for you.” He had a mischievous smile.
“I…”
“It’ll just be a second.”
“I have to go.” I hurried to the bus stop and boarded my bus. I hung on to a seat and tried to calm my racing pulse.
The old Mia would have been thrilled if a guy wanted to sing her a song. I’d have flirted, grabbed the guitar and composed a little three-chord ditty about a busker who sang old country songs. And the new Mia? I wasn’t supposed to hang out with guys—that was part of being religious. When you were ready to get married, a go-between set you up with someone compatible and you went on a series of dates to determine if he was your b’shert —“the one.” You didn’t even shake hands or touch until after you got married.
The bus sharply rounded a corner, and I grabbed the seat to avoid falling. Why did the guitar guy have a song for me? I was wearing a long skirt and a dorky sunhat. My life was about good works and spirituality, not appearances. Shit. I was still finding cute guys, or they were finding me. I should lock myself up in the B’nos Sarah dormitory.
I decided not to give out any more sandwiches; it was embarrassing. The rest of Sheila’s money could go to B’nos Sarah or the craft center. Or I’d drop it into the old woman’s margarine tub.
Back at the dorm I put on my exercise pants and a baggy T-shirt, slid my Madonna CD into my Discman and fast-forwarded to “Holiday.” I’d been a Madonna fan ever since I heard the Like a Virgin album when I was ten.
Running in Israel was an obstacle course of steep hills and amazing views. On my route up to Mount Scopus I first waged the grueling uphill battle to Hebrew University. I could feel my glutes and hamstrings bunch and tighten. Blood pounded in my head as my labored breath filled me. I wasn’t Mia Quinn; I was a body winning a race, pushing itself up a hill. I was a conqueror of sand and Jerusalem stone, my pulse surging to new highs. My heart pumped, muscles flexed, bones strode on a swell of endorphins. The tightness from sitting on a hard wooden chair and squinting at Hebrew texts dissolved as I pumped my arms up the hill. Sweat trickled down my forehead, pooled in my bra, dampened my hair.
At the top of the hill the magnificent vista of Jerusalem came into view as I cruised the relatively flat road around the Mormon College campus. Then I endured the knee-jarring downhill plunge past the falafel stand that doubled as a dentist’s office. I ignored the old men who leered each time I passed. The road bottomed out by the Hyatt Hotel and then rose again up to French Hill, the steepest part of the whole run. A shortcut through the Hadassah Hospital parking lot and up a vacant hill made the final surge a little shorter, yet also steeper. I could only make it if I sprinted and timed it to correspond with Madonna’s “Rescue Me.”
I used the edge of my T-shirt to wipe the sweat out of my eyes as I turned in to the parking lot. Only a few more moments of torture. “Rescue Me” came on, the pulse of the drums, the clear vocals helping me pick up my pace.
I started working toward my sprint, my feet pounding the cracked pavement. The sun glared off the car windows. Heat seemed to be emanating from me, yet my arms kept pummeling the air. A car full of young guys honked at me and gave a cheer. I pretended not to see them.
Finally I passed through the metal gate to the field. Less than a minute now. My heart surged, firing my legs up the dry dusty path. The crest was only strides away. Rescue me . I went over the top and started leaping like a ballet dancer with my arms wide in a grand jeté.
Then I saw a boy on a donkey coming up the hill toward me. My euphoric high became a surge of panic. I jumped out of the way, into the field of dry grass. Staggering, I braked hard and stared at the boy as he passed. “Shalom,” I whispered. He stared back at me as he trotted by.
I struggled to catch my breath. What was an Arab kid on a donkey doing in