“Bad day. I’m going up to my room.”
I stomp up the stairs, and throw my backpack on my bed. Katya appears at my door. For an older woman, she sure is sprightly.
“What’s the matter, my Daciana?” I wince. My mother never once called me Daciana. Now the sound of it is all I need to bring me to the edge of tears, even though I know it would disappoint my mother. Mom always said, Cantar women don’t cry.
“Everyone knows.” With only two short words, she knows exactly what I mean.
Katya rushes into the room, and embraces me. “Oh, my dear.” She runs her hand down my long dark hair, and I relax in her arms. Mom never did anything like this for me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. I thought I could leave all my sadness behind in California, but it and my overactive imagination have followed me here. I let go of Katya, and embrace a pillow in her place. “Why me?”
“It’s a small town; rumors spread fast,” she says. “But tell me. Are you still having the nightmare?”
My body tenses at the mention of it—this black mark left on my life. When Katya first came, the nightmare happened all the time, sometimes even when I was awake. After we moved, it happened less and less. But the memory was always there, simmering under the surface of my thoughts. No, I’ll never forget that night last spring.
I’m asleep in my bed when I hear our apartment door kicked in. The voices of two men call out for my mother. Instead of cowering in my room, I shoot out of bed and run into her room. She’s already at the door, and hides me under her bed.
I cower underneath there, my eyes glued to her face as she holds a finger to her lips to tell me to be quiet. That’s when they kick in her bedroom door. I can’t see them, cloaked in the darkness of the night. They don’t see me hidden in the shadows, covering my ears to block out my mother’s screams.
The tears threaten to fall again, and I know my pillow would conceal them. But I would always know I gave in to my emotions, and that’s just not allowed. You don’t survive by giving in. I’m a fighter.
Katya runs her hand along my black strands, as if to give me strength in some sort of Samson metaphor. She is a Cantar woman, too. “I’m glad you didn’t cut your beautiful hair,” she says, as if reading my mind.
Back in California, Katya walked in on me with a pair of scissors poised along my long locks. I felt like I needed a change to make things better. That’s when she convinced me to come to the east coast—well first to put down the scissors. Who was I kidding? Nothing could have made things better. Especially not a butchered new hairdo.
“Tea?”
“Sure.”
I join her in the drawing room, and contemplate while Katya puts on the kettle. These small moments make me feel normal. Katya’s answer to most things is tea. It’s a staple to her daily routines. Tired? Have tea. Overworked? Tea. Troubled? Tea. My favorite part of the entire process is that she likes to read the leaves after we’ve finished, but I pretend not to pay much mind to her when she does. It’s another thing my mother hated from her youth. She told me her mother was a Gypsy. She read palms and told fortunes. My mother despised her family for her jagged childhood. I wonder if she realized how close the apple fell when it came to me.
After we finish a quiet cup of tea, Katya reaches out to me. “Let me see your cup.” When I hand it over, her fingers brush against mine, and I shock her. She reels back in pain, and I’m left holding the teacup in shock.
“I’m sorry!” I’ve never seen my great-aunt look so taken aback.
“Never mind.” She reaches toward me, more determined but cautious. When she touches my hand, nothing happens. She looks at me for a moment, then leans over the cup, looking down at my leaves.
“No need to discuss your past,” she begins. “We know enough. Always a broken anchor there. Hmmm, what do I see in your present? A bridge. Very interesting. We have not seen that before. It has a sun nearby. Nice, new beginnings. But where does it lead to?”
My mind wanders off as I notice one of the black streaks zip past out the corner of my eye. I turn toward the window to look for it, but it’s already gone. There’s nothing there but the window and a sunny day on the other side of it.
I startle at Katya’s voice. “Heavens!”
My curiosity is piqued. She’s never been overly excited about what she’s seen. “What do you see?”
“There is a rose in a vase,” Katya says. “Very strange indeed. A romance and a secret? Hmmm. I see a fire as well, but it looks closer to the octopus—”
Seriously, an octopus? “Okay, Auntie.” I smile. “That’s enough for today.”
Her eyes widen with excitement, and meet mine. “Don’t you see? Romance is coming.”
Romance—ha! I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m not interested.”
Katya’s eyebrows scrunch together. “If only your mother had taught you more about love.”
My stomach lurches. I’m pretty sure Katya doesn’t want to hear about my mother’s preference for one night romances. Nothing enticed me to think about romance less than to see her continuous stream of early morning walkouts.
“I got the birds and the bees talk, thanks.”
My great-aunt puts the cup down, stands, and throws her hands in the air as she speaks loud and actively in Romanian. I smile at her unraveling, but then catch another black streak out of the corner of my eye. I follow this one, half expecting it to dissipate in the sunlight from the window, but this time it zips through the glass, across the street, toward the boy from Art, who’s standing there, watching me.
I jump out of my chair. “Hey!”
Katya has already left the room—most likely back in her studio pondering the tea leaves. I run to my bag and grab the drawing out of my backpack, before I swing the door open. He’s already half a block away. I run out into the street chasing after him.
“Hey!” I yell again. “Stop!”
The boy turns and stares at me with that same amused look on his face. I thrust the picture at him.
“Take this back.”
“No.” He looks down at me. “It’s yours.”
I shove it against his chest. “I don’t want it.” He’s surprisingly solid for his lean frame.
He shrugs. “Then throw it out.” His arms stay still in his pockets.
I don’t know what to do. I’ve never met someone who frustrated me this way. “What are you doing out here? Stalking me?”
His smirk disappears as he shifts his weight. “No.”
Good, I’ve unsettled him. I toss the drawing on the ground between us. “Happy now?”
A frown crosses his face as he stares at the drawing on the ground. “Not really.”
I realize how childish I’m acting and I lean down and pick it up. “I don’t want to litter,” I mutter.
We stand there, both staring at anything but each other. I break the tension and turn to leave, but he reaches toward me and grabs the opposite corner of the drawing. I stand still, watching him as we hold the paper together and he stares at it intensely. He lets go and looks disappointed.
“What was that all about?”
He frowns. “Nothing.” I catch another black streak out the corner of my eye and turn to look; this time he looks too, then glances back at me.
“What were you looking at?” I ask cautiously. I can tell he’s hiding something. My mind flickers back to the tea leaves.
“Nothing,” he says. “What were you looking at?”
We stare at each other in silence. I want to leave, but I can’t seem to tear myself away from him. Electricity hangs in the air between us. It’s a mix of frustration and longing.
“I’m Tryan,” he says, holding his hand out.
I stare at his hand, then look back up at him. He looks amused at me again, but this just irritates me more. I reach out and grab his hand. “I’m Dacie—ow!” A shock runs between our palms. His eyes grow as wide as mine feel as I withdraw my hand. I’ve mana
ged to shock two people in the last twenty minutes.
He stands silently, staring at me with something close to awe. Or maybe it’s trepidation. Yeah, most likely the latter. This is too weird.
“I’m going to go. No more stalking me, okay?”
I don’t wait for his answer. I walk away with the sensation of his gaze bearing into my back. It sends shivers down my spine. The electric kind.
I pause at the doorway of Katya’s studio to watch her paint. She’s a flurry of creativity as she passionately sweeps her arm along the canvas, leaving only minute brushstrokes in its wake.
She pauses with one arm mid-air and asks, “Did you ever see your mother paint?”
How does she know I’m standing behind her?
My mother? Paint? I scoff. “Unless you mean her face before going out at night, that woman never lifted a brush.”
Katya sighs. “Oh, she did, ever since she was old enough to hold a brush. I have yet to see the likes of her attention to detail.”
“You must be mistaken—”
Katya turns toward me. Her eyes are narrowed and fiery as her finger hangs in the air. “I am never mistaken. Do not forget that, Daciana.”
Her change in demeanor frightens me. But she soon lowers her arm. “Come in here, please.”
I maneuver around fallen canvases and drapes of fabric strewn across the floor. “What is it?” I ask.
“Look at this painting,” she says, studying my face. “Tell me, what do you see?”
I stare at the oil painting in front of me. “There’s a tree,” I say, looking back at her. She nods for me to continue. “The tree is on fire.”
“What else?” she prods.
I’m confused. The tree takes up the entire painting. There isn’t a single leaf left; the flames consume everything else. “I don’t understand.”
“Look deeper, Daciana. Really focus.”
I take a deep breath and stare hard at the painting. Nothing happens. The ridges of the oil paint rise at the edges of the brush strokes, making the flames lift from the canvas. I stare harder, focusing on the flames, noticing the multi-colored detail in each one, how the flow of colors in each flicker is different from the next. For a second I notice part of the painting move. No, it’s just a trick of my eyes. I’m straining too much. Then the doorbell chimes.
“So close,” Katya curses under her breath.
I leave the studio, relieved to have a break from Katya’s strange test, and open the front door. Brennan’s cheeks shift as he smiles at me and I pause before saying hello. He’s fit, that’s apparent. I wonder if he has a six-pack. I blush at the thought and Brennan takes it as a compliment. “Hey there,” Brennan says, giving his full teeth smile, charm and all.
I must look like a silly girl, checking him out in the doorway. “Hi.” I start laughing at myself and Brennan beams wider. He must think I’m happy to see him.
“We’re going downtown to eat. Want to come?” I look past Brennan and see Sophie, Zack, and Chantal piled into a small pickup out front. Chantal is the only one who doesn’t wave.
“I’m not really hungry.”
“She’d love to go,” Katya says behind me. “It’s good to get out, Daciana. Go, clear your head.”
Brennan smiles again. “Great.” I reluctantly grab a sweater and some money and head out the door. I go to jump in the back of the truck with the others, seeing Chantal in the passenger seat. “Come on!” Brennan says. “There’s room beside me.” I half-heartedly climb in between Chantal and Brennan. How uncomfortable.
“So,” Brennan says. “It’s Daciana, is it?”
“No,” I say. “It’s Dacie. Only my great-aunt calls me that.”
Brennan parks at a convenience store near the bay. Everyone jumps out of the back of the truck and Chantal holds the door open for me. Brennan is waiting for me on the other side, but the look on Chantal’s face says she’s the safer choice. I’d rather not make an enemy my first day making friends.
Inside, everyone’s getting drinks. I opt for a slushie. It’s been forever since I got one. Suddenly, I miss the West Coast. I rarely get homesick since we moved so much. I guess it’s really Mom I’m missing.
“I thought we were getting something to eat?” I ask.
“Catch.” Zack tosses me a bag of jerky. “Or are you a carb kinda girl?”
I scrunch my nose at the shriveled up meat. “I was raised on convenience stores, but you still couldn’t pay me to eat this stuff.”
“Oh?” Chantal pipes up. I ignore her and go to the register.
Brennan leans on the counter next to me so close that our arms are touching. “The restaurant was just a lie to get your aunt to let you out.” There’s that smile again.
I hold up my slushie. “Kind of figured.” I pay the clerk and slip away from Brennan’s stare, but that doesn’t deter him.
He slides up next to me. “You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t need Katya’s permission to do things.”
“Noted.” Brennan winks. He opens his jacket and flashes a bottle of whiskey at me.
Sophie runs up and grabs my arm, pulling me away from Brennan. “We’re going down to the vendors on the beach. You’ll love it. It might remind you of home.”
Chantal laughs louder than she should. “I doubt Little Miss California will agree.”
The beach is behind the convenience store. Seagulls cover the shoreline, waiting for any morsel they can sneak from the nearby vendors that line the beach. A cool fall breeze catches my face as it bounces off the ocean.
“Don’t mind Chantal,” Sophie says. “She’s had a crush on Brennan since kindergarten when he shared his crayons with her.”
“What’s her problem with me then?” I ask.
“You know.” Sophie smiles. “Because Brennan likes you.”
“I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” I say.
“Who mentioned boyfriend?” Sophie smiles again.
Brennan slides in between Sophie and me. “Here.” He passes Sophie the bottle. She stops and pours some into her cup, then hands the bottle to me.
“No thanks,” I say. My mom drank enough while I was growing up. The appeal was lost on me.
“Oh, come on.” She grabs my cup and pours in some of the unknown substance.
I grab my cup back and see my slushie melting under the booze. “That’s enough.”
Sophie shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She runs back to Zack and passes him the bottle, leaving Brennan and me alone.
I hold my cup up to Brennan. “Is this what you guys do for fun around here?”
“What else are you going to do in a small town?” he asks. He walks awfully close to me, his shoulder brushing against mine every other step. A feeling of claustrophobia crawls across my skin.
Zack runs up behind us and takes Brennan in a headlock. “Let’s grab a hotdog at the arcade.” He turns to me and winks. “Or do you not eat those either?”
I hold up my hands in the air. “Isn’t it a food group?” Zack laughs aloud.
I sit near the open windows of the arcade with Sophie and Chantal, while the boys play video games. I’d rather be playing one myself, but Chantal made it clear I was to hang out with them. Looking out at the water, I welcome the breeze as a distraction.
“Where’s your dad?” Chantal asks unexpectedly.
I turn my attention to her. It’s clear she hates me. I want to reach across the table and slap her, but instead I plaster a smile on my face. Sophie clears her throat. “Why would you ask that?”
Chantal throws Sophie a dirty look. “What? We know what happened to her mom. That’s why she’s here living with her aunt. I’m just trying to get to know her.”
The table falls quiet again. I take a sip of my drink, forgetting about the alcohol in it. I cough as soon as it bites the back of my throat. Whisky. Great.
Chantal mumbles, “Listen, I just meant we don’t kno
w much about you. Where did you grow up?”
I run my hands along my pant legs. I wish I could join them under the table and hide. “We moved around a lot.”
“What did your mom do for work?” she asks.
I’ve dreaded answering this question my entire life, so I came up with a paper cutter answer for people like this; all part of acting normal. “She was a secretary.”
“Oh.” Chantal looks disappointed. I take another swig of my drink. This time the whiskey burns a little less.
“What sort of a name is Dacie anyways?
“Oh, gawd, Chantal.” Sophie rolls her big blue eyes. “Enough already. I’m going to go hang out with the boys if you keep this up.”
Chantal folds her hands across her chest, pouting.
Sophie turns to me with her lipstick smile. “I took a class with your aunt this summer. I wish she’d told me about you—we could have hung out.”
“My great-aunt teaches?” She left the house a lot, but I spent most the time up in my bedroom reading books from Katya’s library or surfing the Internet. That was the thing about moving around a lot; I didn’t get to meet many people or take much with me from place to place—but books and the Internet were always available.
Chantal’s face jerks away from the window, suddenly interested in our conversation again. “Don’t you know about your own aunt?” Her voice drips with her usual drama.
Sophie shuts her up with a look.
“Know what?” I ask, taking another sip.
“Nothing,” Sophie says. “She teaches art at the community center.”
“And she’s bat shit crazy.”
“I said, shut up, Chantal.”
“As if she doesn’t know, Sophie,” Chantal shoots Sophie an angry look. “She’s a witch or something. Makes potions, reads fortunes. Every winter she left and every summer she returned, running up and down the streets warning everyone about ghosts, or something.”
“She’s a Gypsy. Not a witch.”
Chantal snorts and everyone else goes silent. I take another sip, but this time my stomach lurches; I shouldn’t have been drinking, especially on an empty stomach. I stand up and feel a little light-headed. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I mumble, leaving the table.
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