How to Ruin Series Part 99

Hel- lo. Don't these people know it's usually the custom to swim with bathing suits, not fully clothed? Of course I'm not jealous they're in the water, laughing and having fun. I am absolutely content to stand here all alone.

"Amy, join us!" Moron calls out to me.

"Yeah," Ofra says. "The water's great."

I'm a land person, and don't particularly love water. "No, thanks," I say.

The first one out of the lake is my cousin. She stands straight in front of the bonfire, warming herself. I try to avoid making eye contact with her-I'm afraid if I do my mouth might get me in trouble.

But maybe I should try, like Ron said, to get to know her. Even though she's been rude, it could be because she doesn't know what a great and fun person I am. I guess I really haven't given her much of a chance.

I'll attempt to soften her up a bit first.

"Osnat, I really enjoyed meeting your friends," I say, thinking of how Ron said her name is spelled.

I swear, I deserve a medal for being so nice. She's probably going to say how much she's glad I opened up the lines of communication. Maybe by the end of the summer she'll be like the sister I never had.

My wayward thoughts are squashed as I watch her turn to me with a toss of her hair and say, "Just remember, Amy. They're my friends, not yours."

And just like that she goes back to being Snotty.

10.

Sometimes we have to prove to others we're strong even when we're not.

I've been in Israel for three weeks now.

Thankfully, I'm able to avoid Snotty and Avi. That means I'm spending a lot of time in the house with Safta, which is just fine with me.

She relayed stories about when she was a kid here in Israel and more about my grandfather, who died before I was born.

She also told me about her parents, who escaped from Germany during World War II. Learning about my extended family has opened my eyes to another world.

As I wake up one morning to Ron's cheery, "Rise and shine, sleepyhead," I just want to go back to sleep.

What time is it anyway?

SD's words are buzzing around in my head like one of those bees that wouldn't leave me alone. I glance at my watch.

"Six thirty!" I say with a groggy voice.

"Please have a very good reason why you're waking me before the sun shines through that window."

Now I know I'm being crabby, but I'm just not a morning person. Never have been, never will be. In my opinion, six thirty isn't even morning; it's still the middle of the night.

"Amy, we've been here a while now and I've left you alone. If you keep sleeping all day, you'll never get over your jet lag. Besides, work needs to be done around here and everyone pitches in. I want you to at least act like you're my daughter and help out."

I sit up and say, "Listen, I'm still tired and cranky. Just come back in, let's say, a couple of hours and we can discuss whatever you want."

"You're always tired and cranky and you need to get out of bed so Yucky can wash the sheets.

There's probably mushrooms growing on them."

"Very funny."

"I've promised to help your uncle sell some of the sheep these next few weeks.

After that, I want to show you my country."

"Yeah, let's do that. In a couple of weeks," I say just so he'll leave me alone.

I lie back down and pull the covers over my head. A little more sleep is what I need, not to work on my summer vacation or go sightsee. I'll have to convince the Sperm Donor just because I happen to be on this stupid trip doesn't mean I have to do anything on it.

I let out a breath when I hear him leave the room. Looking over at Snotty's bed, I see it's empty. She's probably over at Avi's house.

Not that I'm jealous, 'cause I'm not. I just don't know why he's friends with her.

She might be pretty, but she's mean.

Or maybe she's just mean to me. Which makes me hate her even more.

I close my eyes and try to think about good things, like going back home.

Nothing really makes me happy now. Is that what being sixteen is all about? If so, I can understand why teenagers express themselves in so many different ways. It's not as if we're stupid, we're just trying to figure out where we fit.

Me? I don't seem to fit anywhere these days. I'm like a square peg trying to fit into a round society. Now that I think about it more, I'm not square or round. More like an octagon. And I don't fit anywhere now.

I thought I did, but my nice, super-dictated world has complicated all that. I wonder how Mitch is doing without me. Does he miss me?

I fall asleep again and when I wake up my stomach growls so I head to the kitchen. Everyone is gone and the house is quiet.

I glance over at Safta, who's sitting in a velour chair reading some book.

"Boker tov, Amy," she says in this dignified voice as I reach into the refrigerator and scan the contents.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know what that means."

I finally learned shalom means three things: h.e.l.lo, goodbye, and peace. My Hebrew knowledge is pathetic, at best.

"Boker tov means 'good morning.'"

"Oh. Boker tov to you, too."

Gram seems a little quiet this morning.

I'll sit with her and chitchat while I eat breakfast, maybe that'll cheer her up. In fact, I'll prepare something special for her.

As I arrange a plate of fruit, I take my time and cut little pieces of banana and melon in these shapes Jessica's mom taught me. Jessica calls things people rave about "crowd pleasers." Little cut-up fruit in the shape of a clown face is a definite crowd pleaser.

I set the plate down in front of her on a side table. "Todah," she says.

"You're welcome." I look down at my masterpiece. "It's a clown face."

"Very creative. Do you like cooking?"

"Not really. Eating I like. We go to restaurants mostly back home."

"Your father doesn't cook for you?"

I know what you're thinking. This is a great opportunity for me to tell Safta how it really is back home. But as I look at the old lady's glowing blue eyes I feel protective of her. As much as I'd like my gram to be ashamed of the Sperm Donor, I just can't make myself upset her.

"Well, every Friday he makes this great lasagna," I say, my mouth moving without my brain thinking too long about it. "And his chicken picatta is out of this world. He even bakes blueberry m.u.f.fins for me on Sunday mornings."

The ol' lady has this little twinkle in her eye that I can't decipher.

"Chicken picatta, huh?" she says.

Oh, s.h.i.t. She's onto me. I probably should have left out the m.u.f.fins or made it BBQ chicken instead of picatta. But I'm stickin' with my story for better or worse.

"Yep. I'm sure if you ask him he'll make you some," I say as I look down at my feet and notice my toenail polish is chipped.

I hear the door open and Doda Yucky comes floating into the house. "Amy, Safta is starting her chemotherapy treatment in an hour," she says. We both help my grandma up. "Everyone is with the sheeps, " Doda Yucky says. "They're waiting for you."

I am bowled over by a terrible sense of worry about Safta. Chemotherapy? Oh no .

. . that means cancer.

"Can I go with you?" I ask. "I can read to you if you'd like."

Safta pats the back of my hand lightly.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Go with the young people and enjoy your stay here.

You don't want to be hanging around a hospital all day. Okay?"

"Okay."

I want to go with her, to make sure the doctors know she's my Safta and she needs the best care possible. Do they know how important she is?

Doda Yucky shuffles Safta out the door and I'm alone again. I continue to avoid the sheeps today. Ron wants me to help, but what if he gives me a job I can't do?

I don't want to give him a reason to resent I'm his kid. And if the opposite happened, if he bragged to everyone how great I am, I don't want the truth to come out that I'm less than perfect.

Deep down, even though we have major issues to overcome, I want him to be proud of me. I know it's a dumb thought, but it's true.

I spend the next hour rearranging my side of the closet. My eye catches on the skimpy clothes on the other side. Snotty sure does like showing a lot of skin.

I walk outside and wouldn't you know the yelping pup is waiting for me at the door. Great, the only one who likes me here is a dog.

"Arg!"

"Dumb mutt," I mutter.

"Arg!"

I ignore the mop following me at my feet. My spirits lift a bit when in front of the house, right under a nice big tree, is a hammock. I maneuver myself into it and put my hands behind my head as a pillow.

"Arg!"

I look in between the holes in the hammock and notice the mutt under me.

"What do you want?" I ask it.

"Arg! Arg! Arg!"

I groan. Dogs aren't my thing. They're really not. But just to shut it up I get off the hammock and pick up the nuisance. I get back on the hammock with the thing in my arms. It has to lay on me because he'd fall through the holes otherwise. He finds a comfortable spot on my stomach and sighs contentedly.

Against my better judgment, I find myself petting him. Even though he probably has fleas and other insects living off his body, he's soft and fluffy, like a down comforter.

"I-me!"

I look down and spot a cherubic face smiling up at me. It's my little cousin, Matan. He can't say my name right, he just calls me I-me. I think it's cute so I don't correct him.

Mutt jumps off my lap and I sit up. I see Matan has collected flowers in his chubby hands, and they're for me. My frozen heart starts to melt as he hands me the yellow, purple, and white wildflowers (or weeds, however you choose to look at them).

His smile widens when I take the flowers from him, smell them, and say, "Mmmm."

It's amazing how little effort it takes to make a child happy. Unfortunately, they all grow up and become cynical sixteen-year- olds like me.

Picking Matan up, I set him on the hammock next to me. He laughs as I swing the thing back and forth. I take one of the flowers and push the stem into his hair, the flower sticking out of his long, curly locks.

"Pretty," I say, laughing.

I know he doesn't understand a word of English, but he laughs back, then takes a flower out of my hand and puts it into my hair. We do this for about ten minutes, until we're both full of colorful wildflowers sticking out of our hair.

He speaks Hebrew to me and I speak English back to him. It doesn't matter that we're both oblivious to what the other is saying, we're having fun. And fun is universal in any language.

A lady who I haven't seen before comes up to us and says something to Matan. He jumps off the hammock and runs to her.

"Yucky left him with me, but he wanted to come see you. I hope it was okay," she says.

"It's fine," I say. "What does the name Matan mean in Hebrew?"