"Ron, to be honest I doubt I'm even your kid. Did you ever get a paternity test? Because I saw a picture of this one guy my mom dated in college who looks just like me."
Ron looks at the ceiling and lets out a breath. When he looks back at me, his brown eyes are darker than usual. His jaw is clenched tight.
"Calm down, Amy. You're causing a scene."
"Dude," I say really tough, getting a grip on my voice. Now I sound like Angelina Jolie, in that movie where she kicks everyone's ass that crosses her. "I haven't even started to cause a scene."
A soldier with a very, very large machine gun walks up to us. He has an almost shaved head and I can tell just by looking at him he has a twitchy trigger finger. Great, my life is over, I'm going to be stuck in this third world country for the rest of my days ...which are probably numbered now.
"Mah carrah?" the soldier says to Ron in Hebrew. It sounds either like "Macarena?" or "Kill Amy?" to me.
"Ha'kol b'seder," Ron responds.
I never thought I'd be sorry I don't know Hebrew. In school, I take Espanol.
My heart is still racing when I ask, "What are you saying? What's going on?" I'm afraid of the answer, but I'm trying to be brave so I can tell the American Secret Service agents all the information I obtained before I escaped. The American government will want to know what's going on here, I'm sure of it.
"You're not an Israeli citizen," Ron says. "And you're not about to be drafted into any army."
"Then what did that soldier say to you?"
"He asked me what was wrong and I told him everything's fine. That was it."
Likely story, I think. But I follow him back to the immigration lady, mostly because he has a grip on my arm like a vise.
He speaks to the lady in Hebrew this time, probably to make sure I don't understand him. For all I know he's negotiating a deal to have me sold into child slavery. Although I consider myself pretty up-to-date on current events and I've never actually heard of Israeli child slavery.
Before long, the lady stamps my passport (which Mom had me get for emergency purposes a year ago and dummy me agreed to it, thinking she was secretly planning to take me to Jamaica or the Bahamas) and we head to the baggage claim area. We only have to walk twelve steps before we're there.
"Come with me while I get a cart," Ron orders.
"I'll just wait here," I say, because I want him to know I refuse to take parental orders from him.
He crosses his arms across his chest. "Amy, with the drama you just created back there I'm not about to play the trusting fadder right now."
I'm on a roll and can't resist. "You haven't been good at playing the loving fadder, either," I say, the words rolling off my tongue as if someone else is making me say them. "What kind of fadder can you play, Ron? You know, so I can recognize it when I see it."
Ron doesn't show anger too often, but even in the small amount of time I've spent with him I know by the sounds he makes or the change in his breathing patterns when something gets in his craw.
"Don't think you're too old to get punished by me, young lady."
I have my famous sneer ready. "Get a clue, Daddy Dearest. Being here with you is punishment enough."
I'm not usually this rude, truly I'm not. But my resentment toward Ron and insecurity about his fatherly love makes me act bitchy. I'm not even aware of it half the time. I guess if I'm rude to him, I'm giving him a reason not to love me.
Breathing pattern change. "Wait. Here. Or. Else," he says.
He stalks off, but I can't just stand here. I scan the airport and my eyes focus on the one thing most teenagers can't resist.
A Coke machine. (Insert harp music here, because that's what's playing inside my head.)
I walk through the crowd as if in a trance. Cold Cokes are calling out to me, "Amy, Amy, Amy. I know you're hot and cranky. Amy, Amy, Amy. I know you're sweating like a disgusting pig. Amy, Amy, Amy. I'll solve all of your problems."
I touch the Coke machine and immediately feel refreshed. I get ready to put my money in the inviting slot and for the first time in twenty-four hours I feel a smile coming on. It's comforting to know even in the Middle East Coke is available. Then I look at the price. My Coke addiction is about to cost me a sizeable amount of cash.
My mouth goes wide and I give a little shriek. "Seven dollars and eighty cents? That's robbery!"
"That's the price in shekels," a mother with two children hanging on her says in an Israeli accent. "Seven shekels and eighty ah-goo-roat."
"Shekels? Ah-goo-roat?" I don't have shekels. And I sure as hell don't have ah-goo-roats. Or goats if that's what she'd said.
I only have American dollars, but I find a sign that indicates a bank is in the airport. I follow the sign, heading straight for the bank. It's at the other end of the terminal. If I hurry, Ron won't even notice I'm gone.
But as I get to the bank, there's a line. To top it off, the biggest group of slowpokes are in front of me. I should go back to the baggage claim area, but I don't want to lose my spot in line. If these people would just move a little faster, I'd have my shekels and ah-goo-roats for my Coke in no time.
When I look at my watch, I wonder how many minutes I've been waiting. Ten? Twenty? It's so easy to lose track.
Finally, I'm next. I take a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and hand it to the banker dude.