Is this too early for kissing? Should I let him or should I push him away? What would Hailey Winthrop do in this situation?
I knew the answer even before I finished forming the thought. She’d kiss him.
I closed my eyes, opened my lips, and waited. But then he spoke instead.
“Is your skin real?” he whispered. “Can I touch it?
My eyes flew open. Was he joking? I was used to people teasing me about my skin, not asking to touch it. I smiled and waited another second for him to laugh — but he didn’t. He was serious.
“Um, okay.” I nodded slightly and held out my arm. But instead, he reached for my cheek. I gasped softly as his fingertips connected with my skin. I know it sounds totally cheesy, but the best word I can use to describe how it felt is electric.
His hand lingered there. I could feel his fingers trembling as they rested on my face. I wanted to tell him that it was all right. That he didn’t have to be nervous. That he could keep them there for as long as he wanted. But I’d lost my voice. And I’d lost my senses, too.
Suddenly, the door opened and a customer walked into the store. Nasir tore his hand away, scooped up the shekels on the counter, and practically hurled them into the cash register. He looked so guilty, like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner.
“You’d better go!” he whispered, pushing the package of gum towards me.
I felt guilty, too, even though I wasn’t exactly sure why. I nodded, turned on my heels, and fled out the door, up the street, and to the steps of my apartment. My cheek was still tingling on the spot where he’d touched me. I couldn’t get his face out of my head.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!
Slowly, I lifted my head up from my knees and took a long, deep breath. I thought about the return ticket I still had tucked away in my room upstairs. The three-month mark of our move to Israel was just two days away.
And then I thought about those incredible brown eyes. And the feel of his fingers on my face.
Okay … so maybe I’ll hang around this country a little bit longer.
Chapter 12
The date came and went without so much as a word. Dad was so focused on his upcoming archaeological dig that I think he forgot about our deal. Lately all he wanted to talk about was bones and dirt and pickaxes. And you thought your parents were weird!
The dig was scheduled for the first three weeks of November. I had mixed feelings about leaving for so long, but Dad didn’t give me much choice. When I tried to suggest staying here in Jerusalem with Marla and her family, I got the same old “we’re going to stick together, damn it” speech that I got in Toronto, so I knew it was hopeless.
And I couldn’t even use school as an excuse. Wielding his professor status, Dad pulled some strings and arranged for me to get an academic credit for helping on the excavation.
“You’ll see, Mack — you’ll love it,” he promised. But seriously, I had my doubts.
Early the next Sunday morning, we took a bus north to Tiberias. The first part of the drive was through the Judean desert. The sand was everywhere. And the road was dusty and dry; my throat was parched just looking at it. I kept my eyes glued to the window, watching the sand — the vastness of it was mesmerizing. All I could think about was how easy it would be for a person to just disappear out here in this desert wasteland and be lost forever.
When we arrived, we settled into the hotel and met the rest of the group. I hadn’t realized what a big deal this dig was. In addition to the students from the university, volunteers from all around the world had come to help out. There were backpackers from Australia and New Zealand, a middle-aged husband and wife from England, a group of friends from Italy, a father and son from the US, and a tour group of twentysomethings from Montreal.
There was even one grandmotherly woman from Iceland who said it had been her lifelong dream to be here. And a newly married couple from South Africa who had come here for their honeymoon.
A lifelong dream to dig in the dirt? Honeymooning with a shovel and bucket? Seriously?
Needless to say, they were all gung-ho about getting to work. But I have to admit that it took me a few days to wrap my head around this place … and even longer to get used to the early hours.
Every day we were woken up at five o’clock in the morning, given a light meal of coffee and cake, and bused to the site. Digging usually ended each day by two in the afternoon.
Now, I’m not normally the kind of girl to pull a princess trip, but I mean, come on — five o’clock in the morning? Can you imagine? I don’t care if it was the best way to avoid the heat. Plus, the work we had to do was really hard! We toiled away in pits of dirt, digging, scooping, sifting, and brushing. Everyone wore hats and sunblock and thick gloves that reminded me of Mom’s old gardening gloves. Except unlike Mom’s prize-winning roses, the only things growing in this garden were bones and dust.
Man, the air was unbearably dry and dusty. By the end of each day, my muscles were tired and sore and I felt like I’d taken a bath in dirt and sweat.
But the worst thing of all had to be the toilet. Scratch that — it wasn’t even a toilet: it was a dingy, smelly porta-potty that was totally gross. The first time I saw it I wanted to cry. I swear to God, it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since Biblical times. The floor was caked with dirt, the toilet seat crusted with dried urine, and the stench that emanated from that dark, dank hole was practically prehistoric. I swore up and down that I wouldn’t use it.
“Ew! I’d rather hold it in all day than sit there!” I complained to Dad, giving him my best “yuck” face.
“Okay, suit yourself,” he said with a funny smirk, like he didn’t believe me.
But you know the saying — “when you gotta go, you gotta go.” Short of relieving myself on Biblical remains, I didn’t have any other choice. I quickly learned to hold my breath and pee like lightning.
I could tell Einstein wasn’t too thrilled with my attitude. On one of the very first days I unknowingly committed a cardinal sin of archaeology: I picked up a rock. I remember turning it over in my hand, wondering how long it had been lying there. Definitely centuries — maybe even millenniums.
This would be a cool souvenir for Marla, I thought, and I dropped it into my pocket.
A second later, he was at my side.
“Hey Mack, what are you doing? Put that back.”
“Why?” I frowned. “It’s just a rock.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Honey that might look like a regular old rock, but it’s not. Everything here is a valuable piece of evidence from the past. That rock might be part of an ancient wall, or it could have writing on it with information and names.”
I took it out and looked at it again. It looked just the same as any ordinary stone you’d find in a public park or in someone’s backyard.
“Yeah, okay Dad — whatever,” I said, letting it fall back down to the ground with a loud plop. He sighed and walked away. I knew he was frustrated with me, but I didn’t care. After all, it was his big idea to drag me out here in the first place. I’d much rather be back home hanging out with Marla and buying gum from Nasir than digging through piles of old sand.
But everything changed the day I made my first big discovery. It was about a week into the trip and I was sifting through what must have been my hundredth pile of dirt when I felt something hard between my fingers.
“I found something!” I gasped,