Page 40 of Vasily the Nail

“Baranov,” I supply for him.

“Mr. Baranov. But I follow them. Unless she has an approved reason for her absence and has submitted the paperwork, I cannot excuse her or accept late work.”

“What are the approved reasons?” I ask, debating if it’s worth concocting a tale so I don’t have to argue further. She said she’d still pass the class if she missed two weeks, barely, but I’m not letting her GPA get docked because of this.

“Without prior approval? Bereavement and medical emergency. Both need documentation for it.”

I drum my fingers on the back of his podium as we stare each other down. I’m sure he’s expecting me to pull some shit with the medical emergency to try to get out of whatever the documentation would be. Instead, I say, “How about kidnapping?”

He blinks rapidly, like it’ll somehow change the words I’ve said. After a lot of thinking, he clears his throat. “Has she been kidnapped, Mr. Baranov?”

“Is that a sufficient reason to accept a late assignment and disregard her absences?”

“Mr. Baranov,” he says, his voice lowering and his eyes flitting between me and the door. The funny thing is I don’t even think he’s plotting to flee. I think he’s genuinely concerned. “Do you need me to call the cops for you?”

I lean in, looking up at him through eyes I know can be terrifying as I grin wickedly. “She’s perfectly safe, and I’ll have her back in her seat for Tuesday after next.”

Now his hand inches toward his briefcase.

I slam my hand down over his. “Accept her late work, ignore her absences. In exchange, I’ll keep quiet about your name change and what you were up to in your twenties,Bradley.”

Ana’s transcripts weren’t the only things I researched on the drive to Phoenix.

He swallows again but nods. “I’ll t–take her assignment whenever she’s ready.”

I straighten up and beam at him. He looks about to piss his pants, so I won’t terrorize him further. The janitor doesn’t need that mess. “Good. Great. Pleasure meeting you, Harris.” I start to leave but then glance back, startling him so much he hiccups. “Is there a bakery nearby? A place you think Ana would like something from? I want to surprise her.”

“The P–per–perfect Pearl,” he says in perfect imitation of the pig from the old American kid cartoons. “Right off campus. And, Mr. Baranov? Auditions are next week for our Spring Production. Lacey’s signed up. I can’t do anything if she’s not here.”

I nod. “Then I’ll see you next week, Harris. Thanks for letting me know.”

Analiese

Thanks to Vasily’s dramatics,I can’t focus on anything I need to do here. I have a whole pile of assignments— and I really need to readTwelfth Nightif I’m going to have a prayer of passing Shakespeare— but I’m too stressed about what’s happening to poor Reggie down in Phoenix to concentrate.

I end up back at my recent default of cooking, pulling up a recipe for risotto just because it seems like a challenge. As I hunt down the rice, I glance at the package Kseniya left yesterday, which got shuffled to the kitchen counter to make room for dinner when we got home. My eyes stray to the label, reading it for the first time.

It’s not for Vasily. It’s for me.

I’m feeling a bit like the cat about to lose a life to curiosity as I open it. I don’t know, I haven’t seen anything horrible, but it’s always been a possibility in my family, and now there’s nobody screening packages or anything. It’s a small box, way too small for a horse’s head, but someone’s hand? Or a brain? Or what if it’s filled with roaches or something?

It’s ridiculous, I know, but I turn away from the box as I pop the flaps up and go as far as listening and sniffing for anything strange before I look inside.

It’s a brand-new cellphone, still in its original packaging. Nothing fancy, probably a burner phone, but why is someone sending me a phone? And who? I look back at the label, and the address is definitely a Mafia front. Deb’s Deli and Phone Depot.

No packing slip. Huh.

After some more debate, I find the power button, hold it for two seconds, then chuck it into the spare room and duck.

No explosion. Cool. Probably a cell phone-sized bomb could have detonated the entire apartment with me inside it, but I’m trying to be as not-dead-cat as possible here.

I’m hesitant as I open the door and walk back in, just in case there’s a delay in this sort of thing, but honestly? I’m basing this more on stuff I’ve seen in movies, not anything they taught us in, like . . . Italian Princess school.

Look, I’m not upset Vasily called me that on camera. It all made sense with the show we were putting on. And Iaman Italian Princess in the way he meant it. But the thought was in his head for him to say it, so yes, I’ve been a little irritated about it.

The phone is dim but has a blinking indicator light, so it’s definitely turned on and connected to a network. I hit the power button again and swipe the unlocked screen to open it. The icons are all the standard ones, the background a logo from the carrier. There is a single notification, a text.

Cartwheel

---