How to Ruin Your Boyfriend's Reputation
Page 21

It's rustic and dusty and total farmland, but it feels like home.
Poor Avi had to listen to me cry and sniff and blow my nose every two seconds all the way from the hospital, although he didn't seem to mind. He held my hand the entire time (except when I was being gross and blowing my nose, and when we stopped for dinner). Seriously, just having him here with me gives me strength.
Avi lives a few houses down on the opposite side of the very narrow gravel road, but he doesn't just drop me off.
My cousin Osnat (pronounced O'snot -- and yes, it's a very popular Israeli name) is the first person to see me. She's sitting on the sofa, watching television with my aunt (Doda Yucky), my Uncle Chaim (I call him Uncle Chime, because I can't do that back-throat-noise Hebrew-pronunciation thing), and my little toddler cousin Matan (who is not naked, for once).
They all wrap me and Avi in big hugs. Even Osnat, and she's not the most warm and fuzzy person I've ever met--although we definitely get along way better now than we used to. I can tell she's been crying, too, because her eyes are all bloodshot.
"Amy, what happened to your chin? And your arms?" Doda Yucky looks at Avi accusingly.
He holds his hands up. "Don't look at me. She managed to do that all on her own."
"You beat yourself up?" Osnat says. "In the morning you'll have to tell us how you managed to do that."
I know she's just joking. Normally I'd have some witty-comeback, but I'm too upset and exhausted to think of one.
"Are you hungry?" Doda Yucky asks. "Let me fix you both something. You've had such a long day."
"I took her to Marinado by Kibbutz Ein Gev," Avi tells them. "I couldn't resist stopping there for one of their burgers."
I sit with my aunt, uncle, and cousins in their small living room as we catch up on the past year. Even though we talk every week, it's not the same as actually spending time with them. Uncle Chime laughs when I tell him about my experiences on the army base, and even tells me a funny story about digging ditches when he was in the army. I guess digging ditches is a rite of passage for Israeli soldiers. Doda Yucky shares her own stories about being an instructor on one of the bases. Matan climbs on her lap and dangles off her knees while she's talking. Doda Yucky has always been sweet to me. She never stops smiling, and she loves everyone she comes in contact with.
Then the conversation turns to Sofia's health. Doda Yucky tells me how she found her unconscious. The somber mood returns as they tell me to pray for the best.
A yawn escapes my mouth.
"You need sleep," Uncle Chime tells me. "You look exhausted."
"I am." Although I don't know if I can sleep. Too many thoughts are running through my head, but I'm so overtired, hopefully my eyes will close as soon as I hit my pillow.
After Avi helps bring my suitcases in from the car, Osnat drags her pillow and blanket out of her room. "Amy can sleep in my room. I'll sleep in Sofia's room tonight," she says.
I peer inside Osnat's room. Just like I remembered, it has two twin beds situated across the room from each other. "I don't want to kick you out of your room. You've got two beds. We can share."
"It's not a problem. Really. I'd rather sleep in Sofia's bed. I'd feel closer to her somehow. Besides, you snore."
I give a huff. "That's so not true."
"You're asleep, so how would you know? Seriously, last summer I needed earplugs when you slept in my room."
I look up at Avi. "I do not snore."
"I believe you," he says. "But right now I need to go across the street to let my parents know I'm here."
My heart starts racing in panic. I grab a fistful of his shirt and hold on tight. "But you're coming back tonight, right?"
"If you want me to."
"I don't want you to leave for a second."
"You need to get ready for bed, Amy. I can't exactly be with you then, unless you want your uncle and dad to threaten to give me a second circumcision." He kisses me lightly on the lips. "Take a hot shower and enjoy it. You haven't had one in a while. I'll be back after I say hi to my parents and wash up. I promise."
Famous last words.
I stand in the foyer pouting like my dog Mutt when he watches me put my jacket on. If I was a real dog, I would whimper just like Mutt, too. But I'm not a dog and I have to suck it up and stay positive.
I can do positive.
Taking a deep breath, I grab my PJs and head for the one bathroom. There's still an open keyhole/peephole in the door for anyone inclined to look at someone peeing or taking a dump. I undress quickly, unwrap the gauze from my arms, and turn the water on, hoping none of my Israeli family members open the door without knocking.
"When the water turns hot, it's like the Almighty Lord has sent a miracle down to earth just for me. Being super gentle while soaping the still-raw cuts on my arms, I lather up, scrub, rinse, and repeat a few times before letting the water just run down my body. Ahh, this feels great.
I hear the door open.
"Helloooo, I'm in here," I say loudly, then stick my head out of the curtain to see who's barged in on me.
It's little Matan, with his corkscrew hair and Power Ranger pajamas on. "Shalom, Ami," he says, smiling wide. He says my name Ah-mee instead of Amy.
"Shalom. Do you mind? I'm in the shower here." I know the kid doesn't understand English, but you'd think he'd get the hint. No such luck.
My little toddler cousin pulls down his pants and starts peeing in the toilet next to the shower. Does he not care that I'm in here, totally naked behind the curtain? To top it off, he starts scratching his butt while he's peeing. Eww.
Please don't tell me every guy does this.
When he's done, he gives his thingie a little shake, pulls up his pants, and waves to me with a big happy-go-lucky smile on his face. I'll never get over the fact that guys don't wipe their wee-wees after they pee. It just seems so unsanitary. It also seems unsanitary that Matan is going out of the bathroom without washing his hands. Totally not acceptable.
"Yo, Matan!" I call after him.
"Kent" Yes?
I'm still naked, in the shower with shampoo in my hair and soap running down my body, with my head the only thing peeking out from the curtain. "Wash your hands, little buddy."
"Lo meda'bear Angleet, Ami." He doesn't understand English, and he's waiting for me to translate what I just said.
How the hell am I supposed to know what wash your germy hands is in Hebrew? I let go of the curtain and rub my hands together using the universal hand-washing motion, then point to the sink. "Wash your hands," I tell him again, hoping he understands this time.
Matan points to my now exposed boobs and says, "Tzee-tzeem g'doleem!"
I know that gadol means "big," and I can just imagine that tzee-tzeem means "boobs" by the direction of his pointing finger. Would he think it polite of me to point to his wee-wee and announce "Pee-pee katan!" --Hebrew for his ding-a-ling is tiny?
I quickly pull the shower curtain back over my body. Keeping one hand on the curtain, I point to the sink again. "Wash, Matan, or I swear I'm telling your mom you don't clean your hands after peeing." Yes, I'm aware he doesn't know what my threat means, but it makes me feel better saying it.
Doda Yucky knocks on the door. "Amy, is Matan in there?"
"Yep. He sure is."
She opens the door, apologizes, and helps him quickly wash his hands before shooing him out. "I'm so sorry. I'll make sure he doesn't do that again."
Matan points in the general direction of my boob area hiding behind the curtain and says to his mother, "L'Amy yesh tzee-tzeem g'dokemf
DodaYndsy looks embarrassed as she says, "He doesn't mean anything by that."
"Uh huh." I'll just file that into the folder of embarrassing/humiliating moments in my life.
After my shower, I change into PJs and feel like a new person. At least a new person with scratched-up arms and a chin with racer marks on it.
"Is Avi back yet?" I ask Osnat. She's sitting on our safia's bed, looking at a photo album.
"No." Osnat, who's my age and will be in the Israeli army in a year, looks vulnerable and lost. "Safta always looked forward to your Saturday calls, you know."
"She never seemed tired of hearing about what was going on in my life." There aren't many people who like to hear the sound of your voice and are happy to listen to you, no matter what you're saying. Sofia is one of those people. Some kids hate talking to their elderly grandparents on the phone, but I can't wait until I wake up Saturday morning and can call my family in Israel.
"Here's a picture of us when we went to the Kotel, the Western Wall," she tells me. I move closer and look at the picture. It shows my aunt, my uncle, Sofia, and my two cousins pushing tiny pieces of paper into the cracks in the Wall.
I've read about the Wall, the only standing structure from the ancient Jewish Temple. It's also called the Wailing Wall because Jews mourn the destruction of the Temple and grieve while praying there. "What are you doing in this picture?" I ask her.
"Putting prayers into the cracks. It's customary to do that. People think God is closer there than other places, and will answer your prayers."
Oh, great. Why hadn't I known this sooner? I definitely think a trip to the Western Wall is in order. The only problem is that it's in Jerusalem, a few hours from the mosbav. In another picture, Matan is kissing the Wall while standing next to Sofia.
I sit on the edge of Sofia's bed, thinking how lucky Osnat is. Our grandma has lived with her since she was born. I know some teens would hate sharing their home with their grandparent, but I would have loved it. Especially my grandma, because she's sweet and kind and has definitely given me good advice when I asked for it (unlike my mother, who's a master at giving me unsolicited opinions, suggestions, and critiques).
"What is Safia really like?"
Osnat looks up and smiles. "Seriously, with Safia what you see is it. When I was younger we used to go out in the middle of the night when we both couldn't sleep and we'd sit on the edge of the mountain and talk... about nothing and everything."
"That's so cool."
"It was. And there's this area about a mile away where eagles fly over a ravine. We'd sit there for hours, talking about Israel and freedom and history." She wipes tears away. "I guess you kinda missed out by living in America. I always think you have it so easy, and I guess I get jealous of your material stuff." Osnat closes the album and sits up. "What's with you and Avi?"
"What's with you and O'dead?" I ask her, quickly changing the subject to her boyfriend. Israelis are not overly gushy or lovey-dovey types, and I'm afraid she'll make fun of me if I open up and really tell her how I feel about Avi. "Are you guys still dating?"
"O'dead and I broke up. He's dating Ofra."
"Wait. Isn't Ofra dating Doo-Doo?"
"She dumped him."
Wait a minute. "Your best friend stole your boyfriend?"
"Kind of. But I mover it."
I guess when Jessica started dating Mitch, Mitch and I were still technically a couple even though I'd already met Avi.
Teenage dating is definitely complicated. Before Avi and I met, my friends and I used to joke that marrying your high school sweetheart was an urban myth. No teen relationships I know of have lasted.