stop thinking and just do them," he says softly so no one else can hear. "Pretend your body is a piece of wood and your elbows are hinges." He gets in position and demonstrates it for me.

I bend my elbows a tiny bit and straighten them.

"That's not a pushup, Amy."

"It is for me."

"Go down farther." He demonstrates it again, reminding me of when I did them in front of Sergeant B-S my first night here.

I look into his eyes, which have determination written all over them.

"I wouldn't ask you to do something you couldn't do," he says. "Push yourself."

The thing is, I want to make Avi proud of me. And if he says I can do it, maybe I can.

I bend my elbows again, all the while trying to keep the rest of my body straight.

My b.o.o.bs are almost touching the ground when I straighten.

"That's it. Nineteen more," Avi says, doing them right along with me.

I do two more, my arms shaking and struggling each time. Going down isn't the problem; it's the pushing up part.

"Seventeen more."

I take a deep breath. My arms are tired.

I'm not mad at Avi for punishing me. It's my own fault for being so vain. I look up, wishing everyone wasn't watching.

"I have faith in you," Avi says softly.

"No matter what, I always have."

Now I want to cry, because he probably has more faith in me than I have in myself.

As I lower my body again, Avi's determination makes me do more pushups.

Every time I think I'm going to collapse, I look up into his beautiful milk-chocolate eyes for strength.

Sweat is dripping off my forehead. My shirt is wet from sweat and I probably smell, but I finish my twenty pushups and stand up.

"You'd be a great soldier if you didn't complain all the time."

I shrug. "And you'd be a great boyfriend if you didn't kiss other girls."

17.

Running should be saved for times when you're being chased.

After we sit through another cla.s.sroom session on rifle safety and have dinner, we're informed that we'll be going on a night run.

"Like a Taco Bell run?" I ask. "Fun."

Although I've never seen a Taco Bell in Israel, I've seen a few McDonald's. I had a McKebab at one last summer, with cheeps on the side (which is really just French fries).

Ronit and Liron look at each other in confusion. "What's a Taco Bell run?"

"You know ... a food run."

Liron laughs. "We weren't talking about a food run. We mean night run literally."

"Where you run at night," Ronit adds, just in case I don't get it.

"Oh."

If I'm to be completely honest, the last thing I want to do at nine p.m. is run. In fact, the last thing I ever want to do is run, period. I'd hate running if it was at nine at night or nine in the morning (or three in the afternoon, for that matter).

At nine on the dot, just when the sun has almost left us, we congregate in a big, open area right outside the base. I spot Nathan and pull him aside. "Nathan, don't you think Miranda's awesome?"

"Uh, yeah. Why?"

"I was just wondering if you, you know, would ever consider her as more than a friend.

You know, like girlfriend material."

"No. She's too serious. And too nice."

"Nice is a good trait, Nathan."

"Yeah, in a friend. I like Miranda as a friend. Get it? I need a raunchy and inappropriate girl ... you know, someone I consider a challenge."

"I got it." Tori's the one.

Nathan shrugs. "Truth is, I know Miranda's had a crush on me for months. I tried thinking of her that way, but it didn't work. The yin/yang thing just isn't there. I feel bad about it, if that makes you feel any better."

I sigh, knowing that pairing my two friends isn't going to work. "Well, as long as you feel bad about it, I guess you're off the hook."

"What are you wearing on your head?"

Sergeant B-S asks me, cutting my conversation with Nathan short.

I reach up and feel the hot-pink headlight my mom bought me for the trip. At the time I thought it was lame to wear a flashlight strapped to your forehead, but when I got ready for the night run that has nothing to do with food or Taco Bell, I put it on. "A flashlight."

"Who told you to put it on?"

"n.o.body. I thought of it all by myself.

It'll help me see where I'm going."

Sergeant B-S takes the flashlight off my head. "A flashlight in a real military operation would give away your location."

"This isn't a real military operation," I say, stating the obvious.

"We're simulating one. No flashlights.

Use the moon as your light." He hands my flashlight back to me and faces the rest of the unit. "In a real operation, troops move at night. Since there are only a few hours of darkness, you have to move fast so the enemy is taken by surprise."

Four guys are chosen to carry a stretcher while they run, with four more guys as backup stretcher-holders. Nathan is one of the backups. Two other guys are a.s.signed to carry what they call "jerry cans," which are water-filled jugs, on their backs.

The rest of us wait to be led on our run.

I don't know what to do with my headlight, so I strap it on my head and turn the light off. Yes, I'm aware it looks ridiculous, but at least it covers up George.

Sergeant B-S points to the front of the line. "Stretcher people, move up front.

People with jerry cans are next. Then slow runners and then good runners."

"Why are good runners last?" I question.

"So they can help the runners who aren't so fast," Liron informs us. "We're only as good as our slowest runner."

"I need a volunteer," Sergeant B-S barks out.

Yeah, right. As if. Jess and I look at each other knowingly. We've been warned not to volunteer. Especially when we don't even know what we're volunteering for.

Plus, I'm dreading running at night as it is ... the last thing I need to do is carry something as well. I have my big b.o.o.bs to carry, which is more than enough for one person to handle.

Since n.o.body raises their hand, Sergeant B-S walks among us to pick the unlucky person for the mysterious task. I learned a long time ago that you lessen your chances of being picked if you don't make eye contact with the picker. I concentrate on my fingernails instead, as if I find my cuticles the most interesting things I've ever laid my eyes on.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Sergeant B-S moving in front of me. I hold my breath and pray he pa.s.ses me.

He does. Phew.

But he stops right in front of Jessica.

"You," he says.

Oh, no. Poor Jess.

"Me?" Jess chokes out.

"Move to the front of the line. You'll be carried on the stretcher, as the pretend- wounded."

Jess's eyes light up. "So I don't have to run?"

"No."

"Cool!" Jess gives me an excited look before taking her place on the stretcher. I watch in envy as the stretcher-carriers lift her up.

The line starts moving, and already I feel like I'm in the Chicago Marathon. I sure hope we won't be running 26.2 miles.

We start out at a slow jog on the paved road, but then the front of the line gains momentum and speed just as we're led up some rocky areas.

Jess is lying down, enjoying a ride on a stretcher, while I'm running with a dorky unlit headlight strapped to my head. Avi is bringing up the rear with Nimrod. They're both in full military gear again, with vests, rifles, and everything, which is probably heavier than the jerry cans.

The area gets steeper and steeper.

We're running up a mountain. I wonder if, when I get to the top, I can just roll down.

Soon I'm struggling to keep up. Miranda has fallen behind, and I hear Nimrod urging her on.

I try to drink from my canteen, but it all spills down my neck and the front of my shirt because it's not easy to drink and run at the same time.

I'm not a fast runner, and when the good runners catch up to me, I get frustrated.

Especially because I see Jess in the distance, lying on the stretcher like Cleopatra being carried by her manservants.

When I'm sweating and panting and think I can't run anymore, Avi's words from earlier echo in my head. Push yourself. I have faith in you.

I run faster, the mantra helping me along.

I feel victorious when I catch up to the guys running with the jerry cans.

Avi's right. I can do this. My arms are moving fast, my legs are moving fast, and I'm ignoring the fact that my canteen is banging against my side with every stride.

I think of all the soldiers who have it worse, like everyone in the Sayeret Tzefa unit. They have to carry a big rifle, wear a heavy vest, and still run.

I'm a machine now, running fast without thinking about how much I hate it or want to go to sleep. I'm not thinking about Avi, or George the Zit, or Nathan, or Tori, or Miranda, or even Jess aka Cleopatra ... I am one with the earth.

Except ...

My toe hits what must be a rock, stopping my momentum. I'm gonna fall. I try to get my hands out to break the impact, but my reflexes aren't as fast as my feet.

I slam to the ground. I'm not lucky enough to fall on pavement or gra.s.s-just gravel and stones. My hips get slammed against sharp rocks. Pebbles slice into my forearms as I slide over them. As my chin sc.r.a.pes the ground like a plane landing on a runway, my headlight slides off George and crashes onto the bridge of my nose, blocking my view.

d.a.m.n. That. Hurt.