sick little heart, after all these years, nothing will go right for any of us,” she said, twirling her empty hand in the shape of an infinity sign, first out toward Yasha, then back to her.
“If you don’t talk to my father before Thursday, you will have missed your chance.”
“Thursday?” She laughed, and in doing so choked on a piece of apple. Her laughter flared up into coughing and then resolved into laughter again. “See what you’ve done? You’ve made me choke, with all your threatening. All right, little man, perhaps you can help me on Thursday. Perhaps Thursday will be fine.”
Ten years ago, Yasha had needed his mother’s “help” to pick out his school clothes, scramble his eggs, comb his hair. She denied him nothing in those days, no service, no affection, straight up until she decided to deny him a decade. Now he stood inches from her generous hands, feeling capable and cold.
“How could I possibly help you?” Yasha said.
“You and I will make a plan for your father tomorrow. You take your exam now like a good little man,” she said, “and be sure to ravage it. Ravage it.”
As Yasha marched up the stairs to Mr. Usoroh’s classroom, her voice said, little man, little man , around his head in a loop. She cared less about everything than anyone he’d ever met. All the kids at his school, he himself, his father—they all seemed, in retrospect, to be bombarded by worries, to be hopelessly depressed, compared with his red-haired mother. She was one big victory. She made him feel so powerless, so without a body, he walked straight down the hall, looking for something to punch, turned into an alcove of senior lockers, pushed Alexa against her own locker, and kissed her.
They kept their mouths closed and touching for long enough to make Yasha feel certain it was a kiss , and then he stepped back and walked into the math room. From inside, he could hear ferocious squealing, not just from Alexa but from all the girls nearby. He looked back out the classroom door’s window. Alexa was on the floor, trying to breathe through her giggling. The other girls had gathered around her, flipping their hair around and touching Alexa’s knees. Yasha rubbed his lips together. The kiss had left no trace, hadn’t even tasted like anything, and now it was over. Yasha still needed to use the bathroom. Mr. Usoroh was passing out the exam papers.
“Did you study?” a boy named Stephen whispered from his desk, next to Yasha’s.
Mr. Usoroh asked the class to begin.
• • •
When Yasha came down to lunch on Tuesday, he needed his mother to be there. She wasn’t. When he left school for the day two hours later, she was there, at the school entrance, wanting to go to Lincoln Center.
“Take me to the fountain,” she said.
It was the second-to-last day of school, and it had been eventful—the school’s heating system had malfunctioned and started pumping hot air into the classrooms, making everyone sweat and some freshmen cry; Alexa had followed him down every hallway, leaning against lockers, asking if he wanted to “do it again,” and he did kind of want to do it again, but he walked right past her every time, leading her eventually to shout that she hoped he’d go back to Russia and stay there.
Was that what would happen? If they moved back to Russia, would his mother follow them back? Could they lure her there, trap her, and undo this enormous American detour? She was ahead of him now, skipping down a flight of stairs into the subway.
Yasha watched one serpentine trail of white bricks crawl across the tunnel wall as the train sped uptown. It was comforting to sit beside his mother, any mother, he thought, when the train rattled. The doors chimed, and opened, and closed. Everybody riding seemed half asleep. He closed his eyes and let the thick vibrations bounce him, babylike, on the lap of the seat.
They got off at 66th Street. The asphalt in the street was shining. On the east
“If you don’t talk to my father before Thursday, you will have missed your chance.”
“Thursday?” She laughed, and in doing so choked on a piece of apple. Her laughter flared up into coughing and then resolved into laughter again. “See what you’ve done? You’ve made me choke, with all your threatening. All right, little man, perhaps you can help me on Thursday. Perhaps Thursday will be fine.”
Ten years ago, Yasha had needed his mother’s “help” to pick out his school clothes, scramble his eggs, comb his hair. She denied him nothing in those days, no service, no affection, straight up until she decided to deny him a decade. Now he stood inches from her generous hands, feeling capable and cold.
“How could I possibly help you?” Yasha said.
“You and I will make a plan for your father tomorrow. You take your exam now like a good little man,” she said, “and be sure to ravage it. Ravage it.”
As Yasha marched up the stairs to Mr. Usoroh’s classroom, her voice said, little man, little man , around his head in a loop. She cared less about everything than anyone he’d ever met. All the kids at his school, he himself, his father—they all seemed, in retrospect, to be bombarded by worries, to be hopelessly depressed, compared with his red-haired mother. She was one big victory. She made him feel so powerless, so without a body, he walked straight down the hall, looking for something to punch, turned into an alcove of senior lockers, pushed Alexa against her own locker, and kissed her.
They kept their mouths closed and touching for long enough to make Yasha feel certain it was a kiss , and then he stepped back and walked into the math room. From inside, he could hear ferocious squealing, not just from Alexa but from all the girls nearby. He looked back out the classroom door’s window. Alexa was on the floor, trying to breathe through her giggling. The other girls had gathered around her, flipping their hair around and touching Alexa’s knees. Yasha rubbed his lips together. The kiss had left no trace, hadn’t even tasted like anything, and now it was over. Yasha still needed to use the bathroom. Mr. Usoroh was passing out the exam papers.
“Did you study?” a boy named Stephen whispered from his desk, next to Yasha’s.
Mr. Usoroh asked the class to begin.
• • •
When Yasha came down to lunch on Tuesday, he needed his mother to be there. She wasn’t. When he left school for the day two hours later, she was there, at the school entrance, wanting to go to Lincoln Center.
“Take me to the fountain,” she said.
It was the second-to-last day of school, and it had been eventful—the school’s heating system had malfunctioned and started pumping hot air into the classrooms, making everyone sweat and some freshmen cry; Alexa had followed him down every hallway, leaning against lockers, asking if he wanted to “do it again,” and he did kind of want to do it again, but he walked right past her every time, leading her eventually to shout that she hoped he’d go back to Russia and stay there.
Was that what would happen? If they moved back to Russia, would his mother follow them back? Could they lure her there, trap her, and undo this enormous American detour? She was ahead of him now, skipping down a flight of stairs into the subway.
Yasha watched one serpentine trail of white bricks crawl across the tunnel wall as the train sped uptown. It was comforting to sit beside his mother, any mother, he thought, when the train rattled. The doors chimed, and opened, and closed. Everybody riding seemed half asleep. He closed his eyes and let the thick vibrations bounce him, babylike, on the lap of the seat.
They got off at 66th Street. The asphalt in the street was shining. On the east
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