“Hey, I saw that look! And I’m allowed to have fun. I’m twenty-four! I’m, like, the oldest twenty-four-year-old on the face of the planet!”
“We’re not old!” interjected her friend Rebecca, as she attempted the electric slide to a Snoop Dogg song.
“No, you’re right. I just need to switch to dermatology, get some free Botox, and be discovered as the next Boston weather girl.” Keira’s expression turned dreamy.
“You know weather girls have degrees now, right?” I cocked my head.
“And they’re called meteorologists,” Charlotte corrected as she grabbed the pitcher from Keira.
“So?” Keira shook her head, her whole body so off-balance that vodka splashed wildly from her widemouthed martini glass. She rubbed her dripping hand on her shirt, cleaning under the vintage eighties K ring on her forefinger. I’d bought it for her for her twenty-first birthday, and she hadn’t taken it off since, mostly because it was too small to remove. But still, I loved that she loved it.
The apartment door swung open, and we turned to see three guys standing in the doorway, looking like they’d arrived straight from a Nirvana tribute show, only their faux vintage T-shirts and wrinkled button-downs seemed a bit too clean, and their jeans were ironed. Two sported those messy haircuts that required a flatiron to sculpt, and the other had wavy dark blond hair that fell to his chin in layers that were obviously professionally cut and styled. They were trying way too hard to look as though they weren’t trying. I glanced at my sister, and I could instantly see that this was who she was asking about earlier, the guy she’d been sneaking around with, desperately hoping would somehow call our landline. Thankfully, there was no wedding ring on his finger.
“Hey,” said Mr. Wavy Locks. “I hope you don’t mind, I brought my buddies.” His voice was deep, not just deep but scratchy. It made my shoulders tense.
He pulled his lips in a cheesy duck-face, accentuating a thick scar on his upper lip that stretched past his nostrils. It looked as though his lip had been split, and the sight of it sent an uneasy ripple through my belly. It was like walking down a deserted street and seeing a stranger coming my way; sometimes, for no reason, I crossed to the other side. This guy had that vibe. “Nice place.”
He narrowed his green eyes and scanned the room. Only it didn’t appear as though he was admiring the décor, more like he was sizing up the guests, his gaze lingering on the faces of the men in the apartment more than the women. Maybe he was surveying his competition.
He stepped under the entryway light, his head nearly hitting the swinging pendant—he had to be at least six-foot-two. “I’m Craig,” he said to me, his eyes landing on my chest. He licked his lips seductively. Ew.
“Glad you came,” Keira cooed, mistakenly thinking the gesture was for her.
Score one for alcohol.
Two of Keira’s nursing friends rushed to her side.
“This is Jocelyn and Rebecca.” She nodded to her pals who were swaying drunkenly and looking just as smitten. The guys in the doorway scanned them from head to toe, and I could almost hear them mentally calling “dibs.”
“You wanna drink?” Keira swiftly grabbed a pack of clear plastic cups on the table nearby and flashed a flirtatious grin. Craig grabbed a cup, his hand brushing her wrist, lingering a moment, while his other hand reached for the crotch of his pants, adjusting himself. My sister pretended not to notice, still batting her lashes like an adoring fan. It was as if I was the only one who could see how pathetic these guys were.
I grabbed my sister’s elbow, yanking her toward me. “Are you serious?”
“What?” She shrugged, faking an innocent look.
“You know what.” I nodded to the losers, but she shook me off, stepping closer to Craig.
It was like my sister was born without a douchebag detector. She had to know she was better than this. The guy was still holding his crotch while ogling my boobs.
Then he blew me a kiss behind her back, flashing his tongue.
“Keira, come on. Let’s get some coffee,” I reasoned.
“Coffee? Ugh,” she groaned. “I’m fine, sis. You can go to your room now.”
Did she just send me to time-out? I set my jaw, glaring at her, only she turned her gaze to him, her fingers flipping her hair as she giggled.
Fine. Be that way. She and these losers could have one another. I turned my back.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I grumbled before stomping away.
Chapter Three
I awoke the next day to a blissfully silent apartment, which was a welcome relief considering I had spent the wee hours of the morning covering my ears with two thick down pillows. Even through the feathers, I could hear Keira’s bed squeak, which was beyond gross. First, she’s my sister. I shouldn’t be exposed to such acts—it could damage my fragile teenage psyche. Second, if she was going to subject me to such repulsive torture, she could at least pick someone who wasn’t jerky enough to hit on her sister while she wasn’t looking.
But that was Keira. She coped with our parents’ deaths by “filling her soul” with “meaningless sex”—or, at least, that was what the shrinks said. I, however, was diagnosed with the opposite. Psychiatrists claimed I had trouble “forming attachments,” which was a fancy way of pointing out that I had only two friends my own age and I had difficulty confiding in them with anything more significant than a grade on a pop quiz. But after years of moving around the globe, I’d learned to depend solely on my family. Then my parents died.
“Three Die in Fiery Wreckage.” That was the headline on the front page of the Boston Globe three years ago on March eighth.
A man named Derek Wolf was driving down Storrow Drive, a picturesque expressway bordering Boston’s Charles River. He had recently left a fortieth birthday dinner for his newlywed bride, Shawna Belkin, where the couple had consumed two pitchers of sangria, two margaritas, and several shots of tequila. He was traveling at a speed of seventy-two mph in a forty-mph zone—in the wrong direction—when he collided with my parents’ car.
An explosion followed. Their bodies were charred beyond recognition and had to be identified by dental records. They were fifty-five years old. Derek Wolf died as well. According to the police report, his blood alcohol level was 0.33 percent. More than four times the legal limit. He probably didn’t feel a thing. I doubt my parents were so lucky.
Now we were two orphaned sisters—one with hardly any friends at all, and the other with an overabundance of friends with benefits. How cliché.
I glanced at the clock—eight in the morning, like always. When I was little, my mom called me her walking alarm. Every morning I’d get up exactly at eight and crawl into their bed—even if they weren’t home. Once, when we moved to Singapore and were still staying at a hotel waiting for the lease to close on our apartment, I tried to crawl into their room. Only I opened the door to the wrong hotel suite—thanks to a careless maid—and sank into an empty king-size bed. I slept there for over three hours. All the while, my family frantically searched the premises for their missing child. The police were called. There was a news alert for a missing American six-year-old. Eventually, I awoke and returned to my room to discover the hubbub. They didn’t let Keira and I share our own hotel room for a long time after that.
I crawled out from under my soft cotton sheet and headed toward the hall bath. Charlotte and I shared it, while Keira took the master bathroom. Considering people had spent hours partying and puking in our place the night before, I wasn’t excited to see what awaited. I grabbed my toothbrush from the safety of the medicine cabinet, and caught a whiff of urine mixed with stale beer mixed with a juniper breeze candle. My stomach sloshed. I brushed my teeth while holding my breath, then washed my face with cold water and darted out, still dabbing my skin with a towel.
Keira and Charlotte had better clean up—their party, their mess.
I closed my bedroom door and slid into jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt. I was still running a brush through the knots in my hair
when I slipped into my gray Converse sneakers and tiptoed toward Keira’s room.
I knocked lightly, my attempt to be respectful.
No one answered.
I waited a few moments and knocked again, harder this time.
“Keira?”
I heard the rustle of movement. Then a raspy male voice whispered, and my sister moaned—like, moaned.
That did not just happen.
I stared at the cracked white paint and tentatively rapped again.
She moaned louder.
No freakin’ way. I stood glaring, my fist balling so tight my nails dug into my flesh. She knows I’m standing right here! I have ears.
“Keira!” I snapped. “You probably don’t care, but I’m heading out!”
She moaned in response. Seriously. It took everything I had not to open the door and chuck something at them.
I stomped down the hall. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t like I was against her dating, I was against her dating dickwads, which was her entire romantic history for the past three years. Exhibit A) Matt, an unemployed thirty-year-old who ate our entire box of Cocoa Puffs and never called again. Exhibit B) Jeremy, who had the nerve to ask for money for the T every time he came over (it was a two-dollar fare). Exhibit C) Ted, who wore only black T-shirts so small they wouldn’t fit me, just in case you missed the fact that he lived at the gym. Exhibit D) Gideon, who actually used the phrase “pretty dope, bro” in conversation. And Exhibit E) Jordan, who stole our entire mega pack of toilet paper before skulking out at sunrise (we still weren’t sure if it was a prank or if he couldn’t afford his own). Now I was going to have to watch my sister stare at her phone praying that some Kurt Cobain wannabe sent her a text.
I grabbed my wallet from my room and charged out the front door. She deserved better than this, better than him. All of them. How could she not see that? I bounded down the steps, flinging open the exterior door at the bottom.
The street was still. Actually, our tree-lined street in Brookline was usually hush-hush for a city block, but today it almost felt eerily so. There was no wind.
I closed my eyes and breathed the warm air. How long did I need to stay gone if I didn’t want to see Señor Sketchy in my kitchen? Probably longer than it took to buy bagels, but it would have to do.
I walked to Comm. Ave. and a T-train rumbled past, breaking the silence. It was almost empty due to the hour. College kids weren’t big on the “early to rise” thing, not even when their mothers were in town waiting to sip mimosas. I crossed the intersection and swung open the glass doors to Shaw’s Supermarket. Bouquets of fragrant flowers decorated the entryway with plastic “Happy Mother’s Day” signs inserted between the pink buds. Celine Dion’s “Because You Loved Me” played on the sound system, and before I could even grab a wire basket, an employee interrupted to announce a special on “Mother’s Day Chocolates.”
Times like these, it was quite easy to imagine what it was like to be Jewish on Christmas. Not that my family normally celebrated this holiday even when my mother was alive—well, this or Father’s Day, or our birthdays, or Thanksgiving, or Easter. My parents were always working or traveling, which was curious given that over the years we’d met plenty of teens whose parents were engineers, and they worked Monday to Friday, nine to five.
It was just the Dresden Kids who sat around while their parents jetted off to India for three days and occasionally came back with mysterious bruises that they claimed were from “accidents at the plant” or a “slip in the lab.” To be fair, my parents also boxed as a form of exercise. But this, combined with their immense computer skills and fluency in countless languages (including Arabic and Farsi), led to a running family joke that they were plotting to take over the world. Either that or they were secret spies, drug dealers, or mafia enforcers. (We did spend a year living in Milan.)
I wandered down a nearby aisle, past the pink greeting cards and pastry displays, winding toward the clinking registers as a steady stream of Jewel, Norah Jones, and Celine filled the air.
That was when I saw him.
He was standing in line at the overpriced grocery café, dressed in a black leather jacket, which was pushing it for May, even in Boston. From this distance, and safely hidden behind a rack of “Greetings from Beantown” postcards, I could get a better look at his tattoo—a black bull with angry crimson eyes. Not very subtle. I’d imagine anyone getting a tattoo would have to think hard about irrevocably marking himself, but to put that tattoo so close to your face—and not on, say, your butt—must mean you feel unusually attached to the image. It had me wondering what the black and red bull meant. Hopefully, it wasn’t a nod to his affinity for highly caffeinated beverages.
A perky barista with a bouncy blond ponytail worthy of a cheerleading uniform grabbed a paper cup for his order and, even from a few yards away, I could see her smiling over the espresso machine in that way that Keira does, all giddy and twinkly. She was probably putting a little heart in his foam. He turned to shove his wallet into the back pocket of his weathered black jeans, a shiny metal chain hanging down—a bit too hipster for my taste—and that was when he saw me. Straight on. There was no denying it. I was hiding behind a rack of four-for-a-dollar postcards watching him order coffee like he was a piece of performance art.
Damn.
“Hola.” He nodded at me, flicking his hand.
Double damn.
I smiled sheepishly, my cheeks flaming. “Hola,” I muttered. Now I had to walk over or it would look even weirder. I took an embarrassed breath and trudged toward him, staring at my sneakers the whole way.
“I never got to thank you for yesterday. Muchísimas gracias, te lo agradezco de todo corazón,” he said, and I had to admit it, his accent was amazing. I knew a lot of Americans were suckers for British accents, but for me, there was nothing like a Spanish accent. It made you sweat. And he knew it. Otherwise, why would he choose to speak to me in Spanish before knowing if I spoke the language? He was trying to have an effect on me and, embarrassingly, it was working. My cheeks burned hotter.
“De nada. Debe dar gracias a mi pie,” I replied, showing that his language skills weren’t that impressive, while also showing off my own. I switched back to English. “Seriously, I don’t know why I did it. My foot has a mind of its own.”
“Then your foot is lethal. You brought down a guy twice your size.”
“It’s a gift.” I shrugged. I’d learned over the years that most guys preferred ballerinas to black belts, which was fine. I didn’t need a boyfriend. And if my sister was any indication, most guys wouldn’t even try to relate to our depressing family situation. If that wasn’t what they wanted from her, why would I be any different?
“Your classmates seemed to enjoy it.”
“Let’s just say he had it comin’.” I grinned, remembering Wyatt as he hit the dirty linoleum.
“I don’t even know your name.” He stepped toward me, staring intently in this unflinching, un-American way, like he didn’t care about personal space or boundaries.
“Anastasia,” I replied, pretending his proximity didn’t bother me, but he was standing so close I could smell the citrus soap on his skin.
“Ahnahstassia,” he said, heavily accented with European flare. “Russian?”
I tried not to roll my eyes.
Most people linked my name to the Russian princess who possibly disappeared a hundred years ago after her family was murdered. There was a whole cartoon movie about it. I wasn’t a fan. And I wasn’t Russian. Though if the rumors were true and the infamous Anastasia did outlive her parents, then the two of us, unfortunately, had a whole lot in common.
“No, I’m an American mutt. Irish, Italian, Polish, yadda yadda.” I shrugged my shoulders. “And you’re from Madrid?”
“Sí.” He nodded.
“Marcus!” yelled the barista, gesturing to him with the white paper cup in her hand, a tan cardboard collar wrapped around it. “Double espresso.”
“That’s me
. Marcus Rey.” He continued looking at me as he said it, not glancing at the twinkle-eyed blonde, and I had to admit, that made me a little happy.
“Nice to meet you, Marcus,” I replied, not breaking eye contact.
Just then, an intercom announced a two-for-one special on Mother’s Day greeting cards, and I remembered Keira back in our apartment with a stranger. “I should probably get going. See you in school on Monday?”
Marcus nodded and grabbed his coffee from the bar. “Buenos tardes, Ahnahstassia.”
“Adios,” I replied, still loving his Spanish accent.
...
I rushed home, one of those dazed walks where you don’t even know how you got there; you’re just suddenly standing in front of your door. I couldn’t stop picturing Marcus’s dimpled grin or the way he looked at me while we spoke. I knew if I told Keira about him, she’d clap and cheer like our five-minute conversation was the most important moment of my life. Really, I had no idea if I’d ever speak to him again. But I wanted to. And I wanted to tell my sister about him.
I bounded up the creaky wooden steps of my brownstone and reached for the brass handle to the apartment, but the door fell open as if it had been left ajar. I was positive I’d slammed it before I left, so that could mean only one thing—lover boy had left the building. Thank heavens for small favors. Maybe Keira cleaned the bathroom while I was gone, too. (And then we won the lottery, and I was named prom queen.)
I threw my keys on the mail table, which was still decorated with a half-empty lemon martini with a floating cigarette butt. Water was running in the master bathroom. It sounded like the tub, but I couldn’t remember Keira taking a bath. Ever.
I headed down the hallway.
“Keira? Is that you?” I hollered.
I was still debating what to tell her about Marcus. I hadn’t mentioned the cafeteria incident yesterday, so I’d have to start at the beginning. She was going to love that he was European. Actually, she was going to love me talking to a guy, period. Not that we were really talking; I’d only just learned his name.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 3
