by Joy Preble
Why was he suddenly here as though he’d dropped out of the sky? Why had he looked at me that way, as if I was the long-lost cousin he’d been looking for or I’d won some super-secret lottery or something? And why was he watching us at the ballet the other day?
Lots of questions, but no answers—especially regarding the electrical buzz, which, because it just sounds so ridiculous, I decide to keep to myself.
I chew another few bites of sandwich. Normally, I’m ravenous, but I guess today is anything but normal.
“I love this,” Sarah says. “I mean, when does something like this ever happen? You see a guy, and suddenly, poof! He’s going to your school. It’s like a fairy tale or something.”
And then, because I’ve gotten to lunch late and taken up most of it wondering about mystery-guy Ethan, the bell rings.
“I’ve gotta bolt.” Tess tosses the remains of her salad into the garbage. “I’ve been late to pre-calc five times already, and she is so going to write me up if I’m late again. So save it and tell me at dance this afternoon. And if there aren’t enough good details, you can make some up before then.”
That said, Tess heads off toward the stairs and Sarah heads off to her sculpture class, because not only is she a dancer but she can create these amazing clay pieces that look like real people.
As for me, I pack up my stuff and start the trek to English class. Then just as I hit the hallway right outside the cafeteria, the buzzing tingle shoots back up my arm like a flame. My hands go icy, the world feels like it’s spinning, and I think I might faint. For a few seconds, I have the unmistakable feeling that I’m being watched.
Find her, says a small voice that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Come for her. In front of me, something flickers—a quick flash of light that’s gone almost as it catches my eye.
The world stands still again. The warning bell rings, people zoom around me on their way to class, and life at Kennedy High trudges on as always.
This is becoming so weird it’s not even funny. Not even a little.
But when I look around me—because some part of me that’s not freaking out wonders if he has something to do with it—my new pal, Ethan, is nowhere to be found.
My dearest Olga, Tatiana, and of course, my roommate Maria—
I have begun this journal with our darling Alexei, but it is to you three sisters that I have always told the longings of my heart, and it is to you that I tell the next piece of my tale. For Alexei, my story was about blood, and although blood runs through everything I have to say, it is not that which I will share with you, my sweet, sweet sisters.
I think of you so often, and I wonder if you think of me. Do you remember how headstrong I was? How important it was that I win at card games or my tennis matches, and how we rode our bicycles and raced as fast as we could, daring each other to go faster but not to fall? How I painted silly portraits of each of you and told jokes to make you laugh?
Do you remember, sisters, the life we shared? Our rooms, so filled with color and pictures and all of our little treasures, like the beaded necklaces that Mr. Fabergé so kindly helped us create? Our routines and schedules that were so very important to Papa? Those cold baths we hated that he assured us would build our characters? The dances and the teas and the time when we played charades and I pretended to be Father Grigory, scandalizing the three of you and perhaps even myself, if I am to tell the truth, which I am desperately attempting to do?
But I need to tell you what you do not know. Yes, my darlings, your Anastasia has kept some things from you. I suppose all women have their secrets, and in that sense, I am no exception. Neither, I would imagine, is each of you. Or our dear mother, for that matter. But I have come to believe that some of my secrets are deeper than you might have suspected. And if the entry to Alexei began the tale of a boy who was the other son, then this entry to you continues with the story of that boy grown to manhood.
It is not a love story. Not exactly. Do you remember all the boys you said you loved, Maria? We were always teasing you about your many crushes, weren’t we? But I think you might have been surprised to know that I had one of my own, although not in the romantic sense of the word.
So let me say this. He didn’t visit often—not after that first time I met him when I was still too young to understand. And as this seems to be a tale within a tale within yet another story, let me tell you another secret first. One that he told me later and made me swear I would never divulge. As our secrets now are just dust, I suppose my promise is of little consequence.
Our father’s father, who died the year before Olga was born, did not want Papa to marry Mama. Yes, it is very true. I swear it on my life, such as my life is these days—not what I was, but not what you are either, my dear sisters. To our grandfather, marriage was not something one did for love. Marriage was for power, for alliances, for politics. He wanted Papa to marry someone of French royalty so Russia could strengthen its alliances with France. He did not want Papa to love our mother.
But love, like life and destiny, is a funny thing. Papa loved Mama anyway. Even though she was a Protestant and not Orthodox, and even though she did not know much Russian. He wanted desperately to marry her. And, as you know, soon after our grandfather died, he did, and our family came into being.
But our papa was, I realize now, not always the strongest of men. Certainly, he did not anticipate what was to come in our beloved Russia. But he also did not believe that his father would give in. And so there was a time—before he married Mama—when our papa let himself love someone else. Now, there were rumors that Papa’s girlfriend before Mama was a dancer in the Imperial Ballet named Mathilde. And indeed, I think he did court this woman for a time. Maybe he even loved her.
But there was another. I do not know her name or what she looked like, although I would imagine that she had the dark hair and even darker eyes of her son. Her son, who had Papa’s chin and Papa’s posture and even, I think now, Papa’s faith in the impossible—but never Papa’s heart.
I know it is not proper for young ladies to speak of such matters. But here is what I know. Unvarnished and plain as the wooden floor beneath me as I write this.
Although Papa waited and waited for a son through the births of each of his four daughters—you, Olga, and then Tatiana, and then Maria, and finally me—the truth is, he already had one. Two years before Papa married Mama, our secret brother was born. It is he I first saw that day in the park when I was five. And it was he who spoke to me again the year I turned ten.
I was walking by Papa’s study that day, right after Easter, when I saw him. Right after the Fabergés had made that lovely, new decorative egg for us with all our pictures on it. Alexei was ill again, the three of you were at various lessons, and I was supposed to be practicing the piano, but I was restless that day, and so I had gone wandering.
At first, I thought he did not even see me, because the look on his face was so sad, so serious, that I remember wondering if he was seeing anything at all. But I knew him immediately, even though five years had passed. That handsome, angular face. Those dark eyes that seemed to hold so many secrets.
“Anastasia,” he said to me, just as I was certain we would pass without speaking. “You have become quite a young lady.”
I smiled at him, not sure of what—if anything—I should say next. And it was then that I noticed his clothing: his long brown robe, and the small, wooden cross that hung on a leather string around his neck.
“I am of the Brotherhood now,” he told me. He gestured to what he was wearing, and for the first time, he smiled.
“Like Father Grigory?” I asked him, assuming he would know I was referring to Rasputin.
He made a face at that, which surprised me, even though, as you know, I was never fond of Father Grigory and always felt uncomfortable when he was with us. Like the face you made, Tatiana, when my spaniel, Jimmy, did his business on the floor of your room.
“Not like that, exactly,” he
told me. “What I am now is much, much more. That is why I have come back to see your father. That is what I have told him.”
“I am sure he was pleased for you,” I said.
I saw something angry glimmer in those dark, sad eyes of his. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps not. It is hard to say.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his robe as though he wasn’t sure what else to do with them. And then he smiled at me again.
“I know a young man whom you would like,” he said abruptly. “But he is not for you. And besides, he is a serious sort. And he is certainly not someone your father would approve of.” He smiled again, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “But then, Anastasia, your father does not approve of me either. If he did, perhaps a fine portrait of me would grace that lovely Fabergé egg sitting in his study.”
He said your and not our, but I think I understood anyway.
“I will tell Papa that he needs to do so,” I said, feeling suddenly very bold.
He laughed and said to me, “So. You are Anastasia the Brave, are you not?”
“Yes,” I told him, and I laughed too because I knew what he meant. It was, after all, one of our mother’s favorite stories to read to us. “Yes,” I said again. “Like Vasilisa. I will go into the forest of my father’s study and tell him that you are very nice. And if there are any witches in there like Baba Yaga, I will beat them over the head until they are gone.”
Oh, sisters, how clever I thought I was being. But he looked at me very oddly. Like he was seeing me, but also seeing something else. “Be careful, little girl,” he said. “I have met Baba Yaga. And she is not particularly nice. You would not want to get eaten. Although I do thank you for your kind wishes on my behalf.”
And then, sisters, he walked away without another word.
There is yet more to come in this tale, but as I have decided, each piece belongs to one of you, and I must tell it in the order in which it should be told.
Until then, be happy sisters, wherever you are. Remember that we are OTMA: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and your loving,
Anastasia
Tuesday, 4:35 pm
Anne
“What you need,” my mother tells me, grinning, “is the tiara.” She lifts the little silver-and-rhinestone crown from the display case and settles it on my head. I’m already wearing the matching rhinestone bracelet, but as you can never have enough tacky bling, I let her have her way.
We’re standing in the Jewel Box, the vintage and estate jewelry shop my mother helps manage. It’s a small store just a few blocks from Miss Amy’s Studio, where I’m headed for my five o’clock class.
“I am so the princess,” I say as I peer at myself in the little mirror standing on the counter. The bracelet is heavy and really kind of ugly, with dozens of rhinestones alternated with marcasite to up the sparkle level. But I like the tiara, because honestly, what girl doesn’t have royal aspirations?
And what I really like even better is that every piece in this shop has a story, and everything used to belong to someone else. I guess some people might find that kind of icky—like Tess, for example, who last time she was here with me picked up a pair of intricate, coral clip earrings and commented, “I can just see these on some fat old lady with boobs that look like a shelf”—but I don’t mind at all.
I like knowing that there’s a story behind this bracelet and tiara and that they used to touch someone else’s skin. Maybe even though I think the bracelet is the definition of hideous, some lady somewhere thought it was really pretty—or maybe she didn’t, but she wore it once in a while because her husband or lover or whoever had thought it made her look beautiful. All of which, in my opinion, is way more romantic than Adam telling me that my new, pink, Gap scoop-neck T-shirt would look better if he could take it off me.
In any case, my mother and I are alone in the store, because the owner, Mrs. Amelia Benson, is off this afternoon, and currently, no customers are in sight. Mom is cataloging new pieces, and I’m arranging the displays, only the tiara and bracelet were too over the top to pass up, so I convinced her to let me try them on. I stopped in on impulse—something I clearly don’t do enough, judging by the level of surprise on my mother’s face when I arrived about ten minutes ago. But my day has been just so crazy that I found myself heading over here without even thinking.
Not, of course, that I plan on telling my mother about the whole Ethan thing or the pain in my arm that’s still lingering just under the skin like a nagging toothache, or even about last night’s dream, for that matter. And I’m certainly not planning on telling her about the voice that echoed in my ears while the whole world started spinning just outside the cafeteria, because beyond the obvious that maybe I just imagined the whole thing, who in her right mind tells her mother that she’s hearing voices?
Besides, that’s the way it works with us these days. Since David. I don’t worry her, and she doesn’t push for information.
But it’s sort of soothing to just stand here helping her while she fiddles with the jewelry, and I try on tiaras, and she gives directions to someone who called on the phone. “Yes, we’re on Second Street. Two blocks from Main, next door to the Wrap Hut and across the street from Java Joe’s.”
“Where did these come from?” I unclasp the bracelet and then reluctantly lift the tiara off my definitely-not-so-princess-y head and lay them both gently back on the black velvet cloth in the display case where they belong. My mother loves the items’ stories too, so I figure it’s a good way to draw out this visit a little longer since, ballet or no ballet, I really just don’t want to leave.
“Estate sale up in Lake Forest,” my mother says. “Kind of sad, really. This woman, Owena McChesney, lived all over the world, collected all sorts of stuff—art, sculpture, jewelry.” She smiles as I roll my eyes back at the bling-ilicious bracelet and tiara. “Okay, not all of it is your taste. Or mine. But there’s some pretty cool stuff. And now her kids are just basically selling it all off.”
There’s a small pause, during which I’m absolutely sure that both of us are pondering the knowledge that David’s room is exactly as he left it two years ago. Nothing’s been moved even an inch, except to dust it. If he’d been a girl with a tiara, it would be right where he—okay, she—had left it.
But as there is nothing either of us can do about that, my mother collects herself and says, “No, really, Anne. There are these Russian boxes she had that Amelia purchased. Lacquer boxes, they’re called. We’re going to set up a display of them in the front window, I think. Here, I’ll show you.”
My mother flits into the back room and emerges about thirty seconds later with a small box. “It’s Russian folk art,” she says and slips the small, rectangular, black box into my hand. “Usually they depict fairy tales or folktales. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Unlike the rhinestone bracelet, it really is. It’s a little bigger than my palm and very smooth. On the cover, there’s a painting. The colors are vivid—all bright reds, greens, and golds. A young girl in a long dress stands in the middle of a thick forest. She’s got long, black hair wrapped in a scarf she’s got tied under her chin. In one hand, she’s carrying a torch of some sort. In the other, she’s holding a tiny doll dressed in a similar outfit. Behind her ride three horsemen. The horses’ legs are painted to give the impression that they’re in motion, moving swiftly through the forest. Each one is a different color, both horse and horseman matching—one white, one red, one black.
“So which story is this?” I ask her. “Do you know?”
She nods. “It’s called ‘Vasilisa the Brave,’” she tells me. “About a young girl whose wicked stepmother sends her through the forest to get light from a witch. The horsemen are the witch’s servants, I think. Each one is a color of a different time of day—red for sunrise, white for morning, black for night.”
Gooseflesh prickles my arms at the word witch . In my head, I see the old woman with the metal teeth. That jaw unhinging to swallow me whole.
I shake of
f the image. “Wicked stepmother, huh? Kind of like Cinderella?” I think of Tess for a second because of the word wicked while I peer again at the pretty girl on the box. Then I notice something else.
“What’s that?” I point to the small hut behind some of the trees.
Mom shrugs. “I never noticed it before. I guess it must be the witch’s house.” She reaches out to take the box from me. Then, as almost an afterthought, she says, “It opens, you know. The inside is pretty too.”
I place my thumb on the front of the box and push, but the lid stays firmly closed. I push again. Clearly, this is the piece that’s supposed to lift up, but it doesn’t. From the back of the store, I hear the faint sound of a Caribbean-sounding ringtone.
“You know,” I say to my mother. “If you keep your cell phone in your pocket, you don’t have to run to your purse every time it rings.”
“Just watch the front for me.”
“Will do,” I tell her. “If someone comes in, I’m going to pawn off that god-awful bracelet on her.”
My mother makes a face, then hustles to the back to answer her cell.
I poke the box one more time with my thumb. The lid gives a sucking sound, as though it’s been glued shut or something. I push again. The top lifts up, revealing a glossy, red interior. Painted in the center is a tiny gold key. I trace it with my finger, feel how it’s raised slightly from the rest of the box.
I glance at the wall clock. It’s almost five. I really need to dash.
“I’ve got to run,” I say loudly enough that Mom can hear me. I close the lid and plop the box onto the counter.
And then my breath catches in my throat.
Because the hut on the box’s front cover—the one I swear had been barely visible behind the thick grove of trees in the painting—is now resting in the clearing.
Even for the weirdness of today, this is absolutely impossible. I blink and rub my eyes, afraid to look down. But I can’t help myself. I look again. The hut is back behind the trees, just where it had started.