Page 19 of Roaming Holiday

“Are you from Maldana?” she asks.

I smother a sigh. “Yes.”

“What part?”

“Kosita and Palfu.”

“Then why do you sound American?”

So much for a quiet drive. The city fades as I drive through winding roads up the mountain.

“Mother from U.S., Father from here. School in America, summers and Christmases here.”

“Why do you talk like that?” Nina asks. “You don’t even use pronouns or articles. Just ‘Mother from U.S.’ instead of ‘my mom’s from the U.S.’.”

“The fewer words, the better.”

Her eyes widen, and she fights to hide a smile as she notices my annunciation of the article the. “At least give me facial expressions. I’m a linguist. I need something to read.”

At my silence, she pokes my elbow. I grit my teeth. She pokes me again—a gentle press of her finger into my upper arm. Please don’t let this be a preview of what the summer will look like. I give her a look, the corners of my lips pulled down. I expect a falter in her expression, a hint that I intimidate her somehow. But an amused smile spreads across her face as she reaches out to poke my cheek.

I catch her hand before the target can be reached. “Please don’t touch me.”

She pulls away from my gentle grip and situates herself to face me. “Why are you so grouchy?”

“I’m not grouchy.”

“You are.”

“I’m not—” I stop, shaking my head and closing my eyes briefly while at a red light. A mother pushes a stroller through the crosswalk. Trash litters the side of the roads, and I spot a stray orange cat digging for food.

“You’re my bodyguard against my wishes,” Nina declares. “I don’t need you and I don’t want you. All I want is to know more about the person driving and following me around.”

I resist throwing my head back and rolling my eyes. A dozen responses come to mind, but I have to remember that Nina is more than a civilian. She’s a sheltered suburban American who’s never had so much as a school detention.

“What is it you’d like to know?” I eventually ask. She won this time, but I still refuse to be anything but vague. I pull into the Moritzi parking lot and shut off the car.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Where were you born?”

“Kosita.”

“Was Maldanian your first language?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like being from here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Beautiful city, beautiful country.”

She rolls her eyes at my lack of article usage. “How is it beautiful?”

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