The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(53)

“Thank you for ordering,” I tell Mira instead.

“See if you like the food, then thank me.” She smiles. “Besides, you’re paying, so I should thank you.”

“Oh, good, you’ll at least let me pay. That makes me feel like I am taking you out after all,” I say, winking.

“Sure. I have to look out for your masculine pride and all that. You almost ran out of fingers counting your grievances,” she says. “And of course, this has nothing to do with my being broke.”

I consider this for a moment. “Don’t you have all those gambling winnings?”

“Yeah, but I don’t keep much of it.”

“Where does it all go? Shoes?” I joke.

“Well, in fact, shoes do cost a pretty penny, but no. The bulk of our money ends up feeding my brother’s research,” she says, pursing her lips with displeasure.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you support his research this much.” In fact, I’d gotten the impression she disapproved of it. “What exactly does he study? I mean, I know it has something to do with how our powers work.”

“I support his research mainly out of spite. Because I know it would piss off the f*ckers who killed Mom and Dad.” She glowers darkly. “And because I love my weirdo brother. As to what his research is all about, I wish I could tell you, but I don’t really get it. When he starts talking about it, it’s as though a part of my brain shuts off.”

I chuckle at that, remembering how she always goes out of her way not to hear Eugene talk about his work.

A waiter comes back with drinks and says something to Mira in Russian.

“Try it,” Mira says. “I think you’ll like it.”

I taste the liquid in my glass. It seems to be some kind of sweet fruit punch. “Yum.”

“Yeah,” she says knowingly. “That’s Russian compote, made out of dried fruit. My grandmother used to make it all the time.”

“It’s a great start,” I say.

“Good, the appetizers are coming too.”

Sure enough, the waiter comes back with a tray.

“That’s julienne, escargot, and you already tried blinis before,” she says, pointing at the tray. “Give it a try.”

I oblige, piling samples onto my plate.

“You know,” I say when I’m done chewing. “This tastes a lot like French food.”

“I’m not surprised,” she says. “Czarist Russia’s nobility had French chefs, and French cuisine is now part of Russian culture. Still, these dishes should be a little different.”

The escargot, snails in butter and garlic, are outstanding. The julienne thing is a mushroom and cheese dish that reminds me of mushroom pizza, without the dough—meaning you can’t go wrong with it. Blinis are very similar to the crepes I had before, only these come with red rather than black caviar.

“So far, it’s awesome,” I tell her, trying my best not to burn my tongue on the hot cheese of the julienne dish—which, so far, is my favorite.

“I’m glad.” She sounds so proud that you’d think she cooked the food herself.

“I was wondering about something,” I say as I blow on my food. “What are you planning to do after you get your revenge and all that?”

She gives me a vaguely surprised look, as though she’s never been asked this before. “I plan to get my GED, since I never finished high school. After that, I’m going to enroll at Kingsborough College.”

“Kingsborough? I’ve heard of it, but know very little about the place. Is it good? What do you want to study there?”

“Kingsborough is a community college. We locals call it ‘The Harvard on the Bay.’ It’s probably not up to your high standards, but I can get my RN license after I get my Associate’s degree and afterwards get a job.”

“You want to be a nurse?” I ask, surprised. I wonder if she said the Harvard bit because she knows I graduated from there. Maybe she Googled me? I find the idea that she cared enough to do a search quite pleasant.

“I would make a good nurse,” she says. “I’m not squeamish, and I don’t faint at the sight of my own blood like some people.” She gives me a pointed look.

“I didn’t faint,” I protest. “I lost consciousness because I was shot. That’s completely different. I saw a ton of blood the other day, remember? No fainting.”

“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much . . .” She gives me a teasing smile. “I’m pretty sure you saw your own bloodied hand and fainted yesterday. But in any case, I think I would make a great nurse. My plan is to work in a neonatal unit, if I can. To deal with newborn babies.” Her face softens as she says that last bit.

“Really?” I can’t picture her working with babies. Being a kickass professional spy, maybe. But a nurse working with babies? It just boggles my mind.

She nods. “Yes, I like helping people. And I want to work in a place like that, a place where people learn the happiest news of their lives.”

So she likes to help people. That’s news to me. But something about that worries me a little. Could that urge of hers explain why she was so nice to me when I was hurt? Was she only acting like that because that’s how she would’ve treated any person in pain?