Chapter 8
“Why do you have to put it that way, Galya? You know you wouldn’t throw him out. The boy’s growing up; it’s inevitable. You can’t keep him tied to your apron strings forever. Besides, he’s got quite a personality…”
“Isn’t it a little early for him to start showing it, Grish?”
“Why are you surprised? He takes after you! You always said nobody could tell you what to do, and he’s the same way.”
“I know! Though you’re comparing two completely different things. Well, I raised a fool, and now I’m paying for it. I have a feeling he’s going to give us plenty of trouble yet.”
Galina Yuryevna was nervous. Sitting in the dining room early that morning between my stepmother and my father, I tried to make myself even less noticeable than usual, understanding their mood without a word. I shared their worry about my stepbrother’s future, but there was nothing I could do to help.
Stas hadn’t come home the night before. He didn’t answer his phone until late, and by midnight it was clear he wasn’t planning to spend the night at home. I didn’t know how or when my father had managed to reach his stepson, but compared with my stepmother, he seemed much calmer. The next day, my parents had an important trip to a work site in the neighboring region, and he was doing everything he could to calm his wife down.
“He’ll come, Galya. Don’t worry. Whatever the reason, this is his home and family. He’ll cool off and come running back—I know from experience.”
“All right, Grish, don’t try to calm me down…”
Classes passed as usual. An inexplicable sadness had clung to me since yesterday, and as I watched Marina Voropaeva chatter happily with her friends between classes and remembered her kiss with Stas the day before, I somehow felt terribly stupid and ridiculous. As if I were standing again in the beautiful entryway of my stepmother’s unfamiliar house, wearing my old, threadbare coat and hat. Too ashamed and afraid to lift my eyes.
Could a girl as self-assured as Marina really have been jealous of me? Jealous of what? Of whom? It was ridiculous and stupid. Which made the ache in my heart feel even more foolish now, while my eyes cautiously searched for my stepbrother: in the cafeteria, in the crowded hallways, in the noisy crowd of students in the schoolyard. Searching for the tall, dark-haired figure of that self-assured guy who drew every girl’s attention.
But Stas never showed up at school. His brother Sergey must have told Marina why he was absent, because Voropaeva left cheerleading practice in tears, and I let myself hope that Stas was all right.
Otherwise, my father would have called me.
He would have called, right?
When my stepbrother appeared in my room that evening, I was sitting at his desk doing my homework. It was already late, but I didn’t feel like sleeping, and I was reading Bulgakov, taking notes in my notebook for a school report. Two minutes earlier, downstairs, I’d heard my stepmother dressing her son down after he came home, and now he was standing in the doorway of my bedroom… his bedroom, looking at me. He watched me in silence, his gaze heavy, and after a long minute of that oppressive silence, he still hadn’t said a word.
First my cheeks turned red, then my neck. I didn’t know why I stood up, but I still couldn’t look at him. I did manage to speak, though my voice, as always when I was around my stepbrother, came out weak and quiet:
“Do you want me to leave right now? I can sleep in the living room or somewhere else. No one will know…”
But he had already slammed the door, making me flinch at the impact as if I’d been slapped. The slam said far more than he ever could with words. He still hated me—deeply and stubbornly, as if it came as naturally to him as breathing—and he had no use for my concessions.