Dreaming Anastasia

by Joy Preble

  She pounds her hands against me over and over until I grab them and hold them tight. “You told me I could make a difference,” she says, her voice ragged with pain, “that I could save her. But I didn’t. Not really. I just helped make a huge mess of things. I didn’t save anyone.”

  I hold her tighter. “Don’t you see?” I tell her as the rain streams down our faces. “You did save someone.” I slide my arms from her and then cup her face in my hands, look into those warm, brown eyes so filled with pain. “Look at me, Anne. I’m still here. You did save someone,” I tell her again. “You saved me.”

  I bend and press my forehead to hers, half-expecting her to pull away. But she doesn’t. She reaches up, links her arms around my neck, and touches her lips to mine. And then I kiss her—really kiss her, like I’ve wanted to for a while. And as the last of the clouds disappear, and finally, the rain stops falling, she kisses me back.

  Chicago,

  A Few Weeks Later

  Anne

  There’s no headstone yet on Aleksander Olensky’s grave—just the freshly turned earth and a few flowers I’ve placed there, the thin, white ribbon around them fluttering in the cool breeze.

  It had been a small, graveside service. Turns out the professor really had no family left. Just Ethan. And me. And so many students who had loved him, but whose questions about his death will have to remain unanswered—because, honestly, what would we tell them?

  So many secrets, I think as I stand here holding Ethan’s hand. So many secrets.

  “How’s your mother doing today?” Tess asks. She’d wanted to come with us to the cemetery, as if seeing the grave would help make it all seem more real.

  “She’s good,” I say. “Real good. She’ll have to keep that cast on her arm for a few more weeks. And she’s going to have to have some physical therapy. But she’s getting stronger. And she’s eating and starting to bitch at me.” I smile. It’s not quite the grin I’d like it to be, but as with my mom, it’s taking a while to get back to what had been.

  It’s still so strange to me how people explain what happened on Second Street. Freak storms. Tornados. Flash floods. No one mentions a giant witch. Or a girl who was there and then disappeared. I guess people just see what they expect to see—or what their minds can handle. Even if it’s an illusion. I suppose that’s what keeps us all from just hiding under our beds some days: our own illusions that cover the secret truths and make them easier to bear.

  I’ve got a lot of secrets these days. I still haven’t told my parents what really happened. I think someday I will, because the bloodline I share is not just mine. It’s my mother’s too, and someday, when the time is right, she’ll need to know.

  Ethan squeezes my hand. “We’ll need to go soon,” he says to me. I can see the sadness in his eyes—those eyes that are still as blue as ever but hold a new sorrow that never quite disappears.

  I nod. It seems impossible that I’ve only known him just a short time—not even a month. We’ve been through so much together, it feels like I’ve known him forever. I don’t know where we’re going with that part either—that thing that started when we kissed each other out there in the rain, the day that Anastasia went back to die but Ethan got to live. That thing might be something—but it might not.

  I need time to think about it—time when we’re not running for our lives or trying to save someone who, it turns out, just can’t be saved; trying not to screw up the world even more than it already is.

  “I’m ready,” I tell him now.

  We turn and start up the gravel path toward his car. Ethan is still holding my hand on one side of me, and Tess, close enough that she keeps bumping up against me as we walk, is on the other. But even the warmth of both of them doesn’t block out the wind. I pull my jacket a little tighter around me. Like so many things, I guess, the cold is inevitable. It comes whether we want it to or not. But it doesn’t last forever.

  There’s one more secret I’m holding—one I share with the two people crunching the gravel path alongside me.

  Lily, my birth grandmother, might be searching for the daughter she had given away. If I can find that woman, Nadia Tauman, who wrote to Professor Olensky, then maybe I can track her down—if, that is, she wants to be found. But I know how that goes now too. It’s not always easy to find someone—or keep them around once you do. Things don’t always turn out like we hope they will.

  Right now, I’ve got to do something else. Something that I’ve been dreading since he first told me a few days ago. I’ve got to say good-bye.

  Ethan is leaving—not forever, I don’t think, but for a while. He’s going back to Europe, to Russia—back to his homeland, his roots. He’s free now, and I know he’s got to come to terms with what that means, with who he is—and more importantly, who he’s going to be, now that he can live out his life as he chooses.

  “I have to do this,” he’d told me. “I’ve been one thing for so very long. I need to see what other paths there are.”

  We’ve reached the car. Ethan and I climb into the front seat. Tess hops in the back. “Remember I’m back here,” she says. “Don’t you two start groping at each other up there and forget about me.”

  “Hey,” she says when we both turn around to glare at her, “someone had to cut the tension around here, so I volunteered myself. And by the way, you’re welcome.”

  Ethan rolls his eyes and gives me a lopsided smile. Then we settle in our seats, and he turns the key in the ignition.

  He’ll come back to me, I tell myself. He has to . But as I keep learning, there are no guarantees.

  Ethan guides the car through the cemetery gate and onto the street. He reaches over and clasps my hand in his. Underneath my skin, where no one can see, sparks dance, then ignite.

  Acknowledgments

  Many, many people have helped me along this journey. A profound and hearty thank you to:

  Wonder agent, Jen Rofe, who took me on literally in the middle of Hurricane Ike and who has kept me sane with her intelligence, wit, and wicked cowgirl skills.

  Editor Lyron Bennett, who, when he’s not having a computer apocalypse, has scathingly brilliant ideas. You knew Anastasia needed a journal. And you had a soft spot for my poor, clueless Ethan. This book would not exist were it not for you.

  SCBWI critique partners Suzanne Bazemore, Dede Ducharme, Bob Lamb, and Kim O’Brien. You’ve been there since Anne was just a voice on half a page. You were always willing to tell me when I sucked. And thrilled for me when I didn’t. Your love and support never fail to energize me.

  The Class of 2k9—how lucky am I to have gained over twenty new writer friends with whom to share this journey. You are gifted, generous of spirit, and amazingly supportive.

  My school family at Oak Ridge High School—I hope I’m making you proud. Now go do your homework! And a special thank you to my very first readers, including Kara—who told me Ethan was swoon-worthy and made sure I worked to keep him that way. You rock!

  To my friends—I am truly blessed that there are more of you than I can name here, but especially to Sandy, Deborah, Wanda, and Beth Ann—yes, you are my people.

  Finally, to Rick and Jacob, the two who know my heart the best of all—you kept telling me I could do it. And you were right.

  About the Author

  Joy Preble grew up in Chicago, though she moved to Texas and inexplicably began listening to country music, which she claims she didn’t like until then. She has an English degree from Northwestern University, and she teaches English to high school students. Dreaming Anastasia is her first novel. She can be found online at www.joypreble.com.

 

 

 
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