by Adams, Lori
We veer toward our friends huddled around a makeshift refreshment stand. They are resplendent in their early Russian attire of valenkis and ushankas. I realize I’ll have to conform to the Slavic influence or risk feeling like an outcast all over again.
Bailey waves and calls, “Comrades! I bring you the reluctant neophyte: Little tchotchke Sophia!” She presents me as though I haven’t been living here for the past few months. But with all this Russian persuasion, I do feel like the lost Anastasia where everything seems vaguely familiar.
Everybody turns and looks, holding their steaming Styrofoam cups. Milvi, Michael’s cousin, is there, and Bailey swipes her cup, raising it in a toast. “Death to the bourgeoisie!” she hollers, and then gestures toward the neophyte tchotchke. Determined not to be the outsider, again, I take the cup and add my own barefaced lie, “Viva la Revolución!” Everybody toasts and cheers wildly like the socialist hypocrites I know them to be. Half of them are vicious capitalists tracking their fake stock accounts in my foreign government class.
Milvi seconds the motion with “Elagu revolutsioon!” I assume she is speaking Estonian because Michael said the family originated from Estonia, which is just north of Russia.
“Da, comrade!” Bailey drinks from Milvi’s cup and then scrunches her face. It’s hot herbal tea, not coffee. Bailey has an aversion to anything healthy. She spots a fresh plate of gingerbread to sample so we do. I decide that hot tea goes well with Russian honey bread.
“So why is everybody stalin around here?” Bailey asks, laughing at her own joke. She means why is everyone out here and not in the café. Rachel explains that the Klondike Klub, the professional dogsledders, has commandeered our usual stomping grounds because they can’t get into Mr. James’s barn, where they usually hold their meeting this time of year. I ask why and we all look at Casey, since it’s his family’s barn. Duffy elaborates instead.
“Well, it could have something to do with last night.” He grins and the guys start laughing and doing that guy thing where they playfully smack one another around but it actually really hurts. The Homo sapiens have just reinvented the wheel. “Anyway, someone might have confiscated one or possibly two of the snow makers and could have aimed them at the James barn. They may have made enough snow to cover the barn if anyone wanted to … say … snowboard off the roof?” Everybody laughs and Duffy shrugs. “Now, I’m not saying I know for sure or anything but, ya know, it’s possible.”
Bailey rolls her eyes and mumbles, “Durachit,” which I’m guessing translates to something along the lines of “idiot.” The jig is up, and the guys can’t hold back. They start bragging about their supreme talents in the art of barn snowboarding. I smile, thinking about Michael lifting me up and over the frozen waterfall. Being from California, I’ve surfed on occasion, but I’ve never been in snow until now; I finally get what all the snowboarding fuss is about; it is freaking awesome.
Just when I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy about it, my second heartbeat springs alive, as if my memories have conjured Michael out of thin air. I look around and spot him walking through the snowy park with his parents.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t my memories.
I watch them strolling and greeting people. Bailey notices where my attention has gone and tells me that Michael’s parents are very involved in the Winter Carnival. Dimitri is something of a Russian history buff, and Katarina ensures that all Russian food recipes are authentic.
Michael looks over when his parents become preoccupied with the mayor. I smile but he just stares, first at me, then at Bailey, then back at me. I can’t read his expression and this worries me. He can’t possibly know that I revealed my secret to Bailey, right? The moment Bailey turns away, Michael winks at me, and I feel a hot rush of excitement flash through me. I’ll never get used to the way he makes me feel, even if he hasn’t apologized for taking things too far at the waterfall. I’m beginning to wonder if he ever intends to.
“Would you get a load of him?” Bailey says, and I turn around. Over by a snow machine is that strange guy, the one who looks like he rolled around Waikiki one too many times.
“Accessory man,” I say. “He’s got everything but the surfboard.”
“Wrong accessories,” she mumbles. “But he is kinda cute. For an old guy. He’s got to be at least thirty, right?”
We stand there gawking and discussing why his feet aren’t freezing in his sandals. Or maybe they are and he just can’t feel them anymore. He seems fascinated by the snow machine and darts his hand into the stream of snow and laughs. Then he looks at me and holds up a snowball he has constructed. His face is alight with pride; it’s a job well done, and I am to show my approval. I scoff and think, Somewhere, a village is missing its dummkopf.
My second heartbeat accelerates, and all of a sudden Michael is standing in front of us. Bailey and I startle, and then I look around for his parents. They have gone and he is free to join us.
We make the usual polite chitchat when in the company of others. And then Bailey is lured away by Duffy, who is finally ready to unload his complaints and excuses for his moodiness. They pair off while everybody else migrates up the street toward the school, since there is too much snow to bother driving.
Michael and I fall in line behind the others and eventually slow until we have privacy to talk. But we don’t. He’s pensive, and my thoughts have a heaviness that requires too much effort to bring to my mouth. I match Michael’s casual stride, regarding his hard thighs and tight torso with a certain amount of awe. He is engineered for power and love, and I wish I could slide my hand into his, where it belongs. That way I could be sure to go where he goes. Loving a guardian angel, I often feel like a forgotten grace note, an ornamental afterthought hovering like a shadow until I can steal his time. I’m living two lives: one in which I crave to be useful, and one in which I crave to be filled with Michael, top to bottom. Without his touch, my body feels denied its nourishment. I can’t risk touching him now, so I peer at him through my lashes. Like always, Michael’s beauty is distracting; the high cheekbones and angled jaw line, the sensual mouth that fits perfectly into the grooves of my lips. His eyes are focused ahead, and I wonder what he’s thinking. Will he explain about the other night?
Michael says, “I wish the cold didn’t affect you,” and I become aware that I’m shivering. “That way I could strip you naked and we could roll around in the snow.”
I stop in my tracks and stare as he walks on. I can’t see if he’s smiling or not. He sounded so matter-of-fact that I’m speechless. I recover and jog to catch up. He’s not smiling but serious. Stripping me naked and rolling around in the snow seems more like a mission statement than a romantic interlude.
“If that’s your way of avoiding a much-needed conversation, it—”
“I have a lot of things I want to do with you, Sophia,” he says quietly while a pack of kids clomp by us. “Very few require clothes. I was just offering the first thing that came to mind.” Michael laughs lightly and I know he has sensed my arousal. He does this to me all the time—casually describing intimate things he’d like us to do—when I can’t react. It’s torture and he knows it.
I force myself to calm down. I think Michael is trying to distract me, to avoid a serious issue.
“Tell me what happened that night at the waterfall and what happened when you left. I have to know, Michael. Did you almost lose that soul because of me?”
His demeanor shifts, and the muscle in his jaw begins to grind. I’ve pushed his button but I don’t care. Crying my heart out because I’m not a spirit walker has left me raw and callous this morning. I can’t take any more secrets; I need to know what’s going on.
We keep walking, with only the crunching snow making conversation. I’ll wait him out if it comes to that, but thankfully it doesn’t. Michael takes a deep breath and then glances around before speaking.
“I’m sorry about leaving you alone at the waterfall. It couldn’t be helped. And I almost lost a soul because I
was careless. But I’m handling it. Dad says no lines were crossed or rules broken, technically, so we’re leaving things alone for now. But I’ll have to be especially careful in the future.”
We stop on the sidewalk while the others head inside. “Thanks for apologizing. And I’m sorry you almost lost a soul. Was it because you were waiting for me to recover?”
Michael stares deep into my eyes. He has that look that says he will never lie, that he is unable to lie to me. He says “Yes,” and I nod.
“I thought so. But, Michael, you know what I really want to know. I have to know why you didn’t stop kissing me. Why you—”
Why you put my life in danger.
I can’t say it aloud but he knows what I’m asking. It encompasses a lot of questions: Why is he changing? Why is he so demanding? Why is he risking my life?
The bell rings, and just when I think he won’t answer, he says, “Well, I would think that was obvious, Sophia,” and walks away.
* * *
All throughout my classes, I’m distracted by Michael’s statement. It’s not obvious to me why he does anything lately. The winter trials can’t be the reason because he was acting strangely before they started. And not just when he’s around me; I’ve heard people talking; they say he’s been intense lately, short-tempered, and aloof. I haven’t dared to mention that one of his eyes turned brown, and he looked like Armaros—one blue eye, one brown eye—before churning back to normal. I’m sure the comparison would go over like a lead balloon.
By the end of school, I feel as though I’m wandering around the edge of things in Michael’s life. To glimpse what is possible in his secret world and then to be denied full access or answers is to live a sweet, torturous existence. I wish I had been Born of Light.
* * *
Bailey and I are walking from school through the square, and it’s the first opportunity for her to vent about Duffy since their talk this morning. I listen with concerted effort because it keeps me from wallowing in my own troubles.
“So in the middle of apologizing for being an asshole,” she says while foraging for licorice whips in her purse, “he starts bragging about some hookup in the city last month, when he almost got his dick pureed in some chick’s blender. Like I wanna hear all the whorey details.”
“So what’d you say?”
“So I said, ‘That’s no excuse for being King of the Assholes.’ ”
“So what’d he say?”
“So he said, ‘That’s funny comin’ from the Queen of Over-a-cheaters Anonymous.’ Can you believe that shit? He gets caught by some chick’s dad while in flagrante delicto, and I’m the over-a-cheater? Pffft.”
“Well, there was all that time you spent with Vaughn Raider. If memory serves, that kinda took the fruit out of Duffy’s looms.”
Bailey looks at me like I’ve finally spoken a language she doesn’t comprehend. For a moment I think she’s having an episode, and then her face breaks into a smile.
“Yeah, Vaughn.” Her voice is low and sultry. She glances around the square like she might spot him.
“You okay?” I ask, and she snaps out of it.
“Anyway, I told Duffy to be nicer to you, too. He’s been quite the busy little bastard.”
We stop outside the café, and I ask, “You guys okay now?”
She shrugs. “As long as he can control his premature articulation, we’re cool. Now, you’re not gonna work all day, right? You’re meeting me later?”
“Yup,” I say. We part ways, and I’m off to work at the Gazette, just around the corner. It’s a short walk but enough time to contemplate Michael. I want to ask his family about his strange moods, but it’s a tricky slope. I don’t want to give anything away. Maybe if I go around the back way and talk to Raph about the winter trials, I might get some info without raising suspicions.
I’m not inside the Gazette’s door but thirty seconds and Miss Minnie is dictating a list of photos I can expect to take in the next few weeks.
“Aside from the customary basketball games,” she says as I scribble, “there will be the troika rides, the ice skating follies, the pastila contest, the syrniki breakfast, the—”
“You lost me,” I say, and she clarifies with, “Best pastry contest and the pancake breakfast.”
“And the troika rides I’ve been hearing about?”
“Sleighs drawn by three horses.”
This makes me think of Michael and the sleigh ride he arranged, and I feel a pang of regret. I wish we could return to our romantic interlude at the frozen waterfall and undo the ending. I wish my tongue was made of honey and said only sweet things. I wish Michael could feel with my heart and recognize that I ache to do something important with myself.
I wonder if I’ll disappear if I ever stop wishing.
I reach for my cell phone to text Michael, and then stop. He has no excuse to come here today. As far as I can tell, Miss Minnie sees everything, and gossip in a small town like Haven Hurst could get back to his parents. It’s not worth the risk, so I swallow my wishes and wait.
An hour later, I’ve finished my uploads and edits from the last basketball game and I offer to fetch something warm to drink.
“No, thank you, child. LeRoy left a fresh jug of homemade cider in the back.” Miss Minnie smiles that crinkly old smile that I’ve come to love. “You best get to the café. I’m sure Bailey has reached her caffeine limit by now.”
I laugh and stuff my camera into my backpack and then sling it over my shoulder. I’m halfway out the door when it hits me. How did she know Bailey was waiting for me at the café? I look back but Miss Minnie has disappeared into the supply room, and I’m left to wonder.
The prediction is true; Bailey is in the back of the café, sloshing the contents of java number four while rambling Dorothy Parker via choppy Russian-esque English in a spontaneous poetry slam. The fireplace is blazing behind her, and she is using the hearth as a stage. Her audience is a random batch of students trying to study or tossing balled-up napkins at her. Rachel is shaking her head, and Holden is laughing. Bailey spots me and hollers, “Comrade tchotchke! What took so long?”
“I was dallying. And you?”
“She’s over-coffeedent about her oration skills,” Casey says, laughing. He’s sitting with Lizzanne and Harper Rose, who are none too pleased to be subjected to Bailey’s caffeine rants. “Please stop her before she hurts somebody.”
I drag Bailey down just as she begins spouting “Santa Stalin Is Coming to Town.” I have too much homework for this nonsense, so I lead her toward the door. We stumble upon the funky Hawaiian guy ordering coffee at the counter. Actually, he looks too Caucasian to be Polynesian, and his cheeks are flushed bright red at the moment. I notice his surf shorts and shirt have a vintage quality, and his huarache sandals are positively antique: black tire soles and old rope ties that wind around his ankles. He is smiling and staring at the blackboard menu above Mollie the Coffee Whisperer’s head.
“Dude, I’ll have a latte. No, wait! A chai tea—no, wait!” He leans over and laughs at himself; he seems mystified at the wide variety available. Mollie’s hair is bright green today, and she is exasperated by his indecision, but the guy doesn’t seem to notice either. His eyes track up and down the menu while his finger points out his selections. “Pumpkin spice! Dude, no—wait—you got anything coconut? Damn, let’s go with, no, wait, yes, yes! Pumpkin spice! Dude, spice that pumpkin!” He heaves a sigh and settles down, happy with his final selection.
“Talk about counter terrorism,” I mumble out the side of my mouth.
The guy swings around and gives us a radiant smile. “Aloha, girls! Don’t mind me.” He chuckles affectionately. “I tell you what, I haven’t been back in ages and, man! This place is off the Richter! It’s got primo selection.”
Bailey and I frown. “You a local?” she asks, and he snorts.
“Naw, dude, always the ha’ole.”
Okay, this guy is weird. I know for a fact that ha’ole basically means wh
ite foreigner in Hawaiian. He is seriously lost without direction.
I turn to leave, and he says, “Hey, no worries, Sophia. She already knows.” He cops a cool attitude while I stare without any manners. I’m sure I must’ve heard wrong.
“Huh?”
He gives me an encouraging nod and says, “One ding won’t make me cut out, especially on a cruncher like this.” He steps closer and lowers his voice. “I know you told Bailey all about me so … you know … it’s cool. I don’t toss grimmies that easy. Just don’t do it again.”
What in hell is this guy—Oh no!
A bad feeling is knocking on my door but I seriously don’t want to answer it.
I’m as stiff as a surfboard so Bailey says, “Who are you?”
The guy fiddles with his shirt, trying to make himself presentable all of a sudden. Then he extends his hand to me and says, “Totally stoked to me you, Sophia St. James. I’m Rama Kuan, your Ascended Master. Bitchin’ cool, right?”
Chapter 9
Surfer Dude vs Comrade Tchotchke
“Holy mother of Point Break posers!” Bailey says, while I pace and gnaw on my fingernail. We are in my living room and surfer dude, Rama Kuan, is sitting on the edge of the sofa watching me. His head is nodding like he’s grooving to his own beat. I am furious.
“Are you telling me that you—you! Mr. Cowabunga Dude—are here to train me to be a spirit walker?”
The insult rolls right off him and he grins. “It’s just like that, dude. Like I told you on the way over here. Name’s Rama Kuan and I’m yours for the duration.”
I stop and scrutinize him from scruffy dreadlocks to saltwater sandals. He looks outdated and lost, so I ask if he is sure he is in the right place.
“Dude! Last I heard you were in SoCal! I was totally stoked, so I took an early road trip back to the gold coast, you know, missing my brahs and whatnot. Had to shoot the curl till I was called up.” He bobs his head, and I feel sick to my stomach.
