The Big Dream by Rebecca Rosenblum Page B

the meat. “It’s not spicy, is it? The sauce?” Yaël looked hard. She couldn’t see anything in the goop except flecks of freeze-dried onion, but some spices could dissolve.
    â€œIt’s not spicy.” Her mother had changed into a housedress with snaps up the front and slippers that were like Yaël’s but green. She opened a drawer and took her time rummaging for the potato peeler, clattering around. The housedress was not flattering but Yaël had never come up with a way to tell her mother that.
    Yaël sat down and cut a piece of meat with only a little sauce on it. She had her mouth full when her mother said, “So who’s this Sasha?”
    She swallowed. The sauce was a little spicy, a little sharp, too. Maybe paprika. It wasn’t worth starting an argument over. Neither was her mother’s question. Yaël dug her fork into a broccoli. “Sasha is my friend who invited me to the party.”
    â€œSasha’s party?”
    â€œNo. I don’t know whose party.”
    â€œSo, what? You’ll go with any boy who invites you to a party?”
    â€œSasha is a girl.”
    Her mother glared at her through the pass-through, her fingers curled around a naked white potato. “It’s a boy’s name. Short for Alexander.”
    Yaël had almost finished scraping all the sauce off her cutlet. “Not in Canada.”
    Her mother put the potato into the pot before she said, “What’s it short for?”
    Yaël thought of the tight complete tinyness that was Sasha. “That’s all it is. Just Sasha.”

    â€œWho’s Sasha?” That was Abey, just coming in from the hall.
    â€œSasha is Yaël’s new friend that is taking her to a party.”
    â€œI’m taking myself. We’re meeting there.”
    Her brother was wearing dusty coveralls and he didn’t take them off before he sat down next to Yaël. She watched carefully to see if any dust was floating towards her robe. He narrowed his dark eyes. “Boy-Sasha or girl-Sasha?”
    Yaël’s kept her big blue eyes round. “Girl.” She cut another piece of meat and chewed it at him. The sauce had soaked into the breading. She set her fork down and said, “Mama, I’m done. Want me to give the rest to Chien?”
    â€œThat’s all you’re eating? Wait a minute, I’ll finish making Abey’s potatoes and then you can have some, too. And don’t feed it to Chien, the vet don’t want him having scraps. He’s been getting fat, old boy.”
    â€œI am not eating potatoes. And Chien is not fat. I gotta get my hair fixed.”
    Abey stretched out his legs so that Yaël had to walk around to put her plate on the counter. “Did they like the new logo?” he asked.
    â€œOf course. They loved the whole presentation,” she snapped, and went upstairs to finish herself.

    There was a short in the hair dryer, so that it still worked but took twice as long to dry her hair, and left little waves behind her ears. Sasha had never once said anything about Yaël’s hair, but then, men failed to mention, too – hair just went into the whole overall picture that they either did or did not like.
    Then her last pair of good stockings snagged on the drawer so she had to wear the store-brand emergency pair, which puckered at the waist. By the time she got back downstairs, Yaël was in a mood, but her father was there so she had to be nice.

    â€œHey, Pop. How was your day?” She got her party boots from the closet and looked them over. She didn’t have time for polish, but the burgundy leather looked glossy enough.
    â€œAwight.” Her father was eating, hunched over the table with his suit jacket on the back of his chair inside out. She waited for what her father would ask; her mother would have prepped him, like an executive for a meeting. He muttered through a spoonful of potatoes, “Them bosses