Page 20 of Vasily the Nail

“I have school,” she says. “I need my textbooks to do my homework.”

“Oh? What is major?”

She flinches at that like she’s embarrassed by it or doesn’t like to be asked. Strange, since it’s what she chose to study. Or did she? Was she forced to study something she doesn’t like because it would make her more valuable? Clearly it wasn’t homemaking, or she wouldn’t have had to get the instructions for cleaning off the labels. Also, I’m fairly sure she used glass cleaner on the windows but surface cleaner on the bathroom mirror.

“I’m majoring in theatre,” she says softly, already launching into a further explanation of, “but I’m not trying to be an actress or anything. And I really do mean theatre, not—”

I shut her down with, “Then you know Tolstoy then? And Chekhov and Pushkin?”

That has her lighting up, the first true joy I think I’ve seen from her. “Yes, of course. And I studied Gogol last semester!”

“Ah,Igroki?Gamblers?”

“Yes! I liked it. But I really need my school supplies or I’ll fall behind. And my clothes. I don’t know whose clothes these are orif she’ll want them back or. . . or. . .” Doe eyes. Huge, soulful doe eyes bore right into me.

She’s not going to ask. Perhaps in a few days when she begins to warm up to me— if she does— but for now, she’s still not sure of if or when I’ll pivot on her. She no doubt thinks I’m baiting a trap.

“I will get your books. Clothes. What else?”

She shifts uncomfortably as she gnaws on the inside of her lip. At my raised eyebrow, she finally says, “I really need my laptop. It has my school work on it. Most of my textbooks are there, too. I can’t do my work without them. I promise I won’t—”

“No internet. Will log in and out for you.”

“You weren’t even here yesterday! Is that going to be all week? I saw you all of ten minutes before you left, and then when you got home, you—” Her cheeks go bright red at that, at even the barest hint of last night.

I grin and tuck one of her bouncy raven curls behind her ear just to touch her for a moment, just to see if that red will intensify. It does. “Will find time. Not today. Butda, will get laptop, textbooks, and clothing. Kseniya visit you today, but read for now.”

She gives me that peevish glare. “Fine, but I’m filling this with all the dirtiest, filthiest, smuttiest smut there is.”

I flash her a big, toothy grin. “Thatyou read?”

“No! I mean—” She pouts. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”

I nod gravely. “Kseniya will much agree. Read your porn,zvyozdochka, and enjoy it.” Before she can inquire about the new nickname or get upset that I still think she’s going to read smut, I add, “You highlight stuff you want to try. That way, God won’t hear you ask me for it. Our secret.”

She’s still flushed to bright red when I leave a few minutes later.

Analiese

Kseniya.

When Vasily said Kseniya would be visiting, even when he said Kseniya would agree with me, I didn’t understand that this was a person’s name. He can be extremely difficult to understand sometimes. Like, part of me wonders if the broken English was an act since he does have a ton of English books on his Kindle, but I’m almost positive he wasnottelling me that I should use a Kindle to tell him what sex acts I’m interested in. That would be crazy.

But then Kseniya shows up.

She is a tornado. She’d be a bombshell blonde, the envy of every girl I know, with her long legs and nipped waist and hips and boobs for days. Blue eyes, long lashes. Absolutely gorgeous. But she has even more piercings than Vasily, hers in far more visible places — obviously, as how would I know otherwise — and streaks of pink, green, and purple in that long hair. She’s dressed in black and bubble gum pink, her coat is three sizes too big and her skirt is three inches too short, and there’s an air of mania about her.

She’s also incredibly sweet.

She shows up at noon with a stack of plates from the Mexican food truck that parked out front an hour ago and has had steady traffic ever since. Igor showed up this morning with a cookbook from his wife, who was kind enough to flag her favorite easy recipes for me. They all make family-sized portions, and there was a recipe for garlic Parmesan chicken stew that I have allthe ingredients for and can just live in a crock pot all day, so I went with that. It’s going to be hours before the chicken in it is cooked— and I’m not convinced it’s ever going to be edible, since I made it— but the apartment’s been smelling delicious ever since. I’m starving, and even though I’ve never had food from a truck before, it’s been taunting me for the past hour.

Also, I don’t push the issue, but I’m pretty sure Igor killed my Uncle Vito. He asked about my family when I admitted to him yesterday that I don’t know how to cook but wish I did. He suddenly blurted outVito Rossiwhen I mentioned my dad and then got really quiet.

Uncle Vito used to feel me up at pool parties. He died when I was seven, and I still remember that. So I’m not going to hate on Igor if he’s the guy who chopped up Vito and tossed him to the coyotes.

“I got a little bit of everything for us!” Kseniya says without any additional introduction as she plops the stack of take-out right on the dining table. It’s all paper plates, mostly wrapped in foil, but there are also cups of beans, rice, and cheese, and something wrapped in a corn husk.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the stack, so I head to the silverware drawer for forks and grab some napkins. It gives me a chance to get a better look at Kseniya and think about who she is.

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