“I sucked my thumb,” she finally said.
“So?” Ana asked. “I did too. Same with Mikey.”
“I sucked my thumb until I was in first grade.” In reality, it was more like third grade, and every once in a while, she’d still wake up with her thumb in her mouth. But she couldn’t tell Ana that. “And I eat my pizza from the crust to the point.”
Ana laughed, but not in a mean way. “Okay, that first one’s pretty good, but how is the second one even a secret? As soon as we ate pizza together, I’d figure it out anyway.”
The panic in Katie’s chest eased, and she laughed along with Ana. When she looked at her friend, open-faced and smiling, the secrets she hadn’t spoken coiled up and settled deep inside Katie. They were safer there. It was better this way. The little-bit-sick feeling in her stomach made Katie wonder if she was totally right, but she pushed that deeper inside too.
Some secrets, she thought, I’m allowed to keep.
That night, when her parents’ bedroom had been dark and silent long enough that she could be sure they were asleep, Katie clicked on her small flashlight and headed for the attic.
In her old house, Katie had known exactly where the creaky spots in the floor were, but this house still felt unfamiliar sometimes. Twice she made a floorboard groan and held her breath afterward, as though that would suck up the sound.
When Katie had safely scaled the steps to the attic, she found the box waiting in a dusty pool of moonlight. The beautiful things inside pulled on her heart even more now, and somehow they seemed to be tugging at her memory too.
Katie wanted to keep them all close, but she decided to take only one thing at a time. That way, if her mom decided to check, she’d be less likely to notice something was missing. But which one should she take first?
It didn’t take long to decide. It was the pocket watch Katie loved most. She held up the small circle and breathed in deeply, but the watch only smelled like old metal. Somehow, she’d been expecting it to smell like something else.
Like cloves.
Katie closed the box carefully and snuck down the attic stairs, but she wasn’t quite ready to go back to bed. After listening at her parents’ door to be sure they were still asleep, she made her way down the next flight of stairs, past the doorway draped with Thankfuls. She paused and touched her fingertips to the curls of paper, wondering what had made her write the secret words about her birth parents, worrying once again about what her mom and dad might think when they read that last link.
There was no mess left in the kitchen. The only signs of all the hours Katie’s mom had spent preparing the feast were the turkey brining in the sink and the shelf of pies in the fridge. The counters had been wiped spotless and the dishes and spices put away, including the cloves. But it was only a few moments before Katie had the small bottle clutched in one hand and the pocket watch in the other.
Back in her room and under her pile of quilts, Katie opened the spice bottle and set it on the closest corner of her nightstand, hoping it might help her remember more. She slid the pocket watch under the covers in case her mom checked on her in the night.
After that, it took Katie hours to fall asleep. Now she was keeping too many secrets, and she was beginning to realize how many her parents were keeping from her. A new worry began to grow inside her as she thought of the stories her parents had told her and wondered about the ones they hadn’t.
Nothing felt like solid ground anymore. If you could become a family “just like that,” was it real? And could it last forever?
Katie’s mind flashed back to the night at the pond: the ice that had seemed safe, in spite of the dark, cold secrets of the water beneath. The shock when Ana had broken through and they’d all tumbled into the icy water, even though Katie had suspected all along it would happen.
How long until the ground gave way beneath her again?
Ana
Chapter 7
BABUSHKA DRAGGED MIKEY and Ana, drenched and shivering, away from the pond and up the hillside. Ana had never been so cold. The air seemed to be forming frost inside her lungs.
“We’re fine,” she said, her teeth chattering like Mikey’s orange marbles. “My mom will take care of us.” Ana didn’t even have to look at Babushka to know neither one of them believed that. But wow, did she want to believe. It hurt to realize how much.
“Your mother,” Babushka said, “has gone to bed. She is very tired because her life is very tiresome.” She tipped her head toward Ana, like a crow on a fence post. “I take care of you now.” Babushka could freeze even normal words into shards of ice.
In her room, Ana threw on dry clothes, then came back to help Mikey. But Babushka had beat her to him.
Mikey stood on the cold tile floor with his knobby knees trembling as Babushka ran the bathwater. He reminded Ana of the house on chicken legs from her dad’s stories. Or maybe it was Babushka who had reminded her of the old witch who lived in that house.
“Now I tell you what happened next to Vasilisa, the girl who lost her parents.” Babushka glanced up at Ana. “She was troublesome to her stepmother, so she was sent to the witch, Baba Yaga.”
Ana shivered. Wasn’t that the same witch she’d just remembered? One she hadn’t thought about in years?
Babushka cracked open the window to let the steam out. The snow was coming down hard now, and a draft of wind curled around her, lifting the white wisps of her hair at the exact moment Ana realized that “Baba Yaga” sounded a lot like “Babushka.”
“And do you know what the witch did with that girl?”
Ana rolled her eyes, trying not to be scared. “Cooked her in the oven?”
Babushka cackled. “Not this time. She had eaten plenty of children before, but Baba Yaga had something else in mind for Vasilisa.” She pointed a bony finger at Mikey, then at the bathtub. He scrambled in.
“Do not drown while I am gone, Mikhail,” Babushka ordered as she handed him a bar of soap. She took Ana by the arm and led her downstairs and out the front door. “I will tell you what the witch did with her troublesome girl,” she said. “She put the girl to work.”
Babushka thrust a snow shovel toward Ana. “It will be easier to shovel tomorrow if you move the first layer tonight. You are welcome.”
“I’m not doing it unless my mom says so. She won’t make me shovel.” It was probably true, but Ana knew her Mom wouldn’t exactly be shoveling either. They’d probably just stay snowed in until Ana gave in and took care of it, but that didn’t mean she wanted to get started tonight.
“Your mother needs rest.” Babushka tapped the shovel against the ground. “I am in charge.”
“I’m not doing it,” Ana said. “I don’t even have my coat.”
Babushka took off her own coat and held it out, hooked over her fingers and smelling of onions and pain-relief rub.
“You are welcome again,” she said as Ana put the coat on.
When Babushka had disappeared into the house, Ana slammed the shovel into the walk and began scraping. The snow was coming down hard, which she usually loved because she was usually watching it from somewhere warm.
Ana worked in a steady rhythm: scrape, chuck, scrape, chuck. When she slid a little and held the shovel in her hands, when the air cooled her lungs as the work warmed her body, it almost felt like hockey. The rhythm reminded her of drills during practice.
Slide, stop, slap shot.
Slide, stop, slap shot.
After she’d pushed the last line of snow from the driveway, Ana stopped and closed her eyes. She tipped her face upward and let the cold kisses of snowflakes cover her. Even though she’d never admit it to Babushka, it felt kind of good to have that gentle ache in her muscles again and the solid heartbeat in her chest. To feel the snowflakes on her face instead of watching them through a window.
Ana left the shovel on the porch and shucked Babushka’s rough coat. She went to the fridge and grabbed the milk, and when she shut the door, there was Babushka, sitting at the cou
nter and knitting some ugly red socks.
“Lucky you have a snow shovel. In Russia, we only had a coal shovel. Lucky you like being outside in the snow. You are a lucky, lucky girl, Anastasia Ilyinichna Petrova.”
In her mind, Ana laid out all the unlucky cards she’d been dealt lately. Dad gone, Mom a mess, Mikey crying, and now Babushka running her life and reminding her of that whole ridiculous name. “Yeah. Super lucky.”
“You will rest tonight, rebyonok,” Babushka said, clicking the knitting needles. “You will need much energy to do all the housework waiting for you in the morning.” The thin snake of yarn turned around itself and around the needles, again and again, even though Babushka’s eyes were locked with Ana’s. She could almost believe the needles and yarn were knitting on their own, more bewitched than simply moved by Babushka.
Later, when Babushka had gone to her room, Ana crept out of bed to tell her mom everything that had gone wrong. But as she laid her hand on the doorknob, she realized she didn’t know what to say. She never knew what to say. As bad as things were for her, she didn’t want to make them worse for her mom.
So instead, Ana grabbed the puck and tiptoed toward Mikey’s room. Maybe she could help her mom by helping Mikey. She couldn’t let him go to bed thinking everybody had let him down.
Ana eased open Mikey’s door and slipped through, but once she’d shut it behind her, she could barely see a thing.
“Hey,” she whispered into the darkness. Ana thrust her hands in front of her and tried to feel for the softness of Mikey’s quilt or the prickly fuzziness of his short hair. “Are you awake?”
Mikey clicked on a flashlight. “I thought you were her.” He gave a little shudder.
“Why is it so dark in here?” Ana asked. She’d never had to feel her way around in Mikey’s room before.
“She took my night-light,” Mikey said, clutching the flashlight in one hand and the end of the paper countdown chain in the other. “She told me more of that story with the girl and the witch and the glowing skull heads. I told her I was scared, but she still took my night-light because she thinks I’m too old for it. But I’m not even old. She’s old. And she keeps calling me Mikhail.”
At least he seemed more mad than sad. At least he’d outsmarted Babushka with his flashlight.
Ana picked up a crayon from Mikey’s floor and took the paper chain from him. She counted five links down and drew a little lightbulb. “This is the day she’s leaving,” she said. “Then you’ll get your night-light back, so you can count down to that too.”
As Mikey studied the new picture, Ana held out the hockey puck. “Try one more wish,” she said. “The other stuff will work, just . . . try something else. Something small but important.” Sort of like you, she thought.
Mikey scrunched his nose. “Why does magic have so many rules?”
Ana shook her head. “I don’t know, but it’ll be worth it. Come on. Small but important.”
Mikey thought for a second, then grabbed the puck from Ana. He held it between his palms and whispered his wish. “Candy bar pie. I want candy bar pie for Thanksgiving, like our real grandma used to make us.”
Of course, Babushka was technically their real grandma too, but Ana knew what Mikey meant. As soon as he’d said the words, Ana could taste the pie herself, with just the right amount of chocolate and crunch under a snowbank of whipped cream.
“That does sound good, Mikey. That’s perfect.” Except thinking about Grandma Mary just reminded Ana of one more thing she’d lost. “I wish I’d let her teach me how to bake. Or at least paid attention when she did it herself.”
Mikey patted Ana’s hand. “It doesn’t matter if we can’t bake. That’s what the magic is for.”
Right. The magic.
Ana kissed the puck, which tasted nothing like candy bar pie, and whispered the spell.
Then she knew exactly what to do. Maybe she could make Mikey’s wish come true after all.
The next morning, Ana waited until Babushka had dragged her mom down to the basement to sort through boxes. Then she stole the ugly red socks from Babushka’s knitting bag and snuck out of the house. If there was one person in Boston who could bake candy bar pie just like Grandma Mary had, it was Katie’s mom.
Mrs. Burton was in the kitchen, which was no surprise, but she seemed to knead her dough extra hard after she saw Ana. “No more late night swims,” she said. “I’ve got my eye on you, Ana Petrova. You keep my Katie safe.”
Ana had always thought Katie’s mom treated Katie like a kitten, too small and fragile to fend for herself. But now definitely wasn’t the time to bring that up.
“Absolutely. Safety is my number-one priority. Um, Mrs. Burton, I have a favor to ask you.”
Mrs. Burton gave Ana the suspicious side-eye look, but she turned curious instead when she saw the recipe card in Ana’s hand.
“It’s my grandma’s recipe,” Ana offered. “It would mean a lot if you could make it for me.”
Mrs. Burton looked like she might be caving, but she shook her head. “The menu’s set, and my time’s spoken for this morning. I have my own pies to bake, and that turkey needs some attention.” But she didn’t hand the card back.
“Actually, it’s not for me. It’s for Mikey. He’s had kind of a rough year. This was the one thing he wanted for Thanksgiving.” Ana remembered something else that might help her cause. “And Katie hates pumpkin, so if you made a couple of these instead, we’d each have one.”
The card bent a little in Mrs. Burton’s grip. “Katie hates pumpkin pie?” She dropped to a stool. “She never tells me these things. Maybe she would like this better.”
Ana decided this was close enough to a yes that she’d close the gap herself. “Oh, she totally would. You’re the best mom ever. I’ll pick ours up tomorrow. And I’ll keep Katie busy the rest of the day so it can be a surprise!”
Before Mrs. Burton could argue, Katie herself showed up, and the deal was done. Perfect, thought Ana. Finally, something went right.
Thanksgiving Day at Ana’s house was a Russian disaster, right from the very beginning.
“Today,” announced Babushka as they sat around the table, eating runny oatmeal, “we call your father.”
Mikey looked at Ana, who looked at her mom, who looked at the ceiling.
“No,” Ana said. “No thanks.”
“We call. Where is your phone?”
Ana scraped back from the table and pulled her mom’s phone off the charger, where it had sat, 100% charged, for probably two weeks. She held it behind her back.
“We’re not calling,” she said. “He wouldn’t answer anyway. He used to, but not anymore. Not for months.”
Babushka snorted. “My son will answer when I call.”
Ana shook her head. “It’s the same number even if you call. He probably blocked it or something.”
“Let her try.” Ana’s mom still stared at the ceiling, and she didn’t even brush away the tear that slid clear to her collar. “Let her find out for herself.”
Ana shoved the phone into Babushka’s outstretched hand and walked away. She sat on the stairs where she could still hear, folding her legs up and resting her forehead on her knees.
She wanted to be wrong. She wanted to hear Babushka barking at her dad in Russian, and for that to fix something, somehow.
He didn’t answer. Of course.
Then everything was worse. Of course.
Babushka banned Ana from the kitchen and put her to work clearing out Mikey’s room. Mikey was supposed to be helping, but all he did was bawl over every little thing she chucked. Ana tried to peek into the kitchen to see what all the strange, sour smells could be, but Babushka shooed her out over and over.
By the time Babushka called them to the table, everybody was broken-down and exhausted. And then, Ana saw the food.
Babushka had ruined the turkey with a strange gray sauce they weren’t allowed to scrape off. She’d axed the sweet potatoes.
“Mom,” Ana ple
aded. “Where is the real food?”
Babushka slapped her palm against the table. “Sugared cranberries on turkey? Marshmallows on yams? Your teeth will rot away like old stumps!”
Ana ran her tongue over her fillings. They hadn’t come from Thanksgiving dinner. That was just dumb. And wouldn’t it be worse to starve? Babushka’s dinner wasn’t even edible.
The potatoes were chunky instead of mashed and served with boiled radishes that tasted like barf. The rolls were crusty and flecked with something black, but Ana and Mikey still ate three each until Babushka took the basket. After that, they had to settle for their mom’s sad, limp asparagus.
“Ana,” Mikey begged as they helped clear the table after it was finally over. “I’m still hungry.”
Babushka appeared in the doorway. Hadn’t she been all the way over at the sink half a second ago?
“I heard this! What child is hungry when he carries a bowl of radishes?” Babushka dragged Mikey back to his chair. “Starving children in Russia can only imagine such a feast.”
Babushka whipped a dirty wooden spoon from her apron, longer than any Ana had seen in their kitchen before. She dipped the spoon into the bowl and tipped out the contents: three fat radishes dropped like greasy stones onto Mikey’s plate.
“Eat all three,” she said, “before you leave the chair.” She towered over him, clutching her wooden spoon like a club.
Mikey’s chin quivered.
“You can do it,” Ana whispered.
Mikey nodded and speared the smallest radish. He popped it in his mouth and smashed his eyes shut, then started chewing rabbit-fast. After a few seconds, though, his eyes popped open, and he gagged a little.
“Just swallow it,” Ana said. “And take a drink. Quick!”
Mikey nodded again. He tried to swallow, twice, but both times he ended up choking and spluttering. “Go, Mikey, go!” Ana chanted. Mikey gripped his fork and swallowed, and this time, the radish went down.
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