How to Ruin Your Boyfriend's Reputation
Page 2

Speaking of love... I look out the window and crane my neck to see if I can spot Avi. No such luck.
Pulling out my makeup case, I tell Jess to hold up the mirror so I can brush on more blush and fix any smudged eyeliner. Then I hold up the mirror for Jess so she can do the same.
"What are you girls doing?" Nathan asks, laughing.
"Fixing ourselves."
"This isn't a beauty pageant, you know. It's the IDF."
"We know," Jess says, dipping the lip gloss applicator in the tube and applying it to her lips. "But who says just because you're in the army you have to look like crap?"
"Seriously, Nathan. Don't you know anything about girls?"
"Apparently not." He turns to Miranda and puts his hands in a praying position. "Don't be like them, okay?"
"I like the way they look," Miranda tells him. "If I was as pretty as them, I'd do the same."
He slaps his palm against his forehead. "I cannot believe what I'm hearing. Miranda, you're fine as-is." Great, Nathan, treat her as if she's a defective as-is item sold on the clearance rack.
"Miranda, I need makeup to look good," I tell her. "You're naturally pretty."
When the bus passes through the checkpoint, my heart starts racing. I wonder when we'll have free time to explore the base so I can search for Avi.
"Don't volunteer for anything," a guy in the seat behind us whispers through the space between the seats. "Pass it down."
I pass the message down.
"I heard if you volunteer, you'll be stuck doing some crappy assignment," Jess says.
Note taken. I will not volunteer. I have a major aversion to crappy assignments.
Chapter 2
Why couldn't God have given humans doggie sweat glands, so we could gracefully pant our sweat away?
Our military leaders, or hamefa'ked'm Hebrew (if you say it fast it sounds like I'm a [insert cuss word]), are named Ronit and Susu. They're both Israeli, both in the military, and their crappy assignment is being in charge of us during boot camp. Susu is in charge of the twenty guys and Ronit is in charge of the twenty girls.
Ronit stands next to the bus driver with her clipboard in hand. "Girls, please find your suitcases and follow me to the bittan. Boys, follow Susu."
We gather our backpacks and file off the bus.
"If they're gonna separate the guys from the girls, can we at least have co-ed showers?" Nathan mumbles.
"You're a pig," I tell him.
"Shh, don't say the word 'pig' so loud, Amy," Nathan whispers in my ear. "Pigs aren't kosher, you know."
"Whatever, Nathan. It's not like I'm gonna eat it. I just said it."
Some of the stronger American guys from our trip are unloading our luggage. I would be searching for my luggage, but I'm too consumed with Avi-scanning and fanning my face with my hand because it's so hot outside.
You'd think God's holy land wouldn't be as hot as hell, but it is.
"Find your luggage fast, ladies!" Ronit's voice booms from behind us. "And follow me!"
"Does she have to be so cheery all the time?" Jess asks. "It's irritating."
"Maybe she loves her job," Miranda chimes in.
I snort, on purpose. "Maybe she's got a personality disorder."
I watch as Nathan joins the other guys following Susu. I have to give major credit to Nathan for always fitting in as "one of the guys." He's never an outcast or out of place, because everyone likes him. It's a trait that totally annoys someone like me--I only feel comfortable with people who know me.
I spot my hot pink luggage that I bought for my trip. One big rolling suitcase and one smaller one. My father wanted me to buy a dorky duffel or some boring luggage that had been "rated highly" (my dad's words, not mine) by Consumer Reports, but I'd axed that suggestion because the only colors available were black and black with dark gray trim. I have one word to describe them: BOR-ING!
I want my luggage to reflect my personality. And I'm anything but boring. I pull out the handles to my girlie suitcases and start wheeling them away from the others.
Ronit holds her hand high in the air and says, "Follow me, girls!" as she heads down the road. "Yala, zooz! Hurry!"
Most of the girls in our group are lugging duffels (okay, I admit the brochure might have recommended them, but it'd be impossible to shove all my stuff in a duffel... and I'd never be able to carry it even if I could). How these girls can fit their necessities into one bag is beyond me.
Miranda, Jessica, and I are lagging behind. I mean, come on... who can hurry when it's so damn hot outside? Jessica has two pink suitcases, just like me, but hers have huge rhinestone/diamond studs spelling out JESSICA across the side. Miranda only has one painfully boring black suitcase. The poor girl is sweating so much there are wet spots in the shape of half-moons under her boobs.
"I think I'm going to die," Miranda says, yanking a portable fan out of her suitcase and hanging it around her neck. "Where are the barracks?"
I would feel sorry for her, except my boobs have the same half-moon wet spots and I don't have a portable fan.
Chapter 3
Everything from your sunglasses to your suitcase should reflect your unique style and attitude.
With my designer sunglasses protecting my eyes, my backpack on my back, and a suitcase rolling in each hand, I'm walking slowly down the road. We're passing offices and off-white buildings made out of cement. I'm painfully aware of the many Israeli soldiers pointing to the three of us and snickering.
Yes, gawk at the American girls struggling with their luggage, I want to say, but don't. We must look totally out of place with our Abercrombie outfits and pimped-out suitcases. Listen, I don't blame them for laughing. I'm definitely out of my element.
I silently pray for Avi to come to my rescue and take my luggage to the barracks for me.
Sweat rolls down my forehead. Where is my boyfriend? And how big is this army base anyway?
"Come on, girls!" Ronit urges from far down the road.
Jess puts on a huge fake smile and waves to our leader. "We're coming!" she says, mimicking Ronit s cheery tone. Jess and I know she's making fun of Ronit, but I doubt anyone else does. "Don't they have a bellman?" She wipes her upper lip that's beading with sweat. "They better have air-conditioned rooms. I just got my lip waxed and don't have anything for the sweat to cling to."
"Ugh, TMI," I tell her.
"It's true, Amy. Do you have another portable fan with you, Miranda?"
She shakes her head.
I look left and right to see if I can catch a glimpse of my boyfriend. "Avi has got to be around here somewhere, right?"
Jess sighs. She misses Tarik, her boyfriend. He's Palestinian, and although he's not thrilled about her spending part of her summer on an Israeli military base, he understands her commitment to her religion because he feels the same about his.
Jessica is Jewish and Tarik is Muslim. You'd think they'd avoid each other like I avoid political debates, but ever since they met they've chosen to ignore the obvious obstacles in their relationship. So who am I to bring it up? I'm a huge fan of living in ignorant bliss.
I'm wondering when this lugging-luggage torture will be over. My suitcases are kicking up dust from the gravel road. Now I'm not only sweaty, but dirty too. I pull harder. Visions of a hot shower with my papaya-scented bath gel and a nice relaxing nap on a featherbed dance in my brain. Suddenly, I hear a snap and watch one of the wheels on my beautiful, designer, hot-pink suitcase roll away from me and bounce to the bottom of a ditch. I suck in a horrified breath.
Chapter 4
It boggles my mind that there's a direct correlation between lack of quality and bling.
At least in the suitcase department.
"Whoa, that sucks," Jess says slowly.
Miranda points to the offending wheel. "Amy, is that yours?"
"Yep." So now I have a broken piece of luggage and I'm still not at our barracks.
I swallow my ego and start walking toward the stupid broken wheel. I eye it in the ditch where it stopped. I'm wearing a pink tank and white jean shorts, and I know if I slip as I go down I'm going to have dirt all over me. Oh, don't go blaming me about wearing white shorts... climbing down into a ditch to retrieve a stupid wheel wasn't exactly one of the warnings in the Sababa brochure.
I take one step down. My foot slides a little, then stops.
I probably should tell you now that I'm wearing these really cute pink mules that aren't really made for traction--but they sure do match my tank perfectly. I'm not about to take out the gym shoes I bought for this trip, because they're at the bottom of one of my suitcases.
I take another step, and wobble because I'm walking on an angle.
"Be careful," Miranda warns.
Before I take another step, a boy in uniform walks up to us. "Mah karah? he asks. He's got short hair and beautiful olive skin without a trace of acne.
"Angleet, b'vakashah," I say. My dad taught me that phrase, which means "English, please."
"You need help?" He has a big Israeli accent along with a big Israeli smile (he's also got a big Israeli rifle slung on his back).
"Desperately," I admit, pointing to the wheel.
He scrambles down the bank as if he does it every day of his life, and picks up the wheel. On his way back up, he grabs my elbow and helps me back to the gravel road. Then attempts to reattach the wheel.
"This suitcase is a piece of sheet," he informs me. "It can't be fixed." He hands me the plastic wheel. I almost laugh at the word "sheet"--American profanity with an Israeli accent comes out really funny. But I'm sweaty and unhappy and cannot physically laugh right now.
I shove the wheel in the front pocket of my suitcase. "Well, thanks for trying."
"Yeah, thanks," Miranda chimes in.
The guy holds out his hand. "I'm Nimrod."
"No, really, what's your name?" I ask.
"Nimrod."
He did not just say Nimrod, did he? With the Israeli accent it sounds like Nim-road.
I put my sunglasses on top of my head, eyeing him suspiciously. "Nimrodi"
"Nimrod. I guess in America this is not a popular name, no?"
Jess is trying not to laugh. Miranda just looks confused. Some names in Israel do not translate to English well. Avi has friends named Doo-Doo, Moron, and O'dead. And my cousin's name is pronounced O'snot.
"I'm Amy. And this is Jessica and Miranda," I say, pointing to each of my friends.
Nimrod heaves the entire suitcase up into his arms. "Your group is at the bittan on the other side of the hill. I'll help you."
"Thanks," I say, noting that my hot pink suitcase looks very out of place in Nimrod's arms and I still have no clue what a bittan is. I roll my smaller suitcase behind him. As we pass other soldiers, they make comments in Hebrew to Nimrod, who laughs and shrugs as he leads us up the hill.
The guy isn't breaking a sweat in this heat, which is not normal. Looking around, I notice that none of the Israeli soldiers milling around are sweating. It makes me wonder if Israelis are born without sweat glands.
"Where are you girls from?" Nimrod asks.
"Chicago," I say.
"I've never been there, but there's a guy in my unit whose girlfriend lives there."