A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) by Charles Sheehan-Miles

Author:Charles Sheehan-Miles [Sheehan-Miles, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Cincinnatus Press
Published: 2015-04-19T05:00:00+00:00

I hate everyone (Alex)

The first thing I notice about the Arab school is that it hasn’t been painted in what looks like many years.

This morning my host student, Lilah, warned me to expect things to be very different. Lilah’s from Los Angeles—her family immigrated to Israel just one year ago. Sometimes things are crazy here, Alex. You’ll see. The first time we drove past the Arab school, I thought it was a jail.

I can see why she thought it. Dylan and I get off the tour bus in front of the school, a huge cinderblock building in the center of Haifa. We’re hand in hand. Dylan’s been oddly quiet this morning—not that he’s much of a conversationalist even under the best of circumstances, but when we get off the bus he mutters, “Separate but equal.”

The cement blocks of the building were once painted blue. But that was a very long time ago. Lettering, painted next to the main entrance in Hebrew and Arabic, must be the name of the school. But nothing looks like it is being taken care of. The contrast to the modern new school Lilah attends is stark.

I squeeze Dylan’s hand a little harder as the students gather in a circle around Mrs. Simpson. A man in his late forties stands next to her. He has dark curly hair and wears an open, collared shirt. He begins to speak, welcoming us to the school.

“I hope by the end of your visit that you’ll have a little more understanding of the situation of Israeli Arabs,” he says. Then he explains how this morning will be organized. We’re going to go in groups of two to speak in each of the classes at the school for the next two hours. Then lunch in the main lunchroom with the Arab students.

Dylan leans close to me and whispers, “Did you know Yossi’s father was killed by a suicide bomber?”

“Oh my God. No, I didn’t know that.”

“Crazy, ain’t it? I can’t imagine the… the rage it must take to do that.”

I shrug. “I can’t either,” I whisper. “It’s awful.”

Then he says, “Change of subject. You look beautiful this mornin’.”

I feel my skin flush, heat rushing from my cheeks down my neck. “Stop that,” I whisper.

“Stop telling the truth? Why would I want to do that?”

Then he slips his arm around my waist.

Mrs. Simpson gives him a sour look. “Dylan….”

“Sorry, Mrs. Simpson,” he says. Then he winks at her.

The crazy thing? She looks away, ignoring the wink. He’s a rogue, a scoundrel. He’s charming and kind and mischievous and … he’s mine.

But only for three more weeks.

The thought strikes me right through the heart. Because… I’m falling in love.

There’s no doubt. Nothing else could explain the rush of heat I feel whenever I see him. The churning butterflies in my stomach… the lightheadedness I feel.

I love Dylan Paris.

I love him.

The words strike me with equal parts exhilaration and dread. Because the one thing I don’t want to do is say goodbye.

Stop, Alex. Stop. You’re here today.

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