Page 64 of Vasily the Nail

“Well, no, but I learned how to make noodles the other day and managed raviolis pretty well, so I figure I’d try pierogies next. Vasya said they’re his favorite.”

Dima nearly cracks a smile.Nearly. I see that lip twitching, and I’m positive that’s the only thing that could mean. He’s silent for a long time, which seems weird for him. I’ve only talked with him a couple times, and I haven’t gotten the idea that he’s needlessly impulsive, but he’s quick-witted. The fact that he’s silent for so long tells me that whatever he’s about to say has a great deal of weight behind it.

Finally, after that forever, he opens a cabinet and retrieves a bag of flour. “If you’re going to learn how to make pierogies, you should be taught.”

I don’t get it at first, but then it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulder. Dima isinvitingme to cook with him.

We go through the stages of prep cordially but absently, washing up and getting water boiling, making our own batches of pasta to compare. I don’t actively watch Dima, but from the corner of my eye, I see him soften in increments, clearly enjoyinghimself as he kneads the dough. It takes me a long time to build up the courage to ask anything that isn’t related to the preparation of a pierogi, but finally I blurt out, “Have you always cooked?”

“I never cook,” he says, frowning enough that I think I’ve misstepped on my first attempt at being friendly with him, but then he adds, “I don’t know why, though. I used to love it. There was a point where everything just changed, and I forgot it was something I could do.”

“When Artyom took over?”

“Artyom is a great leader.”

I cringe, knowing I definitely misstepped on that one. “I didn’t mean that, I just wasn’t . . . I don’t know how exactly you’re related to Vasya. I didn’t want to bring up something bad.”

“Like the deaths that put Artyom in theavtorivetseat?”

I nod.

“It was a difficult time for us. You’ve, ahhh, you’ve met the entire brigade,” he says carefully. We’re both brushing delicate subjects— as in, my brother selling my virginity for $150,000 without any say from me—but that makes us even. “We lost many men our first years here, left us without much for experience. We made it up as we went along. Artyom had to figure out how to lead on his own. And he did a great job of it. But we all had to give up on a lot of stuff to made it happen.”

“Vasily said he was in college.” I don’t mention the part about how he wanted to leave Flagstaff forever. I don’t know how well received that would be.

“He was. So was I.”

There I go stepping in it again. “Oh, I wasn’t trying to make his sacrifices worse than—”

“I know.” His voice softens by another measure, like my poor choices of words are actually endearing me to him. He gets to work ricing the potatoes while I make a sauce for them. “We both wanted out,” he admits. “He told you he was going to go to LA, yeah?”

“He didn’t say where exactly, just that he wanted out of Flagstaff.”

“What else did he tell you?”

I shift uncomfortably under Dima’s gaze. He looks genuine— as genuine as he can, at any rate— but I can’t trust that. I can’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone here. Not even Vasily, and he certainly shouldn’t trust me. I won’t betray what he said to me in confidence, but I’m already betraying him by using him the way I am. Something good may come from that, but nothing good will come from me telling Dima what Dima doesn’t already know.

So I shrug noncommittally. “Just about his dad and his girlfriend dying in that accident. Or . . . bomb, I think he said. And that it was really hard on him.” Since Dima’s gaze doesn’t fade at that, I add what I think is the most confidential bit that’s safe. “He said that’s why he does so many drugs.”

“That’swhy?”

I’m an actress. I know how to play all manner of duress when, on the inside, I’m loving every second of it. I know how to laugh when I’m getting torn apart by stress. I turned the tearsover my father’s death into tears of joy, and the audience ate it up.

But it’s just Dima and me here.

His eyes are narrowed onto me.

He’s analyzing everything about me.

And I can’t reasonably believe that he misses the way I reflexively swallow at the lie settling on my tongue.

Still, I say, “Yeah, that’s what he told me,” like I’m just parroting his words but don’t know if I believe them or not.

Dima takes my bowl from me, tosses the potato mash into it, and mixes it all into a thick paste. I roll out the dough to cut it into circles. We’ve both already sealed up our first pierogies when Dima says, “And not the voices?”

I purse my lips as I throw a scoop of filling into the next circle and run a wet finger over the rim before folding it and sealing it. No point hiding it now. “Yes, the voices too.”

Dima seems like the kind of guy who hates being lied to. But he smirks and shoves me instead, a playful nudge of his shoulder against mine that has me cracking my own wry smile. It’s not funny. Not even a little bit. But the effort I went to when Dima was telling me he already knew is silly.

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