We Run the Tides(24)

“I was wondering if I could get another book to read for extra credit,” I say.

“Came back for more Salinger, eh?”

“No,” I say. “Something foreign, maybe. I’m tired of America.”

Mr. London turns to the shelves behind him. There’s a space where a book used to be—its absence from the shelf is like a missing tooth. I try to think what book it could be. Mr. London runs his fingers over the books’ spines.

“Here,” he says. “This is a new novel by a Czech writer. I haven’t read it yet.”

He hands me the hardcover book: The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. The cover is just the title and the author’s name in capital letters, no illustration. I read the inside flap to see what it’s about. I try not to let my eyes widen because I don’t think Mr. London has read the book description. It seems a little racy. “Great,” I say before he can change his mind. “I’ll read it over break.”

“Eulabee,” he says as I’m walking out the door. I turn. He’s resumed his position, staring at Maria Fabiola’s paper. “I know you and Maria Fabiola are good friends. This all must be so hard on you.” He shakes his head dramatically. “If you want to talk about anything, my door is always open. Literally. I leave it unlocked.”

“Thanks,” I say, holding the book to my chest.

“You can leave the door propped open,” he calls out.

After school I walk home alone. As I approach my house I see figures seated in the front room. People in the front room can only mean we have company. Studying the backs of the seated heads, I realize Maria Fabiola’s parents are sitting on the couch. I freeze for a moment, and then I make a decision. I continue walking, as though my home is just another house in Sea Cliff.





15


I make my way to the Olenska School to check on the shed. I enter the password. The interior feels different today. There’s sand on the floor, and in the wastebasket, a packet of Fun Dip. Definitely not 1938, I think. It’s obvious that nobody’s in the small room at the moment—there’s no place to hide—but I still call out her name: “Maria Fabiola?” I say. The name that I’ve called out a thousand times sounds foreign in my mouth.

I close the door and lock the padlock. I return the numbers carefully to the position they were in before.

On my way out through the narrow passageway, I see an old woman who looks like a witch. I step back. A short squeal escapes my throat. “Eulabee,” the witch says. My heart is loud. I stare at this woman who looks like the ghost of someone I once knew. She’s wearing a white nightgown and her white-gray hair is coarse and long. “What are you doing here?”

It’s the accent that reels me in. It’s Madame Sonya. I’ve never seen her hair in anything but a bun. I had no idea it was so long. I’ve only encountered her in black leotards and now she’s wearing a white nightgown at four in the afternoon.

“I was looking for you,” I say, impressed that I don’t stammer.

“Why didn’t you just come to the studio?” she says.

“I did,” I lie. “The door was locked.”

She’s carrying a grocery bag in her hands. Proof she’s stocking the shed with provisions for Maria Fabiola.

“It shouldn’t have been,” she says, and her Russian accent sounds like she’s reprimanding someone—either me or the door itself.

We are still standing, facing each other in the passageway, my foot inside the lasso of the hose on the ground.

“Did you hear about Maria Fabiola?” I say.

“Yes, it’s on the news!” she says. “A reporter came here. I told them she was a very talented ballerina.” I stare at her. We both know this is a lie.

“What do you think happened?” I say.

“I think she ran away with her boyfriend,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What boyfriend?” I say, thinking she will name a name and everything will fall into place.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?”

I wait for her to reveal more.

“Let me just throw away this garbage,” Madame Sonya says.

Garbage. The bag contains garbage. I watch her take it to the taupe trash bin at the end of the passageway. Then she turns, the whip of her white hair following her head a half second later.

I think she might invite me in for tea, but instead she looks me up and down from a distance. My mother has told me not to look at people this way, but maybe you’re allowed to do this when you’re an old Russian ballet instructor.

“You look skinny,” she says. “You’ve lost weight.”

I shake my head. “The scale says the same thing.”

“The scale,” she says, with a similar disdain that she reserves for speaking of the Nazis, whom she blames for ruining her career.

“You cannot listen to the scale. The scale never tells the truth. I haven’t stepped on it for years.”

People tell me I look skinny when they want something from me. What does she want from me?

“We’ve missed you in class,” she says. “I am sorry about your friend.” She passes by me in the narrow corridor and I back myself up against the wooden fence to make room. A splinter penetrates my calf.