How to Ruin My Teenage Life (13 page)

17

If God made the world in six days (Genesis 2:2),
surely I can make sense of my life in seven.

I shrug Nathan's arm off me. He drops it from my shoulders, but still stands next to me. What, is Nathan waiting for a formal introduction? I'm not prepared to give it, even when I find myself saying, “Avi, this is Nathan. Nathan, this is my … this is Avi.”

It was a big deal to Avi that we didn't label ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, with him in the Israeli army for the next three years. As much as my mind agreed with it, my heart didn't. My ego didn't, either. So I end up telling everyone he's my non-boyfriend. Let them decide what it means.

I look at Avi; his stance is stiff and his jaw is tight. He's always been guarded and tough, and I can feel he's already putting up an invisible thick wall between us, ready to shut me out. And he's been with me less than two minutes.

Which actually pisses me off because he was the one who didn't want to be official boyfriend and girlfriend. I did.

I watch as Avi reaches out to shake Nathan's hand. They're so opposite. Avi is the model type and Nathan is this all-American boy-next-door (who needs a major makeover). They give one hard “shake and release” with their hands.

“I got time off,” Avi says. “For a week. Surprise, surprise.”

A week. I have a week with him. A part of me is giddy beyond belief that I'll have seven days to spend with him and the other half is mad because it's just a tease. Just when I'm ready to move on in my life, he shows up and messes it all back up.

Nathan is still standing beside me, watching me with those stupid emerald eyes. “Catch you later, Amy,” he says, then opens the door to our building.

He doesn't call me Barbie. Why that fact should stick in my brain is beyond me.

“Don't you have a suitcase?” I ask Avi.

“I left my duffle with the security guy inside.” He puts his hands in his jeans pockets and looks away from me. “This was a bad idea, Amy. I thought … well, screw what I thought. I have a friend at Northwestern I can stay with.”

A gust of Chicago wind rushes through the street and chills me to the bone. “You shouldn't have surprised me. I hate surprises. Although I probably should have told you that a long time ago. But now that you know, don't do it again.”

Avi's eyebrow quirks up. “I told your dad,” he says. His voice is smooth and reminds me of dark chocolate milk.

“Great. My dad knows more about my boyf—about you than I do.”

Ah, it all makes sense now, why my dad asked me how I felt about Avi when we had our manicures.

“I thought you'd want me to come.”

“I do, Avi,” I say, but I can tell by the way he's standing stiff he doesn't believe me.

Right now is the awkward stage. I mean, really, we haven't even touched or hugged or really,
really
looked at each other yet. I can tell him how much I've missed him until I'm blue in the face, though I'm already blue in the face because I'm freezing my ass off out here.

“Let's talk up in my condo, okay?”

He nods and follows my lead. The doorman gives Avi his huge, army green duffle as we pass.

In the elevator, Avi looks straight ahead while I stand behind him. I can't believe he's actually here, in America, in Chicago, in my elevator!

I have so many questions running through my head, number one being why is he here? I thought he'd be in training until February.

Glancing at him, I analyze the differences a few months can make. Wow, he looks taller and more muscular than he did last summer—he's obviously been working out. And I swear he's standing straighter and has a determined look to him that I don't remember. Raw confidence.

A commando in the making.

Although there's a caged animal energy radiating from him, as though being in an elevator is making him claustrophobic.

The door to the elevator opens and I lead him to my condo. Mutt greets us with energetic “Args!” and a tail wagging so hard I think it'll fall off if he gets any more excited.

Avi's eyes go wide. “He's
gadol
… big,” he says in Hebrew and English as he leans over to pet Mutt. When Mutt goes for his crotch, Avi says in a calm, deep voice, “
Die
.”

“That's not nice to say to my dog,” I say. Maybe Avi's not the guy I once thought he was. Telling my dog to die is not my idea of being cool.

Avi stands up tall. “
Die
means ‘stop' in Hebrew, Amy. As in ‘that's enough; I don't want your nose in my balls.' That okay with you?”

Oh, no. Things are not going well at all. “Yeah,” I say sheepishly. “That's fine.”

Mutt scratches the door and noses the leash. I wish Mutt would wait, but if you gotta go, you gotta go no matter if you're human or animal.

“I need to take him out or he'll pee on the floor,” I say.

Avi drops his duffle and says, “I'll go with you.”

The problem is we need to talk honestly and openly (at the dog park that's not going to happen). I don't want to alienate Avi more than I already have. “That's okay. It'll just take me a minute. I mean, it'll just take Mutt a minute. Wait here, okay?”

He nods. “Fine.”

I hurry and clip Mutt's leash to his collar. In the elevator, Mutt looks up at me with his puppy dog eyes that are so expressive sometimes I think there's a human soul inside all of that fur. “Avi's here,” I tell him. “And it's awkward. What can I do to make it all better?”

Mutt looks up at me, sticks his tongue out, and pants like a … like a dog who wants to pee.

No answers from this genius dog.

At the dog park, I unclip the leash when we're fenced inside the park. My mind isn't on Mutt. It's on Avi. I contemplate what I'm going to say to him when I get back upstairs.

Do I tell him I kissed Nathan … twice?

It didn't mean anything, and yet I did participate. But how much participating do you have to do before it can really be labeled cheating?

Although how can I cheat on someone who I'm not even officially dating? Does the label of “dating” matter, or is it the feelings in your heart that takes precedence? Oh, man, I am so screwed up. Can my life get any worse?

As if on cue, I hear screaming and a ruckus coming from the other end of the dog park. I turn around and my eyes go wide when I see Mutt humping another dog.

He's usually humping another male dog, showing him who's the boss.

But not this time.

My mutt Mutt is humping Princess. Mr. Obermeyer's prized purebread Princess.

And he is going at it but good. Oh, shit.

When I run over, Mr. Obermeyer is screaming at me, “Get your dog off her!”

I swallow, hard. “What … what do you want me to do?”

In a state of panic, I catch Mitch watching the whole obscene scene and laughing. Most of the other people have their mouths wide open in horror because everyone knows to keep their dog away from Princess and Mr. Obermeyer.

I start yelling words to make Mutt leave Princess alone. “Mutt, come! Treat! No! Get off! Leave her alone!
DIE!”
Yeah, even that last word Avi just taught me didn't work.

Now all I want to do is DIE.

“Do
something
, besides give commands your dog doesn't follow,” Mr. Obermeyer yells. “Hurry!”

I take a step toward the two dogs in a romantic dance. “Get off Princess,” I growl through clenched teeth. “She's not your type.”

Mutt obviously has selective hearing.

When I move closer, I'm getting queasy. I'm not an all-natural-comfortable-in-nature kind of person. Interrupting two dogs in the middle of a very private moment in a very public setting is not my thing and never will be.

Taking a deep breath and bracing myself for humiliation, I step behind Mutt and wrap my arms across his middle. And pull. And pull. But Mutt refuses to let go. Damn.

As soon as I release my grip and give up, Mutt bounds away from Princess as if the entire thing was no big deal.

Mr. Obermeyer runs over to his bitch. “He's tainted her womb.”

“Mr. Obermeyer, she's just a dog.”

The old man blinks in shock and I think he just turned a paler shade of white, if it was possible. “Princess is a state champion in obedience.”

“Obviously,” I mutter.

Mr. Obermeyer regards the crowd, still gathered around. “Someone call the police.”

I can just see me being dragged to jail because my dog humped a prized poodle named Princess. “Mr. Obermeyer … please.”

“Who's going to pay for the veterinary costs for this fiasco? She's in heat and was supposed to be bred with a stud. Now she'll have a litter of mutts instead of purebreds. It's all because you can't control your
animal
.”

The old man looks like he's about to have a coronary and his wrinkles threaten to crease further into his waxy skin. “I'm sorry,” I say, trying to break the tension while thinking the only stud around here is my mutt.

Mr. Obermeyer holds his hands up. “Sorry?” he says. “How is your ‘sorry' going to change the situation?”

It can't. “I don't know.”

“If he's not a purebred, your responsibility is to have him fixed.” Pursing his lips together, Mr. Obermeyer stalks off with Princess strutting beside him.

I don't care if Mutt isn't a purebred. He's mine. And Avi gave him to me, which makes him more valuable than any purebred.

Oh, no! Avi.

I run over to Mutt and clasp the leash on him. I walk back home, but stay a safe distance behind Mr. Obermeyer and his bitch, waiting long enough for them to reach the condo before I venture into the elevator with my stud.

I find Avi sitting on our couch, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together.

“Sorry it took so long,” I say, releasing Mutt and hanging the leash back on the hook. “There was kind of a commotion at the dog park.” I look over at Mutt, who is now stretched out on his back on the floor looking more relaxed and content than I've ever seen him.

What am I going to tell my dad about Princess and Mutt?

“I thought you ditched me,” Avi says, the side of his mouth quirked up. “Amy, the more I'm here, the more I realize this was a bad idea.”

I step around the couch and sit next to him. “Don't say that. There's just a lot going on right now.”

His midnight eyes are so different from Nathan's. They're brooding, just like my dad's. I can tell he's been through a lot just by staring into them. He's worried about something but he's trying not to show it.

“How's the Israeli army?” I ask.

“
Sababa
,” he says.

“What's
sababa
?”

“It means ‘cool, awesome, no problem.'” He talks in that deep, dark voice of his that can melt my own invisible walls I've built around myself.

“You look bigger and more muscular than this summer.” Most American guys I know don't look as serious or manly at eighteen years old.

“Survival training will do that to a guy.”

I nod. Survival training. My survival training consists of running to the racks at Neiman Marcus on the opening day of their winter blowout sale. It doesn't tone my muscles, but it definitely does hone my skills in sniffing out the best deals before anyone else can get to them. Kinda different than being stuck in a desert with a gun as your only companion. Although Neiman Marcus can be considered a battleground on those winter blowout days.

“I missed you,” I say. I omit the fact that I've thought about him every single day since I came back from my trip to Israel. I also fail to mention that I've been having doubts about our relationship … or non-relationship, as it might be. And even though I'm totally blown away with seeing him again, I don't want to be a “friend with benefits.” I want more.