I know a little Krav Maga--the official self defense of the Israeli military--because my dad was a commando when he was in the IDF. A few months ago he decided I was old enough to learn some of the contact combat basics. Essentially, it's to kick the person's ass (or groin, as my dad taught me) until your target is no longer a threat. If you can't get out of a bad situation, you strike hard, strike fast, and know the vulnerable places on your opponent's body.
My dad thought I would suck at it, but I actually did so well that after my first lesson he bought protective training pads. We've made training a weekly event. Krav Maga Night is my dad giving me new techniques on how to kick his ass, which I have to say is more therapeutic than a fifty-minute session with a social worker.
Seriously, what other teenager is lucky enough to say they're encouraged by their dad to punch, kick, and maim him every Wednesday? Although, given that my dad was a commando, he's specially trained to kick some ass himself.
Now that I live with my dad, we've worked out most of our issues around him not being a permanent fixture in my life growing up. But he's still uncomfortable having a teen daughter when it comes to parental discussions about dating, sex, and drugs. The drug discussions (I'm using the word "discussion" loosely) go like this:
My dad: Amy, if you ever take illegal drugs I'll kill the person who gave them to you and then I'll kill you. Got it?
Me: Loud and clear.
The most recent sex talk (this time I'm using the word "talk" loosely) went along these lines:
My dad: Don't have sex until you're married.
Me: What if I do?
My dad: I'll practice Krav Maga on the guy. Without protective padding.
I didn't mention then that my boyfriend is quickly becoming a Krav Maga legend in his own right on the base.
My dad is awful when it comes to talking about girly issues, as if he doesn't have a single ounce of estrogen in his body. But get him to talk about Krav Maga, or Israeli guy stuff like soccer or basketball, and his eyes light up.
"Thanks for the food!" I call out to Noah as he walks away, leaving me with my chicken bones, my folding chair, and thoughts of Avi--but not his message.
His answer is a wave and another smile.
Just when I finish lunch, I hear Ronit's small-yarnean-small chant getting closer and closer.
"Amy, bring your tray to the eating area," Ronit says. "Miranda, go with her. Vic, you're in charge of guarding the bittan now."
I pick up the tray and start walking to the kitchen. Miranda walks with me... although she's actually a few paces behind. I have the feeling she's doing that on purpose.
"You okay?" I ask, glancing back at her.
She shrugs. "Sure."
"Because you're acting like something's wrong. Want to talk about it?"
"Nope."
Could it be that the Israeli army has broken Mirandas sweet-tempered spirit? I'm always crabby, but I thought I could count on Miranda to smile no matter what sucky situation she's in. I glance back again. The girl is definitely not smiling.
Maybe she's constipated. Seriously, talk to a group of teen girls in private and I guarantee they've all got pooping issues. Considering the lack of a decent toilet in this place, I wouldn't blame her.
But what if Miranda isn't constipated? What if she's upset with me? While I couldn't care less if Tori hates me, I do care if somehow I've caused this alienation between me and Miranda.
I wish Jess was ordered to accompany me, too. She'd know what to say to Miranda to make everything okay again.
As we walk into the cafeteria and I scrape the leftover food off my plate and into the big garbage bins, I realize Miranda isn't behind me anymore. She's waiting by the doorway with a pissy look on her face. I place the tray on the moving belt.
"Why aren't you smiling?" I ask her as we head back into the scorching Israeli death-heat.
"Because I don't feel like it. Why do you care, anyway? You hardly ever smile."
"Yeah, because I count on you doing it for me."
Miranda stops and puts her hands on her hips. "Amy, that doesn't even make sense."
"Neither does your pissy attitude. It reminds me of me and, to be honest, I wouldn't be able to stand a friend like me for very long."
"Are you saying I shouldn't be friends with you anymore?" She starts walking away, so I jog to catch up with her.
"When you smile, the world smiles with you, you know," I tell her.
I think she's about to laugh, but she doesn't. She starts walking faster. "You got that off of a greeting card or something."
"Well, if I was back home I'd run to Walgreens and get you a real card."
"What would you write in it?" she asks, challenging me to come up with something on the fly.
"I'd write... I'd write... Don't be upset, Miranda. If I did anything to upset you, please forgive me. 1 know I'm not always a good friend to you. But if you share with me, I can try and fix it. Your friendship is really important to me, which says a lot about you because I cant stand most people. Being friends with you makes me a better person. So please don't give up on me. Love, Amy. P.S. When Nathan buys me another white chocolate KitKat, I'll give the entire thing to you."
I have to give myself kudos. That was a damn good speech if I do say so myself. Any moment now sweet, shy-at-times/bubbly-at-times Miranda will turn back to her old self again. I stop and give her a look that says I know she's about to cave and envelop me in one of her big, embarrassing bear hugs. This time, I'm actually looking forward to it.