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Prisha glances up from her homework. “If I was taking calculus, I’d help. But I’m still in pre-calc.”
“It’s fine. Maybe I’ll be held back, and then we’ll have classes together next year.”
“What happened to getting out of this country the moment you turn eighteen?” She grins at me, giving me a look that says, are you ready to admit you like it here?
What’s there to like, besides Prisha and the library? Dad’s house sucks. School sucks. And ever since Alek cornered me in the restroom, I keep glancing over my shoulder, waiting for Johanna to chop my hair off or tackle me in the halls.
“So, I guess this means you’re not going to the Spring Festival?” Prisha asks. “It’s not fair you have to stay in and study all weekend.”
“What’s the Spring Festival?”
“Mid-April is when the weather starts to get a little warmer here and flowers start to bloom, so there are outdoor street festivals all over the country to celebrate. But the biggest one is here in Olininburg, and it has food stands, carnival games, rides—that sort of thing. Oh, and the wine. There are lots of local wine vendors and competitions. It turns into a bacchanal every year.”
Though we’re the only two students in here, the librarian interrupts our conversation with a loud shushing sound, holding her finger to her lips.
“The drinking age is eighteen here,” I whisper.
“Yeah, although someone in my class said they don’t verify age.”
“Then we should to go,” I say. “To experience authentic Andarusian culture.”
Prisha grins. “Who are you trying to convince? I’m definitely going.”
“I’m just practicing for when my dad tells me no.” I slump in my chair, folding my arms. “He’ll want me to stay inside and study.”
“Then you’ll just have to sneak out.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “So, you ruined a Birkin bag, and now you’re a bad girl who sneaks out and lies to adults? Who are you, and what have you done with Prisha?”
She laughs, and it earns us another shush from the librarian. Prisha gives her an apologetic smile. “It would be nice to go with someone this year. So, you have to find a way. For me.” She clasps her hands together in prayer with a pleading look. “Please?”
“I’ll be there. I’ll figure it out.”
Somehow.
Dinner is the one hour of the day when I can’t avoid my father. We often eat breakfast at different times, but dinner is at seven o’clock sharp every night. No exceptions.
I’m all for pushing my dad’s buttons, but this one I let go. Besides, I have to eat, and I’m starving by the time food is on the table. It’s later than what I’m used to, but if Galina had her way, we’d be eating after eight. Damn Europeans.
Most dinners go the same way.
Willow, how was school?
Fine.
How’s the schoolwork going?
Fine.
And that’s when he gives up and starts chatting with Galina. They have a lot to talk about for two people who have nothing in common. Dad talks about work—at least, what isn’t classified—and Galina talks about her chores and her Russian soap operas.
But they listen to one another with genuine interest. It’s kind of sweet in a gross way, I guess.
So, tonight, when I speak up, my dad almost chokes on a carrot.
“Can I go to the Spring Festival this weekend?”
His eyes water from choking as he beats his chest. “You want to go out?”
