As my unit marches to lunch, I place the chair in the open doorway, out of the sun, thinking about Israeli teens and their mandatory military service. The Israeli teens don't seem to resent being soldiers. I think for some weird reason they look forward to putting on uniforms every day.
Fifteen minutes later, a soldier I've never seen before walks up to me holding a cafeteria tray with food on it. He's medium height with a round face and a friendly smile. Right about now a friendly smile is definitely welcome.
"Shalom? I say when he comes closer.
"You can speak English with me. I'm American, born and raised in Colorado. My name's Noah. I already know you're Amy --from Chicago."
Wait. Noah is American? But I thought he was a fullfledged soldier. He's dressed in a full IDF uniform with his last name in Hebrew on the front of his shirt. He also has a badge hanging off his shoulder with the logo of a military unit on one side and his rank on the other. None of the Americans on our Sababa trip have their last names sewn on their shirts, let alone a unit badge. Our shirts are totally blank. But he's not on our trip.
The guy is a poser; what's up with that? "I'm sure the soldier whose shirt you're wearing is looking for it."
The guy looks down at the Hebrew on the shirt. "This is my shirt." His smile broadens. "Phew. You had me worried there for a second."
"How'd you get them to put your name on it?" I notice he also has his own army boots, just like Avis. Maybe he won a ditch-digging contest and the prize was his own personalized IDF uniform. "And how'd you get someone to give you their unit badge?"
"They kinda gave me the shirt and badge, along with the boots and inoculations when I enlisted."
"What do you mean by 'enlisted'?"
"I'm an Israeli soldier."
Before he'd opened his mouth and spoken perfect English without an accent, I'd assumed he was an Israeli soldier. He looks like one, and now I notice his rifle, but... "But you're American."
"I'm also Jewish. I came here after high school and volunteered for the IDF. I felt a connection to Israel and wanted to do my part to help my fellow Jews."
Gosh, that's admirable. Before now, I never heard of a Jewish American just coming over here and enlisting in the Israeli military. On purpose.
"Do you know Hebrew?" I ask, getting more curious.
"I know a lot more Hebrew now than when I first came here a year ago. You learn pretty quick when you have to." He hands me the tray of food. "Here, eat. Before it gets cold."
The food on the tray consists of a glass of water (with no ice), chicken (dark-meat legs, once again), mushrooms, and rice. Two bees have decided to hover around my food, which is totally annoying. But now that Tori told me worker bees don't sting, I'm not afraid like I was before.
"Thanks. I'm starving." I'm too hungry to care that I'll be eating greasy dark meat instead of white breast meat. I chew whatever's attached to the chicken bone as if it's my last meal on earth.
Noah sits against the door jamb and watches me eat.
"I thought IDF guys and Sababa teens can't be together alone."
"We're not alone," Noah says, pointing to the guard sitting at the entrance to the barracks across the courtyard.
"I'm the official guard," I tell him as I take a drink of warm water to wash down the food. "If you want to steal stuff, my job is to stop you. Although you have a gun and I don't, so feel free to pilfer whatever you want."
"I'm not here to steal stuff." Noah looks embarrassed as he places his rifle over his knees. "Gefen told me to come talk to you."
As I hear my boyfriend's last name, I almost choke on the slippery piece of dark meat or gristle or fat or skin or whatever greasy thing I'm trying to swallow. "Gefen who?"
"Avi Gefen."
"Oh, him." I say, as if Avi isn't on my mind 24/7. "What did he want you to talk to me about?"
"He kinda wanted me to give you a message."
"And he couldn't do that himself because... ?"
"Um, yeah. I think he said it had something to do with being afraid you'd break up with him before you hear him out. And maybe you'll listen to what he wants to tell you if it comes from someone else." Noah puts his hand up when I try to respond. "But don't quote me verbatim on that. I may have gotten a few words mixed up in the translation."
I point my half-eaten chicken leg at Noah. "You go tell Avi that we've already broken up, that I'm dating Nathan, and that if he's got something to say to me, be man enough to say it to my face. I don't want to hear things secondhand from a middleman."
"He doesn't believe you're dating whoever this guy Nathan is."
"Is he kidding? Nathan and I are..." I pick up the other uneaten chicken leg and hold it next to my half-eaten one. "Nathan and I are like this. Two chicken legs in a pod."
"Chickens don't come in a pod. Peas do."
"I don't see any peas around here, so I'm improvising. Work with me, Noah." This round-faced American-Israeli soldier would be a perfect match for Miranda. They're kind of the same person, but of the opposite sex.
Noah shrugs. "So you don't want me to relay his message?
I shake my head.
He sighs. "Well, I hope you guys work it out at some point. Seeing Gefen upset isn't fun, especially during Krav Maga training."