How to Ruin Series Part 5

"Let's just say Syria is about ten miles that way," he says, pointing. "For a Jewish girl, you don't know much about the Jewish homeland."

Yeah, but I'm not Jewish. I don't tell him this, he'll probably go off on me about it. I'm glad when he turns away and walks back into the sheep enclosure.

"Arg!"

I jump at the sound at my feet. A mangy, dirt-encrusted puppy, who I think at one time was white, is furiously wagging his tail at me. Once we make eye contact, he rolls onto his back and puts his paws in the air.

"I'm sorry," I say to the mutt. "I'm not a dog person."

Go find some other sucker to rub their hands on that filthy, flea-ridden tummy of yours. I'm not a cat person, either. In fact, I'm not an animal person at all. And being surrounded by a farmload of the things is making me itch.

I start to walk away. Unfortunately, the mutt follows.

"Arg!" the thing says again.

I keep walking.

"Don't you know dogs say 'ruff,' not 'arg'?" I ask it. "What are you trying to be, a pirate?"

The dog answers with another, "Arg!"

this time screechier than the last as if he's trying to annoy me on purpose. Hey, the way my day has been going, I wouldn't doubt it.

"Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!"

You'd think the mutt was joking with me, wouldn't you? But as I turn to the rough, deep barking sound I realize pretty quickly the mutt has friends. A lot of them.

In the first place, I was wrong about it being dirt-encrusted. These five dogs are caked in mud and definitely dirtier than the mutt-puppy. Also (in the first place) they're very, very big.

And they're running right toward me barking up a storm as if I'd kidnapped their child.

Panic isn't the word to describe how I feel right now. As my life flashes before my eyes, I briefly weigh my two options. I could either head toward the wire and run into the minefields or jump into the sheep pens.

I don't have time to waste so I just run as fast as my sweaty, tired, sorry legs can carry me. As I move, I'm not even conscious about which option I've chosen.

I run faster and faster, barely aware of the high-pitched "arg" sound at my feet and the hefty "ruffs" not far behind. Just a little farther, I say to my clouded mind. I think I'm screaming and yelling obscenities, but I can't be sure because I'm too busy worrying about what my legs are doing and can't be bothered with censoring my mouth, too.

It seems like a long time, but when I reach the enclosure my pace doesn't falter.

Mr. Haraldson, my gym teacher, would be proud of my leap. I was nowhere near getting the presidential award in physical fitness last year, but I'm probably making a world-record jump right now.

I don't really aim where I'm going; it's all just a blur. And when I land, I close my eyes. I hope I don't squash a sheep during my crash landing.

But instead of colliding with a sheep, something hard and solid breaks my fall.

I'm afraid to open my eyes, so I can't see, but my sense of smell is heightened. I know this because the scent of boy sweat surrounds me.

It's not grody body odor, just this musky guy aroma that makes me inhale deeper.

Okay, now I realize what I'm doing, where I am, and who I'm smelling-like he's a d.a.m.n rose petal-but it's really just a boy. I open my eyes wide.

Don't ask me how I came to be straddling no-s.h.i.+rt-cute-jerk. His hands are on me. To be specific, one of them is on the small of my back and the other one is on my hip. And I get caught staring into mocha eyes that could definitely put someone in a trance.

I'm about to push away from him, but I hear the sound of someone walking along the gra.s.s beside the sheep's pen. I look over at who it is. I'm acutely aware the position I'm currently in looks really promiscuous and will probably get me in a ton of trouble.

When I finally lean away from him, it opens my view to whoever has witnessed my debacle. I realize it's the last person I wanted to see.

O'snot.

And when I see her lips in a tight line and her hands accusingly on her hips I come to the only conclusion one can muster.

No-s.h.i.+rt-cute-jerk is my cousin O'snot's boyfriend.

O's.h.i.+t.

7.

I'll never get used to being humiliated.

"I swear, Ron, it's not my fault."

"Those words come off your lips pretty often, Amy," he says to me. "Now explain again why you ran away before you even me t Safta and then, within a matter of fifteen minutes, end up on top of a boy. In the middle of a pile of hay, no less."

I dig some dirt out of my fingernail while the Sperm Donor has this very serious talk.

"Actually, to be technical, I fell on him,"

I say. I finger a piece of my hair that's been caked with mud. "I really don't recall exactly how I ended up straddling him."

We're sitting on the front lawn of my grandmother/uncle/aunt/cousin's house.

Ron does that thing with his hand through his hair again.

And then unending silence. Should I explain what happened? I'm not afraid to admit I want to be in control of my life.

Don't ask me why, I just blurt out, "I felt like everybody was watching and a.n.a.lyzing me and it sucked so I ran."

"Did you kiss Avi?"

"Who's Avi?"

SD gives me the you've-got-to-be- kidding look.

I stand up.

"No! Why? Did Cousin Snotty say I did?

Listen, there were vicious dogs chasing me -"

He looks down at the mutt who hasn't figured out my feet aren't his personal playground.

"Like that one?" he says.

I shake the thing off my leg. "No. Yes.

Well, they looked like him, but were a lot bigger. And so I ran and sort of fell on Snotty's boyfriend."

"Her name is O. S. N. A. T. Osnat. It's a beautiful name."

"Not where I come from."

"Just . . . just give her a chance. Don't judge her before you get to know her."

I want to argue, to tell SD Snotty hated me before she knew me, but I'm keeping silent. Right now I'll attribute my lack of ability to argue to sleep deprivation because usually I'm ready for a good knockdown-dragout verbal war.

"Fine," I say.

"And stop calling her Snotty."

Geez, you give the guy a little and like a vacuum cleaner he wants to take up all the dirt, not just the little pieces of lint.

"Fine. Where's Safta? I'm ready to meet her now if there aren't any spectators around."

"She's resting in her room. No spectators, I promise."

This would be about the time I have the urge to hug the SD. But it would feel weird because I haven't hugged him in years.

SD stands and I follow him into the house. Once we enter, the smell of fresh baked bread wafting from the kitchen makes my stomach growl.

"Come eat," Doda Yucky says. She's lost a bit of her cheery disposition. Is it because she thinks I kissed O.S.N.A.T's boyfriend?

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry." I'm too nervous to eat. Ron leads me to a small room at the back of the house and I peek in the door.

Safta is lying down on her bed. When she sees me enter, she sits up.

I swallow hard and close the door behind me. The room is small, the floor is made of tile, and the walls are stark white cement. The drapes are closed, so it's a little dark. But that's the way I want it now, because I don't want the world peeking into my conversation.

"Hi, Safta. I'm Amy," I say. My voice cracks while I'm saying it and I feel a little foolish.

She nods and pats the side of the bed.

"Come over here, Amy. Sit with me."

I take small, slow steps to her bed.

When I reach it, I carefully sit on the edge.

To my surprise, she takes my hand in hers.

"Are you really sick?" I ask tentatively.

"I'll be fine. You know doctors, they like to make a big fuss about nothing."

"Ron thinks you're real sick," I say, and then want to suck those words right back in my mouth.

She shakes her head. "Your father needs to have his cup examined. That means 'head' in Yiddish. Imagine, keeping my granddaughter from me for sixteen years."

"Yeah," I say, urging her on. I like Safta immediately.

"What's your mother like?" she asks, changing the subject.

How do I describe Mom?

"She's pretty, for a mom," I say. "And she has a job that pays her a lot of money.

She doesn't have a lot of friends, though, 'cause she's always working."

I watch as Safta takes this all in.

"And tell me about yourself."

"I do okay in school, I guess. My best friend's name is Jessica . . . she's Jewish,"

I add to make some connection to Safta on the religious end. "And I like to play tennis, ski, and shop."

She nods her head. "I'm going to like getting to know you, Amy. You sound like a very energetic, interesting girl."

"I should add I don't have the most positive att.i.tude," I say while biting my bottom lip nervously. I mean, the lady'll figure it out sooner or later so I might as well give it to her straight up front.

"Maybe your trip here will change that."

I highly doubt it but I say, "I guess so,"

just to make her think this trip might miraculously change my outlook on life.

"I was like you when I was your age,"

she says.

"Why? Were you illegitimate, too?"

"No," she says, still holding my hand.