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I’d also welcome a little distance from my overly concerned father. Since discovering my note, he’s hovering, and his nervous energy is rubbing off on the rest of us.
We’re sitting in the dining room eating lunch, and I can feel his eyes boring into my skull.
I glance up. “Dad, for the love of God, chill the fuck out.”
He winces at my cursing, a reflex I’ve learned to ignore by now. But he’s treating me like a porcelain doll and won’t chastise me.
“You haven’t touched your food,” he says.
“I’m not hungry.”
Unable to stand him any longer, I push my chair away from the table. Grabbing my phone, I stalk off and check the screen for any texts or updates on Alek. It’s practically glued to my hand since yesterday, but still, nothing.
When I walk into the living room, I find the TV still turned on to the BBC, but they’re covering other topics from around the world. I sit on the sofa and start flipping through the channels, looking for any footage of Alek or the school.
The waiting and the unknowing are torture.
A photo of Grigor Kurochkin’s face pops up on the screen, and I pause, my finger hovering over the remote. I can’t understand the newscaster in Russian, but she’s wearing a somber expression.
“Galina,” I call out. “I think something’s happened.”
She scurries into the room and reads the banner headline with a gasp, her hands flying to cover her mouth in shock.
“What is it?”
“The president died at the hospital last night.”
My body goes numb.
Dad appears from around the corner. Folding his arms, he leans against the wall and watches the screen with us. But he is eerily calm.
“Why did it take so long to break the news?” I ask.
“The government covered it up until they had a more solid transition plan in place.”
I stare at him, and my anger begins to mount. “You already knew?”
He rubs the back of his neck, blowing out a breath. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I couldn’t. It was classified.”
Dad’s cell phone starts chiming in his pocket, one notification right after another. He pulls it out and stares at the screen.
“It’s Washington.”
I scoff as he disappears around the corner, wondering what else he’s hiding. If he’s withholding information about Alek’s whereabouts, I’ll commit patricide.
I turn to Galina. “What are they saying now?”
Hopefully, something about Alek.
Please be alive. Please be alive.
“They are expecting people to flood the streets in celebration,” Galina says. “But these celebrations may get out of control. They are asking citizens to remain inside.”
My shoulders slump, and I close my eyes to fight back tears. Bringing my knees onto the sofa, I curl up into the fetal position against the pillows.
