Chapter 5

There are some things God never intended girls to do -- squatting when peeing is definitely high up on that list.

Lunch was in a hot and sweaty coed building. "Well, to be specific, I was hot and sweaty... the room was just hot. I caught a glimpse of Nathan, who seemed to be entertaining his table because everyone was focused on him. The meal consisted of overcooked chicken (considering I only eat white meat and came to lunch late, I was stuck eating legs and thighs), yellow rice, and a pea/mushroom concoction. Drinks were a choice of room-temperature tap water or room-temperature tap water (you guessed it, there wasn't a choice at all). And I'm not sure Israelis know what ice is, because every time I asked for it they got a confused look on their face.

Oh, yeah. They had hot coffee and hot tea as drink alternatives, but I don't drink those and anyway who in their right mind would want a hot beverage when it feels like it's a hundred degrees outside? There wasn't even a Coke machine.

At the end of our hurried meal, we all place our garbage in cans and the plates/silverware in plastic bins, and are instructed to line up outside in neat rows.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around, hoping against all hope that it's Avi, but it's not. "Oh, it's you.

Nathan puts his arm around me. "Oh, come on. Admit that you missed me."

"We've only been apart for a little more than an hour, Nathan.

Give me time to miss you." I shrug his arm off me. "I see you've made friends already."

"The guys in my unit are cool, but I'd rather bunk with you girls,"

he says as we line up with the others like good little soldiers. For over twenty minutes we're taught how to get in formation. Five rows of eight people each, an arm's length apart. "At ease" is hands behind your back with your legs spread shoulder width apart. "Attention" is saluting with your feet together.

Ronit is standing in front of the entire group, with Sergeant

"Don't-Call-Me-Ben"-Shimon next to her.

"Let's just say I'm glad you're on the other side of the base," I whisper to Nathan as the sergeant starts talking.

"I can always sneak out with the guys and peek in on you girls while you're changing," he whispers back.

I wish I could talk louder but everyone is quiet, listening to the sergeant. I'll have to get briefed later on what he's saying, because I'm not listening. Instead, I whisper, "Nathan, you're a perv."

"We can call it Operation Boobie Watch," he whispers back, but emphasizes the word "boobie," which he knows I hate. Boobage, boobie, jugs, hammocks, etc... I hate all the nicknames for boobs.

Operation Boobie Watch? Eww! I know Nathan doesn't mean it.

He's just trying to get a rise out of me because it entertains him.

He knows how to push my buttons... especially when it comes to boobs.

God gave me this body, but I really wish he'd have given me less of it in the boob department.

In response to Nathan's comment, I shove him away from me.

Which isn't the best idea in the world, because now Sergeant

"Don't-Call-Me-Ben"-Shimon stops talking and focuses his ice-blue eyes on us.

"Tell me your names?"

Everyone is staring at us. We're in big trouble. Oh, crap. "Amy," I squeak out. Guess he didn't remember we already were introduced by the barracks.

"Nathan, sir!" I hear from my best guy friend/enemy/ annoyance beside me. He says it loud and clear, like he's been in the military his entire life instead of just one and a half hours.

"Amy, what was I just explaining?" the sergeant asks me.

Double oh-crap. I dare not tell the guy I was expecting to get the shortened version by asking my friends. Deciding there's no other way around it, I tell him the truth.

"I don't know... SIR!" I figure adding the 'sir' might earn me some brownie points--it seemed to work for Nathan. But from the sergeant's eyebrow-furrowing expression, I realize my 'sir didn't work.

He stands in front of Nathan and asks the same question.

Nathan's response is the same as mine.

"You and you," the sergeant says, pointing to each of us. "Follow me."

We follow the guy to the front of the entire American trainee unit.

Looking ahead, I see Jessica with a worried expression. She knows I'm not into the whole military thing.

"Give me twenty," the sergeant commands, with his hands on his hips.

"You mean like dollars?" I ask. "Or shekels? I mean, I left my purse back in my suitcase."

Nathan nudges me. "He means pushups, Amy. Not money."

Oh. Right. "I knew that," I lie. I'm sorry if when someone says

"give me twenty" my mind doesn't automatically think of physical activity.

Nathan flashes me a "loser" sign on his forehead.

The sergeant points to us, then the ground.

Nathan gets into position on the ground, supporting himself by his toes and hands.

"Can I do it the girlie way?" I ask. "Our gym teacher Mr. Haraldson lets us." When the sergeant looks confused I add, "You know, with my knees on the ground."

"Fine."

I get in position next to Nathan, knowing my white shorts are now beyond repair. When Nathan starts, I start. My knees are on gravel, and rocks are digging into my skin.

After I do one pushup, sweat drips off my forehead and lands on the gravel beneath me. I do a few more, then stop to look over at Nathan. He's groaning after a few minutes and lies down on the dirt exhausted and sweaty like me.

"You both are weak. Get up."

The sergeant has Nathan and me stand side by side in front of everyone. "Small ' is left, yamean is right. When I say small, you march with your left foot. When I say yamean, you march with your right foot. Understand?"

Nathan says, "Yes, sir!" like a total kiss-ass army recruit.

I raise my hand. "Excuse me, I have a question."

The sergeant looks at me as if I'm the stupidest person on earth.

Sure, when it comes to marching I might lack the basic natural instincts. But get me on my own turf and I know all there is to know about the city and how to maneuver in it. Some people call Chicago a jungle, but it's my jungle and my turf.

I'm not used to this military jungle, though.

"What zee problem?" he says impatiently. It's weird-- when Israelis get upset their accent gets more pronounced. I know that from my dad, because he's Israeli.

Everyone is still watching, which makes me nervous. I even hear a few snickers from the American guys. Remind me to listen to every single syllable Sergeant "Don't-Call-Me-Ben"-Shimon (from now on referred to as Sergeant B-S) says from this second forward. I don't want to be put front and center again.

The sun is glaring in my eyes. I squint up at the sergeant and silently curse the poop hole I dropped my sunglasses in. "Yeah, I was um... I was wondering if you lift your foot on the smalls and ya'means or if you put your foot down on them. Could you clarify, please?"

"You put your foot down on them," my boyfriend's voice says from behind me.

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 644