Chapter One

Copyright © 2021 by Kim Catanzarite

I chase my sister, Helena, across the soccer field, threatening to “get her” like some big bad American boogie man (or maybe I should say “woman,” considering I am female). We both find that word boogie so strange and gross, and that’s why Helena runs from me. “I’m going to get you,” I shout with the delight of a child, though I’m far from it at the age of twenty-three.


Helena kicks the heads of daisies and rips leaves from the low-hanging branches of trees. She turns partway around and yells, “You’ll never catch me. I’m too fast for you, fatso!”


“How dare you?” I feign insult.


You would think we were drunk. And perhaps we are, or at least I am—on happiness, on life, on the fact that it is Friday evening and we have finished work at the ice cream shop for the week.


Nonetheless, we are too old to play games of chase like little girls. Helena is only six months younger than I am. Our parents boarded a plane to India this morning and will be gone for … I cannot remember how long. Months. They’re gone more than they’re here. Saving the world one family at a time, as my humanitarian father likes to say. They’re good people, my adoptive parents, and I love them.


When you grew up in an orphanage like Helena and I did, the fact that you live in America in a house with a mother and father is reason enough to be happy—and grateful—every day of your life.


I catch up to her at the front door of our parents’ house—our house (I must always remind myself even after seven years of living here). She’s doubled over and panting; her asthmatic lungs can’t handle her own vivaciousness, and she’s wheezing. “You better get a breath of your inhaler when you get inside.” I pull up my keys from the bottom of my purse. She doesn’t answer, so I nudge her. “Did you hear me, little sister?”


The “little sister” thing is something she both loves and hates, the way every little sister does: the plight of the younger sister is the same whether the sisters are blood related or not—and we are not.


“Shut up, boogie man,” she mutters. Then she springs up and pushes me out of the way, bursting through the door I have unlocked. She runs into the family room and dives onto the couch. “You really do look like a monster. Or an alien. Yes, you and those big eyes and pale Russian skin of yours. Has anyone ever told you?”


I make a smirk of my lips and try to think of a good comeback. I happen to know Helena finds me beautiful. When she’s not joking this way, she tells me all the time. Sveta, your legs are like a pageant queen’s. Sveta, your face is like Oil of Olay. Sveta, if I could have a few ounces of your beauty, I might be average. (She’s as cute as a button, as my American mother says, though a bit on the glass-is-half-empty side.)


“If I’m an alien, you are the alien’s crazy adopted sister,” I say, winking at her.


Then I head into her bedroom and find her inhaler on her night table, where she always keeps it.


I toss it to her. She misses, and it bounces off her stomach, making us both laugh once again.


It’s been seven years since this house in Kirksberg, Pennsylvania, became our home. Seven years since we left Miss Sonja at the orphanage at Petranko, since we’ve eaten the gruel that passes for food in institutions across the Russian Federation. Seven years since we slept two to a bunk under dirty blankets riddled with holes in rooms fifty degrees and sometimes colder. I miss Miss Sonja, who made our American adoption possible. Miss Sonja, who told me the truth about my birth parents when no one else would. I send her a letter every six months or so. She never returns them, and that is as it has to be according to Russian law. I would send her some money as well, but that would only get her into trouble. Instead my parents make an annual donation to the orphanage each December.


I’ve been staring into nothingness the way I do whenever I think of Russia, or my past, or my birth parents and Miss Sonja—and Helena has noticed.


“You are thinking of going back?” she says.
 Her words hit me like a snowball in the face. “To Russia? No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Never.”


She shakes the inhaler, brings it to her mouth, and squeezes so that the small blast of medicine is released. With a noisy exhale, she says, “I sometimes do,” and looks away from me. “Lately, more than usual.”


I drop onto the couch pillow next to her, my weight making an angry bounce. “No, you don’t.” As if this is enough to change her mind.
“

I have thought about it.”


Her dark eyes have something strong like black coffee brewing in them.


“You would leave me?” I say. “But your family is here. Where will you go? You have no family in Russia, Helena. No home.”


Her brow crumples the way it does whenever I tell it like it is. I know she wants to shout, Duh, I know that. Instead she says, “I miss Russia because I’m Russian. I want to speak Russian, to hear Russians, to smell Russian food, to be surrounded by Russian people. People like me.” Her anger makes a stone of her face. “Too many smiling Americans here.”


“So what if they smile all the time? It’s not their fault. You would too if you grew up here. We’re lucky to be here, lucky to have a mother and father, to be a family. All I’ve ever wanted was a family.”


“Right. We have parents who are never here and—” She stops. Looks me in the eye. “They never wanted children. I don’t know why you don’t see that. They saved us from the streets—the sex trade, as they say. All they want is to save the world with their Heifer International and their Habitat for Humanities and Doctors at the Borders. You and I are just two pieces of the plan.”


For a second I feel like I might cry. But this is so Helena. Never-happy-for-long Helena. “You know they care about us,” I say. “You know they love us.”


She makes a sputtering sound that mocks my words. “They spend ten days a year with us. This trip they’re on, how long will they be gone?”


Like every annoying little sister, she can be so stubborn. I’ve been saving her from her stubborn self since our days at the orphanage when she was six years old and thought it a good idea to sneak away in the middle of the night and find a cave to live in.


“They will be gone for months, and so what? I’m grateful to them, and I like the weeks we spend together each year. And you do, too. You just don’t want to admit it.”


Helena shakes her head. “Not true.”


“Besides, we’re not little babies who need our hands held.” My face is getting red. I can feel it. “And when we were younger, they were here for most of the year. They took turns going away, remember?”


Her next words are so warm, so gentle, they break my heart: “You may love them, but it’s not real love. And they’re not a family the way you and I are family.”


I’d rather she growl at me than speak to me in this tone.


“But it can be,” I say, “if you stop being so …”


She raises her dark brows in wait of what comes next.
“… you,” I say.


Her chin dips into a reluctant nod, accepting my opinion while she pushes the inhaler into her pocket. “I’ve been saving my money, and one day I will go back.”


An insulting bit of a laugh escapes my mouth. “How much can you save when you make nine dollars an hour at an ice cream shop?”


She says nothing.


“Do you have some other job I don’t know about? How many secrets do you keep from me, little sister?”


No answer. She won’t go anywhere. She can’t. “So you’re leaving forever? Or only for a visit?”


She presses her lips together, hesitates. “Maybe forever.”


“I see.” I take in an angry breath and withhold the other words I would like to say.


“I’m not asking you to come with me. I know you won’t.”


“You’re right,” I say without pause. “I won’t.”


My answer seems to have slapped her face. Her mouth droops with sadness. And I’m glad. Because I’m angry. I don’t appreciate these threats of leaving.


“You love to complain,” I say with a sigh. “Whoever your mother was, she gave you the genes for complaints.”


“So you always say.”


I wonder if it is possible that Helena has saved enough money for a plane ticket. Taxis? Food? A place to stay when she gets there? Even if she’s been frugal, which she hasn’t—she loves video games far too much to be frugal—I doubt she has enough. When our parents decided we would have to pay for our own cell phones, Helena couldn’t come up with the necessary amount each month. That’s why we’ve been sharing a phone … and driving our parents’ car and living at home (no reason to rent when we’re on our own so much of the time anyway). So this is Helena being dramatic. Helena wanting me to cry, “Please don’t go.”


Instead I say, “So you’re saving your money then?”


She places her hand on my shoulder. “Yes. And one day I will go.”


* * *


Our American hometown of Kirksberg, Pennsylvania, population 15,500 or so, is well-known for one thing: a UFO sighting that occurred in 1965. Can you believe it? Helena and I always laugh about how we came from another world and landed in Kirksberg just like the aliens did. It’s a big deal, this UFO stuff. Unsolved Enigmas, the television show, put together a special episode about what happened in the woods of Kirksberg. My parents know some of the people they interviewed.


But if you ask me, it is not much of a mystery. Thousands of people saw a spaceship fall from the sky. The people said it was nothing like an airplane or a helicopter. It emitted a green streak of light and took precise turns before it crashed into a ravine. And people even saw the crash site. They saw the spaceship up close and said that it had strange writing on it like Egyptian hieroglyphs.


So, where is the mystery?


The logical explanation is that a spaceship crashed in our town. What’s the harm in saying so? Americans are known for overthinking, and that is why the debate continues decades later. It’s not like space creatures have invaded the country—or even visited again.


Oh, but wait, that’s not true. Kirksberg gets invaded every August during the annual UFO Festival. You should see the oddballs that roll out of the woods that day. The town becomes a gathering place for costumed extraterrestrials and their oversize skulls, ET, Martians, Yoda, Spock. The festival draws a huge crowd and makes very much money. It’s great for tips, especially for people like Helena and me, who are in the ice cream business. Aliens, like humans, love ice cream in the summer.


“That’s why they’re so fat,” Helena says, as we discuss Americans and their habits (her favorite subject) while lugging five-gallon buckets of Fifty Chilly Flavors into the store from the refrigerated truck that’s parked in the loading zone.


Michael, our boss (and grown son of our parents’ closest friends), places the orders when he comes in on Mondays, and Helena and I drag five-gallon containers into the store every Wednesday when they arrive. Once they’re inside, we have to move them into the walk-in freezer—making sure the door is propped open so we don’t get trapped inside, something I have nightmares about.


The festival is this weekend, so we are dealing with three times the normal delivery. We can hardly fit it all into the chaotic mess of a freezer, and of course Michael isn’t around to tell us what to put where, so we stack the buckets at random.


“You think Russians aren’t fat?” I say, my words coming in icy puffs as I heft a Chilly’s Best Buttery Scotchy to the top shelf. “Do you not remember Miss Sonja and her voluptuous behind? What about Miss Victoria? Arms like tree trunks. And, well, Miss Darya, with a face like a chipmunk and the body of a scarecrow.” I puff my cheeks. “Still. No one would mistake her for skinny.”


“Okay, okay,’” Helena says with a laugh. “I suppose everyone packs on the pounds soon enough. Except for you. You’re too perfect for that.” She sticks out her tongue, and I give her a playful push out of the freezer.


“But you don’t see me eating ice cream, do you?”


She takes a sample spoon and dips into the new bucket of Fudge Brownie Swirly we opened. It’s her favorite. “This is true. I do a lot more sampling than you do, but only because I never eat a big enough lunch.”


“Don’t let Michael catch you.”


She juts her chin and raises her voice as she says, “Free samples to the public,” thrusting her fist in the air.


The door opens to the sound of tinkling bells, and Helena drops her plastic spoon. I laugh because I can see that for a second she thought it might be Michael. Of course it’s someone else. Someone who wants to buy ice cream. Someone I have never seen before. And if I’d been holding a plastic spoon when I looked up and saw him, I would have dropped it, too.


It’s strange because I don’t know him, but for some reason it seems wrong for him to be alone. I expect a pretty girl to come rushing in behind him and say, “Here I am, sweetheart. Sorry I took so long. I was on the phone with Angela, and she wouldn’t stop talking,” the way people in love always do.


But no. He walks in by himself. The bells jingle, and he lets the door close behind him as he smiles right at me.


Helena bends over to pick up her spoon, and I’m left to gaze at him over the counter. Suddenly I’m nervous. Happy nervous. I smile back and say a shy hello as my pulse speeds through my body and slams into my heart.


Helena unbends and turns her head in my direction—I see her in my peripheral vision. I have never said a shy hello in my life, and it has attracted her like a child to candy. She looks first at me and then at him. And then she laughs out loud. A rude and stupid laugh. Childish.


“I’ll take my break now,” she says.


I pay her no mind. We never take official breaks, so this is unusual.


“Bathroom break,” she says, as if I didn’t hear the first time.


I turn toward her, and she points to the corner of the room where the bathroom is, then raises her eyebrows in a teasing way.


“Yes. Of course,” I say. “Go.”


I’m not a lovestruck kind of girl. I do not have crushes on boys—or men. I get to know a person before I consider dating him. So this is strange behavior for me. Strange feelings for me. I can’t look this guy in the eye, and I can’t look away. And I’m smiling. Like an American.


He tips his upper body forward and gazes into the cabinet that holds the assortment of frozen yogurts. His hand rests on the top, and his fingers tap as he weighs his options. Mango. Chocolate. Vanilla with cherry chunks. These are what Helena and I call the “mommy treats,” because young mommies who want to stay (or become) slender are the only ones who ever order them.


“Can I help you find a flavor? We give free samples.”


I am the perfect hostess.


The hand resting on the top of the cabinet points. “Are these the only frozen yogurts?”


“Yes. There are six.” I’m sure he can see that for himself.


His face reminds me of a face I’ve seen before. A name on the tip of my tongue. Whose? I cannot think. Someone on television, maybe? Not that he’s like an actor or a model from a commercial I’ve seen. I’ve never liked model boys, and he’s not one of those. He has no cleft chin, no bulging biceps. He’s handsome, though. Ordinary light brown hair. Good-looking. Not fussy. Not a blond dressed in a suit. He’s a jeans-and-nice-shirt kind of guy. Possibly someone I knew from college? No. I would remember.


“Do you live around here?” I blush as soon as the words hit the air.


Our eyes connect like a snap on my purse, and we both hunch over into polite, soundless laughter. I’m shaking my head, letting my overgrown bangs fall across my cheeks. “That sounded wrong.”


He stands straight and takes a more balanced stance. “Yeah, yeah. It’s okay. I do live around here. I’ve been away for a few years, but it’s nice to be back.”


“Well, welcome home then.” I hope he notices my dimples and not my awkwardness.


He smiles again, and I smile back. And then he says. “Mango looks good.”


I reach over for a bright purple sample spoon, dip into the mango bin, and extend it in his direction.


“Oh, you don’t have to …”


“Yes, I do. It’s my job.” I put on my serious business face.


He takes the spoon from me, puts it in his mouth. “Damn, that’s good.”


“Thank you. I scooped it myself.”


He laughs. He has nice teeth. Very straight.


“You have an accent. Where are you from?” he asks.


“Russia. But I’ve been here for years.”


He nods. “Cool.”


“Would you like a single or a double?”


“Oh, double, please. How could anyone have just one?”


A little wrinkle forms in the bridge of his nose when he smiles.


Helena rejoins me with the same smirk she left with. “Oh, yes, you have to have two. Having only one would be un-American,” she says.


I can see that he’s not sure whether she is joking with him or giving him a hard time. He’s a thin man, so it’s not like she could be making fun of his weight.


“This is my sister, Helena. She scoops ice cream, too.”


“So it’s a family business.”


I don’t want to correct him, so I say, “Yes, a family business.”


* * *


That night, after we have eaten dinner and are about to clean dishes, Helena says, “Do you know where they keep our passports?”


“They?” I say, squinting. “You mean that strange man and woman we live with?” She never calls them Mom and Dad anymore.


“Sorry. Do you know where our passports are?”


I look to the ceiling to give me strength. If she wants to leave, I won’t help her. “No.”


“I thought you knew everything. Where do you think they keep them?”


“I don’t know. Probably in a drawer somewhere. Use your head.”


She snaps her fingers. “In the office. His office.”


“You mean Dad’s office?”


She runs off to the part of the house that contains the master bedroom and the office and a small gym that neither of my parents ever use.


I don’t want to follow her. I’m tired of her games. But I do want to know if she finds the passports, so I go. I stand in the doorway and lean into the doorframe while she squats in front of Dad’s desk, the side with the drawer that opens to reveal a short filing cabinet. “Where are you going, anyway?”


“Home.” She pulls up a folder and opens it, shuffles through, then replaces it so our father will never know she’s been there.


“You realize that you can’t return to the orphanage, right? Because I hate to inform you, but you’re too old. Miss Sonja won’t take you back.”


“It turns out I have a relative in Tula,” she says without looking at me.


Her boldness stabs my heart. “You’ve been searching on the internet?”


“Of course I’ve been on the internet. And I have a cousin. … And he’s willing to give me a room.”


“You’ve been in touch with a cousin? He’s going to give you a room?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a perfect angel.” I grab my forehead. “Is he really a cousin or a pimp trying to trick you?”


She stops what she’s doing and glares at me. “You think I’m stupid? I went through that website we found together. The one you said was real.”


“I said it looked real. What do I know? Please don’t do this. You said you wouldn’t go away so soon.”


“Oh my gosh …”


The passports have dropped out of a file onto the carpet. Two navy blue ones, two red ones. She grabs for them, her hands fumbling as she opens each one. “The American ones are good for five more years. And the Russian ones, two more.” She stares down at them as if she’s found the family diamonds, then extends her arm, passports in hand. “You want yours?”


I feel myself pouting. I want to scream at her, to tell her how stupid she’s being, how she’s making the biggest mistake of her life. But I can’t. Because I know that I want her to stay because I want to stay, because the idea of being alone scares me more than anything—except the idea of going back to Russia.


“I can’t believe I found them.” She looks up, glowing with happiness. It makes me want to hug her, to be happy for her and celebrate with her.


Instead I put a damper on her high spirits. “You said you don’t have the money yet.”


“If I stay with my cousin, I need only enough to travel. He says he has a big garden, and I’ll have to help out with the planting and the harvesting—you know how good I am with plants—”


“So you’ll be a farmer then,” I say.


“Until I find a job.”


“Please stop. It’s too good to be true. You know this.”


At that, she puts my passports back in the folder and tucks the folder back into the drawer.


“Coming here was too good to be true, and yet here I am.”


Her words are loaded with confidence, and suddenly I’m exhausted. I know she’s never been happy about leaving Russia. She’s never been happy, period. I had always hoped she’d come to love our new home.


“Don’t worry,” she says. “You’ll be fine. You and Mr. Mango Two Scoops are going to hit it off, I can tell.”


“Mr. Mango what?” I can’t help it, I laugh.


“The guy buying the mommy treat today. The one you drank with your eyes.” She flutters her lashes. “You’re too pretty not to have a boyfriend.”


“Don’t be a ridiculous child. This conversation is about you and your plan to run away.”


“Yes, Sveta, I know I’m like a younger sister. You’ve always been the responsible one. You are why I’m here, the reason I didn’t rot in the orphanage. I know this. I’m grateful.” She pauses. “But I’m grown up now, and I know what I want.” She looks away, and I think she may start to cry.


She doesn’t.


“I’ll always be your sister no matter where I am,” she says.


I don’t at all agree with this plan. I don’t want her to save her money so that she can run away. I don’t want her to leave me.


She can read my mind, I have no doubt. She comes up close and wraps me in a hug, whispering, “Don’t worry,” in my ear.


When we step back, I pretend to look at my wristwatch (even though I don’t wear one). “So you go when? After dessert?”


She laughs and bows her head. “I’ll keep you posted.”


“But not too soon, right? Maybe in the fall?”


She steps around me and enters the hall. “I will let you know.”


* * *


When I wake the next morning, my sister’s bed is empty, still tucked in at the sides. The inhaler is missing from the night table. The house is quiet. Empty.


Abandoned.


She lied to me.

Chapter Two

I arrive at the ice cream shop at five minutes before ten, and plenty of people are already milling about Main Street in their silly green-man costumes. I need to hurry up and get the store open. If Michael knew I was this late, he’d have my head—or maybe not. Not after he hears what Helena has done.

It’s at least ninety degrees, and I’m slippery with sweat. “Stupid heat wave.” I slap the switch to turn on the air-conditioning unit.

With an angry swipe of my hand, I flick on the lights and stomp across the room, barging through the door with the sign that says “Employees Only” and into the back office, no bigger than a walk-in closet. I throw my purse on top of the wooden desk and wipe my stupid nose. I don’t have tissues and I don’t care. My shirtsleeve does the job just fine.

“Shit,” I say. “Why did she … that idiot.”

The tears rain down so thickly I’m gagging on them. I want to pummel something. Michael’s desk will do. “Shit, shit …” My fist comes down upon the wood like a judge’s gavel. “Stupid, stupid, why?”

That’s when I hear a tap on the office door.

I stand straight as a rocket, adjust my cap, which has fallen sideways on my sorry head. “Uhhh, one second, please.”

Whoever it is doesn’t barge in. Michael, maybe? Who else would be here before opening? I check the clock. One minute until ten. Can’t be him. He thinks Helena is with me. No reason for him to come.

“Yes, coming,” I say as pleasantly as I can. Probably an early customer.

I wipe my nose and blink a few times, then pull the door open and … it’s him. Mango Two Scoops. I push the door back again, rifle through my purse for a tissue, and do a better job of wiping my nose. “I’ll be right there.” Why did I attempt to put makeup on this morning? Idiot! I’m pretty sure I couldn’t look more ridiculous than I do right now.

But that’s okay, right? It’s festival day, a day for strange beings of all kinds.

“Take your time,” he says.

For a second I want to hug him. Or have him hug me. It’s one of those reflexive urges that flashes and dissipates.

I’ve suffered a trauma this morning. Too bad for how I look.

I pull back the door and try to smile, but my lips don’t quite make it there, quivering like wet noodles. “Oh, hi.” I look at him for half a second before turning away.

I feel him studying me. Probably thinks I’m a silly immigrant with silly immigrant problems. “Are you all right? I’m sorry to barge in like—”

“Uh-huh.” I sniff much louder than I wish I had. “Can I help you?”

Today he’s not looking at the yogurt. He doesn’t seem to care about the ice cream. He’s fixated on my blotchy, nose-running face.

“I was across the street, walking to the coffee shop, and I, uh, saw you. … And, well, it seems like you’re not having a very good day. I thought maybe I could help.” His words are slow and careful, and they have thrown me for a loop, as my American mother sometimes says.

“I—um …” I pause to clear my throat. “… don’t know what you mean.”

Then I remember that I haven’t switched on the Open sign. The people standing in front of the store are looking at their watches and the unlit sign, and confusion muddies their children’s green faces. I hurry through the main part of the shop and reach for the chain that turns on the sign. Then I spin around and find myself right in front of Mr. Two Scoops.

He says, “I’m not joking, I can help you.”

The bell rings as a family of four enters. Behind them an even bigger group emerges with several chattering children.

Their presence draws his attention for a moment before he continues: “It’s going to be a really busy day, right? And you’re already slammed.”

I look right and left around myself like a confused bird. I’m a mess. I rub my forehead. The tears are threatening again. “You want to work?”

“Yes,” he says with the kind of confidence I wish I had. His eyes are blue-green. And kind. On the large side. “You seem to be all alone here.”

I am alone! I press my lips together because I don’t want to cry. My history of loss and aloneness flutters through my mind along with my Russian birth parents, my American traveling parents, and now Helena. I nod, hair bouncing in front of my face. I can’t speak.

“Your sister isn’t coming?”

I shake my head.

“I can stay until you get someone else to come in. I didn’t tell you this the other day, but I used to work here, in this ice cream store, when I was in high school.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and leads me to the Employees Only door. “It wasn’t the same owner, of course, but I promise you I’m more than qualified to handle the job.”

“Really? Oh. Wait—really? And you don’t mind? But you’ll miss the festival.”

He stands behind the ice cream cabinet, pulling a plastic glove from the box. “I’m twenty-eight years old, and I was born in this town. I’ve been to at least twenty-five of these things. I only came by because I wanted to say hello to you—and find out what your name is.”

Bold of him, and my response is not. A blush rises up from my neck and settles into my cheeks, and for this, I hate my face.

“Svetlana,” I say. “But friends call me Sveta.”

He grins, satisfied, as if I’ve promised him my heart—and maybe I have. “I’m Andrew.”

He turns to the first person in line and says, “What can I get for you?”

* * *

It’s 9 p.m., and the last alien has received his double scoop of ice cream. Andrew switches off the Open sign and says, “That’s it. We’re getting out of here before anyone else comes. Need food now.”

“Me, too,” I say, running into the office to grab my purse. “And where is it that we are going, because look at me, I’m a mess.”

“Okay, first, even if you were a mess, and I’m not saying you are, you still look better than 90 percent of the rest of the world. And second, where we’re going, it doesn’t matter. Do you like to dine alfresco?”

I worried that once closing time came, Andrew might run back home to wherever he came from and leave me alone like everyone else has.

“I love alfresco,” I say, not knowing what it is. “I eat alfresco all the time. It’s how I stay thin.”

Then I laugh, and so does he.

He opens the door. “After you, madam.” I follow his bowed arm, but then I turn back because I have forgotten to lock up. Michael will be the next to open the shop. Not that he cares so much about it. When I called to tell him what happened, he said he was sorry that Helena left me, and then he said, “But you can still work, right?” It’s his store, and he didn’t even offer to come in. I might have quit except that Andrew had already offered to stay.

He takes my hand. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks. “I don’t want to lose you in this crowd.”

I shake my head, muted by a sudden bashfulness. I love that he’s holding my hand, and I don’t want to lose him in this crowd, either.

The UFOs are out in full force, and by this time, many of them have had one too many Martian-tini’s or Cosmos Cosmopolitans at the Brigade Bar or the Holy Shots Sports Pub. Big-eyed strangers clad in black Spandex stroll by singing loud, silly songs. Some are teenagers and some are young parents with preschoolers and elementary school kids. One man says “Where’d we leave the spaceship,” as he passes  us.

“Where are we going?” I say.

“It’s a surprise,” Andrew says.

I’ve had more than enough surprises for one day.

He leads me into a pizza parlor and lets go of my hand. I like pizza, but Helena never wanted to eat it—too American for her tastes—so I haven’t had much.

“Do you mind if I do the ordering?” he says.

“Go right ahead. Whatever makes you happy. Be sure to get me an iced tea. I need my caffeine.”

A laugh trips over his lips. “Whatever makes me happy? I’m trying to cheer you up.” He orders two cheesesteaks and two iced teas to go.

“Chiz steaks,” I say. “What’s that? Steaks made of chiz?”

His face opens up with bubbly, wide-eyed surprise. “You’ve never had cheesesteaks from Cerino’s? How long did you say you’ve lived here?”

“My sister has an aversion to pizza parlors, so—” The word sister tightens my throat. I clench my jaw, force myself not to go there.

The apron-clad man behind the counter hands over to-go boxes and drinks with straws sticking out.

Andrew pays. His wallet is thick with bills, and I want to laugh and call him “money bags,” but that’s not something you do to someone you’ve just met.

Andrew’s smile makes me think he’s happy as a lark (as my American father likes to say), and he grabs my hand again and leads me out of the restaurant.

“Where to now?” I say.

“Alfresco.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.”

Together we press through the stream of aliens that line the sidewalks all the way to the end of the street, the crowd thinning as we go, until we reach the darker side of town, away from the stores and porch lights. Finally we arrive at the entrance to the park. It’s barricaded with yellow police tape and a sign that says “Park Closed for the Duration of the Festival.”

I’m disappointed. “We are not allowed?”

“Technically, no, but as long as you don’t call the cops, I think we’ll be all right.” He forges ahead, ducking under the caution tape. “I want to show you something. I know a park bench.”

“You know a park bench? What’s his name?”

He turns and does one of those half smiles. I love his face. It’s on the round side, and he’s a bit wide in the eyes. Imperfect and endearing. Honest.

“You’re very funny, you know that? Your dry Russian humor.”

“Is there such a thing? I was not aware.”

“There it is again,” he says.

I like him more than I should for having just met him. And I don’t want this day to end. I love that he’s holding my hand, keeping this connection between us even though it means he has to balance the drink container on top of the food boxes.

We walk across a swath of grass before rejoining the paved pathway. It’s dark, with only the occasional lamp to guide us as we pass under tall, leafy oaks and wide-reaching maples. Finally we make it to this bench that he knows. It’s beside a cluster of long-needled pine trees, but the view of the sky is open and the moon is like a friendly bystander at our little party.

“So many stars,” I say, gazing at all the bright sparkles overhead.

He grins at the sky. “My old friends.”

I don’t know what he means, but I don’t ask. He’s maybe a former Boy Scout like I have seen in black-and-white television shows. Suddenly I grow worried. What will he think when he realizes I grew up in an orphanage?

“I’m starving,” he says. “You?”

We sit on the bench. He passes me napkins, a drink, a cardboard container with my steak of cheese. I open it, and it steams at me. The bread is fat as a pillow and the cheese white and gooey like glue.

“Wow,” I say. “So this is chiz steak.”

He takes a huge bite of his sandwich, and bits of meat drop back into the cardboard container along with blobs of melted cheese. “It’s messy,” he says with his mouth full.

“Wonderful. I’m already a mess, so what’s the difference?”

He’s still chewing when he says, “Right.”

I take a closer look at my sandwich; I like to know what I am getting myself into. “Oh, I see. The shavings of meat are below the melted chiz.”

“Stop studying it and take a bite.” He laughs before sticking what looks like half of his sandwich into his mouth at once.

I do the same, on a much smaller scale, and thankfully it tastes much better than it looks. The juice rolls down my chin. “Oh, yes,” I say with a laugh. “Delicious American delicacy. And to think I could have been eating one of these every day for the past seven years.”

He tries not to spit his food. I like that he finds me hilarious.

“How did you end up in the U.S. anyway?” he says.

I take another bite to delay my answer. Not that I’m the kind who makes up stories.

“If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. But I give warning: it’s not your American dream story. For mature audiences only,” I say, trying to keep it light.

“My family’s not the usual either,” he says.

“Good. We share that in common.” I sip my iced tea to clear my throat. “Helena and I were adopted. She’s not my blood-related sister. Dana and John Peterman, who are never home, are our parents.”

“I know them. They do a lot of work for nonprofits, don’t they?”

“Yes, that’s right. That Dana and John. They took us in to save us from Russia’s streets—the sex slave trade—and to give us a chance at a decent life. I’m sorry to bring up so serious a thing during our lovely alfresco.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I think that’s great. Your adoptive parents are great, I mean, and so is everything they do.”

“They truly are good people. Right now they’re in India teaching families how to farm and earn their living. Few people adopt teenagers, and I for one will be forever grateful. My sister, on the other hand—” I stop midsentence, not sure I want to continue. “She never liked it here. I’m pretty sure she’s flying back to Russia as we speak.” My heart beats faster as I say this out loud. “And that’s a brand-new injury, so please let’s talk of something else.”

He puts his arm across my shoulder. “Look up at the sky. You see those stars, that bright cluster to the right of the moon? That’s the seven sisters. They’re always together, even though they’re millions of miles apart.”

His kindness feels warm on my face. He’s a gem in the rough of the world. “You are familiar with the night sky?” I say.

“It was my major in college and grad school. And now it’s my job.”

“Oh, I didn’t know I was in the presence of a grad school boy.”

“Just got my master’s.” He looks down like a modest person would. I wonder if it’s genuine or maybe he’s playing modest for me.

“Impressive, Mr. … and what is your last name?”

“Jovian.”

“Well, that is very nice. Andrew Jovian, astrologer.”

“Oh, no. Actually, that’s horoscopes. I’m an astronomer. Big difference.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, annoyed with my dumb self. “Sometimes I get my words confused.”

“Not a problem. You speak English a lot better than I could ever speak Russian.”

“So you have always found outer space fascinating?” I say. “And aliens?”

“Aliens, yes. Aliens most of all. I’m born and bred in Kirksberg, so it’s only natural. My parents’ company builds high-powered telescopes. My father started it back in the sixties. Now we work with NASA and other organizations around the world.”

“Well, that sounds like an interesting profession. And you are following in your father’s footsteps.”

“Sort of. We share some interests and not others. What about your birth parents? Do you know anything about them?”

I worried he might ask that question. Some people do, and some people don’t. He has, so I will tell: “My parents died when I was four. That’s why I was taken from my home of Tula and put in an orphanage in Petranko.”

“Oh, wow.” He becomes so still that I wonder if this information has stopped his heart.

“Yes, it certainly was difficult. I loved my parents, my home. I actually remember good things about being with them. People wonder how I can remember because I was so young, but I do. Especially my mother. She’s the one I clung to, and when she was suddenly gone …” I feel myself getting warm in the face, so I stop.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I pause, a familiar ball of cry threatens to roll up my throat. When it eases, I cough a little to make sure my voice won’t crack. “My caregiver at the orphanage loved me like her own child, so when I was old enough, ten or eleven, she told me the truth about my parents. They were KGB, though that’s not what Russian spies are called anymore.”

“FSB, right?”

“Yes. That’s what they’re called now.”

I hope he doesn’t assume I’m a spy as well. Then again, how could he when I work at an ice cream store?

“The day they died, they had left me with an older woman who lived in our building. They used to do that every once in a while. She was my babysitter. They didn’t return. No explanation. And I was taken to the orphanage soon after.”

I wipe my mouth with the napkin. I haven’t mentioned my birth parents to anyone since I arrived in this country, and I never thought I’d have reason to mention their connection to Russia’s KGB. But I wanted to tell Andrew. I wanted him to know that part of my story. If he didn’t like it, better that I find out right away. Somehow I trust him even though I have only known him for one day.

I suppose there are things built into your DNA, things you just know.

“I’ve been to Russia,” he says. “I lived there for six months with a friend of mine from college. We traveled to Europe and ended up in Moscow. It was definitely an interesting place. So cold during the month of January.” He shivers even though sweat shines his forehead. “Let’s see if I remember. Privyet and dosvedanya.”

“Hello and goodbye.”

“Gde zdes’ vannaya komnata?” he says with a strange accent.

“That is a handy phrase when you need to relieve yourself.”

His shoulders hunch a bit in a sheepish way. “One day you’ll teach me some better phrases.”

“Sudovol’stviyem,” I say with a smile. “It will be my pleasure.”

His gaze rests on my face for a moment; I’m pretty sure he’s glad to have met me.

“So, did you like your first steak of cheese?” he asks.

“I give it five stars and hope to eat many more.” I crumple my napkin and drop it into the cardboard container.

We sit back and take in the silvery beauty of the moon. I don’t want this night to end. I don’t want to go back to my lonely home. I don’t want to be without Andrew just yet.

“I like this bench that you know,” I say. “We should stay here all night.”

“Yes,” he says, and he reaches over and takes my hand.

* * *

When we finally leave the park, it’s 11 p.m. We duck under the yellow tape like two spirits in the night and float along with the waning crowd of the UFO Festival. Most of the shops and restaurants have closed, but Holy Shots, the busiest bar in town, vibrates with activity. An old couple walks out as we approach, and now they’re rushing toward us.

“Andrew,” the woman calls. “I was wondering when we’d run into you.”

At closer look, they’re old but not that old. Older than my parents, but not eighty or ninety. They limp a bit as they catch up to us, and I feel awkward holding Andrew’s hand in front of them, so I let go.

The man is frumpy in a disheveled, older-man way, with the tail of his shirt risen from his pants and his thinning hair in a whirl. He shakes Andrew’s hand and releases a full-belly laugh. I think he may be drunk. The woman gives Andrew a kiss on the cheek. They both look at me, and Andrew introduces me as Svetlana, no last name. They are Aunt Constant and Uncle Jimmy. I’m pleased to meet them, I say, though I don’t know how pleased I really am. I had hoped to continue to have Andrew to myself, to continue this happy night, and I don’t want them (or anything else) to change that.

“Did you see it?” Uncle Jimmy’s eyes are big and round behind the even bigger, rounder lenses of his glasses. “The launching of the rocket. What a joke.”

“I’m guessing it was worse than last year,” Andrew says.

His uncle turns his head and spits into the street. “Amateurs. I don’t know why they won’t ask you to head it up.”

“Because it’s for the kids. We’ve been over this.”

“Yes, I know, I know, but at least give those kids something to aspire to. A rocket that rises fifty feet in the air is no rocket at all.” He looks to me. “Am I right?”

I’m startled by the sudden attention. “Uh—yes. You are,” I tell him, wishing I could sound more confident in my answer because I want him to like me. Andrew comes from a family of astronomers, so I assume something like this is important to them.

Then I catch Aunt Constant’s eye roll.

“It’s the same thing every year, Jimmy,” she says. “Same rocket, same complaints.”

“Right. You’re right. But the thing is we have the technology. We’ve had it for a long time now. Would it be wrong to give the kids a dose of reality once in a while?”

“It’s a matter of safety,” Aunt Constant says with an air of finality.

Andrew looks up and down the road, perhaps bored with the conversation. “So, you’re headed home?” he says.

While his aunt gives him an answer, Uncle Jimmy steps to the side and wavers close to me, thrusting his stubbly older-man head in my direction. For a moment, he stares deep into my eyes, his face hovering in front of my face, demanding my attention. I fear he’ll kiss me, but then he reverses direction.

I’m left standing there with my hair like spikes shooting up from my scalp as if I’ve been shocked with a jolt of electricity. It’s a strange sensation, and I comb my fingers through until it goes back to normal.

“Nice eyes,” he says to no one in particular. “Blue-gray of the Baltic Sea.”

Then he turns to Andrew. “She shows real potential.”

“Uncle Jimmy,” Andrew says in a fierce whisper. “I beg you.”

The words echo in my mind. I beg you. I beg you. Why I beg you? And in what way do I “show real potential”? What just happened? I suppose Uncle Jimmy drank too many Space Junk shots like the rest of this late-night crowd. The party sounds coming from inside the bar indicate a dance riot going on. I can’t imagine Andrew’s aunt and uncle would enjoy a place like that, but then again this is a town-wide festival for alien enthusiasts of all ages, so I should expect the unexpected.

“We’ll be on our way now,” Aunt Constant says, weaving her arm through her husband’s and tugging him along. “Nice to see you, Andrew. And nice to meet you, Svetlana. Don’t stay out too late.”

“A graceful exit, Aunt Constance,” Andrew says. “Thank you.”

Constance? I thought he said her name was Constant. Me and my bad English.

We watch them head off in the opposite direction. I’m relieved they don’t want to hang out with us. “I hope they’re not driving,” I say.

“They live two blocks off Main Street. The walk will do him good.”

Then he takes my hand again, and we continue on our original path toward I have no idea where. “I’d say let’s go for ice cream,” he says, “but I happen to know the only shop in town is closed.”

“Didn’t you get enough during the day? You sampled more than Helena ever did. And she was queen of sampling.”

“That’s true.” He rushes forward down the sidewalk, leading me by the hand into the darkness, through an alley in between two brick buildings.

I’m laughing again. I’ve been laughing all day; I can’t help it. “Where are you taking me? Do you know another bench?”

The alley opens to a colonial-looking building that sells shoes. Next to it is an even smaller shop, a bead store. Both are closed for the night.

There’s an urgency in Andrew’s rushing steps, like he can’t wait to get wherever it is we’re going. We reach a little patio area with a wide tree trunk at its center, and he spins around and suddenly my back is pressed against the tree and his smiling face is in front of mine, and I’m looking at him like I love him, because I swear that I already do. It’s been twelve hours of knowing him, and I’m in deeper than I’ve ever been. My heart is full to bursting, and if he doesn’t kiss me, I’ll die.

He whispers, “Sveta,” and leans in. Our lips meet and his arms surround me, and I feel like I’m home. Finally, home. And that I never want to leave my home—or him—again.

* * *

We’re a block from my parents’ house, walking side by side, when he tells me he doesn’t think it will be appropriate for him to stay too long.

“But my parents aren’t home. You could stay the whole night, and I’d be the only one who knows.”

“Right. But that’s not why it’s not a good idea.”

At first I think he may be joking, but there’s no sign of a smile.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jovian, but I despise the sound of an empty house, so you’re going to have to hang around for a while. I will let you know when you are free to go. Ha ha.”

“That’s why,” he says, pointing at me with his free hand. “You suffered a traumatic event this morning, and now your house is empty. Your feelings might be mixed up, and tomorrow morning you’ll regret … having me over.”

He becomes a light shade of pink; I know because I turn my head at an awkward angle at the right moment to see it. We continue to walk. I’m thinking, Was it just this morning that Helena left?

“While it’s true, what you say, I don’t want you to go. Believe me, I’m not a silly girl who eats alfresco with just anyone.”

He doesn’t laugh at my joke.

“I don’t want this night to end, either,” he says.

The words linger in the air between us as we reach the front door.

“So you’ll stay.” I fish the key from my bag and am about to insert it into the lock. “If for no other reason than I need you to protect me from all of the aliens in town. You know how dangerous Kirksberg can be.”

His body goes soft with surrender. “Yes, I’ll stay. For a few minutes.”

Never was a man so set on not staying over. I wonder if I should tell him that I’m not a virgin.

I open the door. I have him by the hand and am walking backward, pulling him through the foyer into the living room.

He’s quiet, serious. I’m guessing that he both wants to stay and worries that he should leave. He drops his head. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

I give him the charming Baltic Sea eyes. “I seriously hope not.”

Chapter Three

In the morning, Andrew groans as his phone rings. As attractive as Helena assures me I am, he slept on the floor of my bedroom, on my area rug, which I haven’t vacuumed in some time. It’s 8 a.m. He sits up, looking adorably ruffled, and I roll over and stretch. I think about patting his head, but my sterner Russian side rules it a misstep.

“Oh, hi,” he says in a whisper. “Everything okay?” The person on the line speaks for a few seconds, sounding like a cartoon character from where I lay. Andrew says, “Yes, I’ll be there. … No. I’m not just saying—yes, Mom, I will. Of course. What? … Yes. Yes. … I said I will. … Yes.”

Americans and their yeses. I wish he would hang up already.

“I’ll ask her.” He looks up at me and winks. “I slept on the floor, not that it’s your business. … Uh-huh. Okay. … Okay. Do you need me to pick anything up? … All right. Gotta go, Mom. Bye.”

He squints up at me like a loyal canine. His bangs are all aflurry—if that is even a word.

“Your mother is calling at 8 a.m.?” I say. “Must be important.”

“To her it is. She’s having a day-after party and wants to make sure I’m there. It’s actually a fun party. She throws it every year the day after the festival. My father mixes up Bloody Marys and mimosas. They get a band.”

“I’m not a morning drinker,” I say.

“Well, Mom made me promise to bring you, drinker or not.”

It takes a second for that to sink in. I’ve slept in my clothes, and my brain isn’t working yet. “But she doesn’t know I exist.”

He scratches his scalp, the light brown waves ruffling around. “I’m afraid she does. You’ll find Jovian news spreads fast in this town.”

I’m glad the shades are down and the light is low. I’m sure I’m puffy and a bit greasy in the hair. I feel a pimple poking up from my chin. … “News?”

“Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Constance. Last night in front of Holy Shots.”

“Ohhhh, Mr. Electric Eyes. I forgot about him.”

“Mr. who?”

I laugh a little and then stifle it. “The way he looked me over, it was like he shot electricity into the roots of my hair. It scared me a little, to tell you the truth.”

“Electricity? Oh, wow, and I missed that?”

“You were talking with Aunt Constant.”

“Constance,” he says, enunciating.

“Oh, yes, I know. But when you first introduced them, I thought you said ‘Constant,’ and now it has stuck, I’m afraid. To me, she will be Constant forever.”

He laughs. “Okay.”

The next I know, he hops onto the bed, jarring the mattress as if it’s made of water. He grabs my long hair into a ponytail and lets it drop. “You have some beautiful hair, you know that? So shiny.”

“Yes, I am aware,” I say, blowing away the strands that have fallen in front of my face.

“And thick.”

I shake it back into place. “Stop flattering me, mister. I still have the sandman in my eye, and I’m not in the mood.”

He moves in for a kiss, but I’m too quick. “Not before I brush the teeth.” I duck my head and roll off the side of the bed.

“Come on, I’m not afraid,” he says. “How bad can it be?”

I race to the bathroom across the hall and slam the door behind me, locking it as fast as humanly possible. A thump hits the floor, and I jump.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” he says, laughing.

I am not fooled by this trick.

“No, I mean it. I’ve fallen. I am on the ground.”

I poke my head out to see and … he grabs me!

* * *

We walk to the party. His parents’ neighborhood is about a mile away—on one of the streets with the extra-large houses Helena used to mock. Extra-large houses for extra-large people and their extra-large children who eat extra-large ice cream sundaes. Because Helena is an insolent child, but I hope she made it to Russia okay.

If the line of expensive cars in front of his parents’ house is any indication, it’s going to be an extra-large party of the extra-wealthy sort Helena would despise. There’s a row of tall trees that runs parallel to the sidewalk and at first blocks the view of the house, until we reach the driveway. And now I’m standing there blinking like the poor orphan girl from Russia that I am. What the hell is he doing with me? He should have a supermodel or sports star for his girlfriend. I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, and I am feeling lightheaded.

Andrew has grown up in a mansion.

When he sees my reaction, his face goes long with worry. “Look, I know what you’re thinking.”

“This is your house?” I say, my heart swelling into my ears and Helena’s laugh mocking me in my mind.

“It’s my parents’ house. My parents’,” he says, turning so he has my full attention. “I don’t live here. I live in a second-floor apartment a block away from the post office, like a recent graduate should.”

I hope that’s true. He seems so normal, though I don’t know how he could be if he grew up in a palace like this one. His adamant concern is impressive, though, and it’s hard to resist such a face. He’s so sweet. It’s his large eyes and their wholesome blue-green color. There’s nothing mean about them. No sharp edges. He’d have a difficult time looking tough if he wanted to. But I’m still worried about this wealthy family, and my first instinct is to run back where I came from.

“Okay, look,” he says, “my father inherited some very old money. Not that he didn’t work his whole life, because believe me, he has, but—are you all right? You’re pale all of a sudden.” He grips my shoulders as if I might topple like an axed tree right in front of him.

I swallow. “What kind of people will be here?”

“What kind?” He gazes across the lawn as if he might find the answer there.

“Chris Hemsworth? President Obama? Princess Kate Middleton?” I don’t smoke or vape, but right now I would love something to do with my hands.

“Oh, yeah,” he says with a nervous laugh, “there’s that Russian humor.”

I look down at my yellow sundress, which only moments ago seemed too dressy for a daytime party, and now I’m wondering whether it’s not dressy enough. “You should have told me.”

“It’s just drinks on the lawn with family and close friends,” he says. “And you look beautiful; your dress is perfect. I didn’t think to say anything because it’s not a big deal. I’m sorry. All I wanted was for everyone to see my hot date.”

He laughs it off in a shy manner, and that makes me smile. I don’t want to smile, but I can’t help it. He’s cute even if he’s one of those wealthy Americans.

“In all honesty, it’s rare for me to bring a date to a party. And it’s nothing to be nervous about. Just a get-together. Mom calls it a garden party. Very casual. Sundresses and shorts. Nice people, for the most part, most of them hungover and sipping drinks, or pounding them in the case of Uncle Jimmy.”

The thought of Uncle Jimmy spikes my nerves. I can’t get that electric feeling out of my scalp.

“If we go in, I think you’ll have a nice time. I know you will.”

He said if. So he’s giving me the option not to go. I like that. That lets some of the air out of the panic I’m feeling.

“You won’t leave me alone with Uncle Jimmy, please?” I look to him for some reassurance I can lean on.

“When you meet these knuckleheads, you’re going to see how you worried for nothing.” He holds out his hand for me to take.

“I’ve already met Aunt Constant, and she was sweet,” I say as we head toward the gate that opens to the backyard. I take another look at the house and notice solar panels on the back side of the roof. So they’re rich but conscientious, and conscientious people are usually nice people.

“Right, and you know me,” he says, nudging me along. “And my mother already knows you. Sort of. I’ll grab a couple of mimosas. We’ll down them and get two more. Everything will be fine.”

We pass under the gate, which reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of the Kremlin (it’s white and gold and quite tall, though there are no spires to speak of). The music and chatter grow in volume and intensity. The sun shines bright and hot, and there’s no getting away from it. But a breeze blows through my hair as if to say, “It’s all right.”

* * *

The Earth is starting to spin. Not in the usual way, but the drunken way. We’ve been sitting around the table on the patio beside the pool for some time. Eight chairs, each one filled with a Jovian friend or relative. Andrew’s cousin David is beside me. He’s nineteen years old and attentive to my drinking needs. He also looks just like Andrew, though in skinnier, younger form. The resemblance is uncanny.

“Are you sure you’re not brothers?” I ask for the third time.

Andrew laughs. “We do look alike, but his eyes are different. And we have different parents. Plus, he’s adopted.”

“Yes, that’s what you keep telling me, but it’s hard to believe.”

“Aunt Constance wanted a boy like me, so she ordered him out of a catalog. That’s what Uncle Jimmy always says.”

“Funny man!” I say with more enthusiasm than I would had I not ingested three, four, however many mimosas.

A giant umbrella shades us; otherwise, we’d have sunburned shoulders and red noses. For the last twenty minutes, David has been going on about vodka and how “all Russians drink it.” Typical man-child.

“If you don’t do a shot,” he says, “how can I be sure you’re really Russian?”

“You don’t have to do a shot,” Andrew whispers in my ear on my other side.

“Not all Russians drink,” I say. “That is a mere, uh, ah!—what do you call it?” I lose bits of my English when I drink too much.

“Stereotype?” Andrew offers.

“Yes, exactly.” I pat his shoulder. “Stereotype. Weird American words. I mean, what does a stereo have to do with it?”

The three of us laugh. We’ve been laughing all afternoon, and my smile hurts.

David excuses himself to go to the bar. “Save my seat,” he says over his shoulder.

David’s chair is open for only a few seconds before another man fills it. This one is muscular, especially in the arms and chest, the whole of him like a wrestler—or superhero. He has a kind face, very movie-star handsome.

Andrew reaches around me to shake his hand. “When did you sneak in?”

“Just got here.” He gestures to the collection of champagne flutes in front of us. “Looks like you’ve been here a while.”

“Svetlana, I want you to meet Fran Vasquez. He’s an FBI agent, the guy I traveled to Russia with when we were in college.”

“Very nice to meet you,” I say, trying not to look too drunk, which takes more effort than it should.

His grin brings out a dimple in his cheek.

“Where’s Lisa?” Andrew asks. “Couldn’t get away?”

“Kid’s sick again,” Fran says. “Now she’s sick, too. It’s been a year since we were all healthy at the same time.”

“I hope nothing serious,” I say.

“Just a cold. Lisa’s so sleep deprived, she can’t catch a break. It’s unbelievable. Kids are friggin’ germ collectors.”

Andrew and Fran continue a conversation about some other couple I don’t know, and I sit back. The band’s playing a song that matches my mood: cheerful and, I don’t know, hopeful. So, yes, I am having a good time. Being near Andrew is enough to make me happy, and I’m glad I came to the party.

Though I do feel like a goldfish in a bowl.

And by that I mean that his relatives stare. A lot. Since the second I stepped into the yard. And not in a secret or subtle way. They do it from every angle, every distance, up close and across the wide lawn. It’s like I am a magnet pulling their eyes to my body, a scientific specimen to be studied. I wonder if they do this to all of Andrew’s girlfriends—not that I’m a girlfriend yet, but I am a date. Strange Americans. Do they all gape in such a way? Is this normal? I haven’t noticed before. Helena would have something to say. Not only do pampered Americans smile too much, but their eyes bore holes into all who enter their domain. Dramatic Helena.

When I met Andrew’s father, Edmund, he acted like Uncle Jimmy—getting close to my face, bringing on the wide eyeballs, and giving me an electrical shock that raised the roots of my hair. I swear to God, I don’t think I imagined it. I have never felt such a thing. It’s so strange. And then a little while later, his mother, Caroline, gave me the same weird jolt.

“Oh, shit.” Fran pushes back in his chair. “Your mother.”

“What? Where?” Andrew looks first one way, then the other.

Fran doubles over and pretends to tie his shoe. “Did she see me?”

“Don’t worry, man. She’s busy, she won’t come over here. Plenty of other guests for her to mingle—” He pauses. “Scratch that. She saw you. Here she comes.”

Wrapped in an air of self-consciousness, Fran sits straight in the chair and picks at the label on his beer. What is going on, I have not a clue.

“Andrew,” Caroline calls out. “You didn’t tell me Fran was here.” His mother rushes over, grabs Fran’s arm, and bends down so she can see right into his eyes, just like she, Edmund, and Uncle Jimmy did to me. “How are you?” she says.

It seems like she might kiss him on the lips. He smiles but at the same time retracts his neck. She moves even closer, then veers off at the last second, pulling him into an embrace. “It’s been too long. You need to bring the baby over.”

“Well, he’s sick again. So is Lisa.”

“That’s a shame,” Caroline says. She straightens up and lingers in front of him. “Promise me you’ll bring him over soon.”

“Yeah. Of course I—”

“And how have you been?”

“I’m good, good. You?” He runs his hand over the top of his buzz cut.

“I have to get back inside,” she says. “Dessert is about to come out, and I want to make sure Nancy doesn’t get the gluten-free cupcakes mixed up with the regular ones like she did last year.” She backs away, waggling a finger at him. “I want to catch up with you before you go; don’t try to sneak off.”

“Never,” he says, back to picking his beer label and looking uncomfortable.

As soon as she reaches the sliding glass door, Fran and I exchange a look. He’s rubbing the top of his head again, and I’m pretty sure he felt the same scalp-tingling strangeness I felt when Caroline and Edmund said hello to me. I wonder if he’ll say something.

Or maybe I should.

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes as if holding back.

On the other side of me, Andrew says, “Go ahead, Fran. You can say it.”

“What?” He gulps his beer.

“It’s fine. I know my family is weird.”

I turn to find a veil of guilt clouding Andrew’s happy-go-lucky face.

“What do you mean?” I say. “Your mother is very sweet. Everyone here has been so …” I miss a beat, vacillating between “nice” and “great” before landing on the former.

“Right. But they do that staring thing. I know all about it.”

I tilt my head in question. “But last night, when I told you about Uncle Jimmy—”

“I acted like I didn’t know what you were talking about. But I do. I know about the …” He pulls up some of his hair in demonstration.

“Happens to me every time,” Fran says. “Like little soldiers standing at attention.”

I turn back to Fran, and he runs his hand over his crew cut again. “She gets right in there.” He puts his hand in front of his face. “But it’s fine. I’m used to it. Sort of.”

“So then I didn’t imagine what happened last night?” I say.

Fran gives a little sigh. “No you did not.”

“How do they do it?”

He cracks his thick knuckles. His hands are huge, like bear paws. “Beats the crap out of me.”

“You know what else is strange?” I say, because I’m pretty loose in the tongue at this point, and even though I have just met Fran, I feel like this phenomenon has brought us to common ground. “Everywhere I look, someone is staring back at me.”

I turn my head, and every face at the table turns toward me in unison: neighbors Matthew and Eric; their stepsister, Jennifer; Uncle Colin; Aunt Sylvia; others who happen to be walking past our table.

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Fran says with a laugh. “That’s because you’re pretty. You should be used to that.”

“You absolutely should,” Andrew says, jumping at the chance to change the conversation.

I feel a blush creep over my cheeks as I scramble for a way to respond. Thankfully, young David returns with a tray full of colorless shots. He makes his way around the table, delivering one to each of us, and stops beside Fran with a scowl on his face. “You took my chair.”

Fran cocks a brow in his direction. “If you want me to move, you’ll have to make me.”

David’s wiry build is no match for Fran’s manly muscle. Instead he steps in between our chairs and parks his skinny backside against the arm of mine.

Andrew stretches around me and gives him a shove. “Get off.”

“Boys, boys,” I say. “Please stop fighting before we spill this wonderful vodka.” I raise the shot glass and say, “To drinks on the lawn.” And then I lean into Andrew and tell him, “Drinks will literally be on the lawn after this.”

“Here, here!” He raises his glass before tipping it back in one swoop.

We look at each other and grin. Our happiness somehow connects, latches together, becomes bonded. I feel as if we’ve been together forever. Next thing I know, we are face-to-face in a kiss.

* * *

I wake up in darkness. Not only can’t I see anything, I can’t remember where I am or how I got here. I’m lying on a bed; I know that much because there’s a pillow under my head and a pain in my … finger. My pointer finger, to be exact. I stretch out my arm. It collides with the lampshade, and my hand fumbles for the lamp’s switch. A yellowish glow emerges. My finger is red at the tip. I must have broken a nail, bent it back, or something such as this. A dresser of white wicker with several framed photographs on top sits to my left. I get up, unsteadily, to have a closer look at a picture of young Andrew, probably about ten years old. His teeth look too big for his face. I laugh out loud.

My breath is pure rubbing alcohol.

That’s when I remember how David’s vodka shot pushed me over the edge. I struggled not to fall asleep at the table, in front of all those staring Jovians. Andrew brought me to this first-floor guest room so that I could pass out in peace and privacy, kind boy that he is. Adorable round-faced boy. I think I’m falling in love with him.

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m definitely in love with him.

I’m happy to discover a small bathroom attached to this guest room. Walking gives rise to a wave of nausea, but it passes in a couple of breaths. Lights over the bathroom mirror are much brighter than the lamp beside the bed. My finger throbs. I seem to have broken the nail right down to the skin. Drunken fool. I don’t even remember doing it. It’s not bleeding, thank goodness, so I get to the job of tidying myself up before venturing out. I find a comb in the medicine cabinet, and after I neaten my hair I use a tissue and soap to wipe away the mascara that blackens the area underneath my eyes. Then I gulp some cold water.

As I reenter the bedroom, I notice all at once the lack of party music, lack of chatter, lack of laughter. The one window in the room faces the side yard, so it’s no help in determining the status of the party. Still, I’m pretty sure drinks on the lawn has ended. I must have been asleep for a long time. The sun was still out when Andrew introduced me to the guest room.

I open the door into the hallway, and who is heading in my direction but Uncle Jimmy. I consider pretending not to see him and scooting back into the room for something I have forgotten, but it’s too late.

“Hey, there, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, his shoulders bouncing in a giggle. A telescope with a giant zoom lens like a big metal head stuck to a tripod leans against his shoulder. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, no, you didn’t.”

He fixes his owlish stare on me. I know he doesn’t mean to frighten me, but the zip of electricity that raises my hair makes me feel as though I have met with a predator.

“We’re out on the patio if you care to join,” he says, continuing on. “Time for a little sightseeing.” He lifts the telescope in explanation.

How can he be a predator, with his button-up sweater and just-out-of-bed hair? I don’t want him to think me rude, so I say, “Is this one of the family products?”

He backtracks to me, holds out the telescope. “Sure is. The T125XS. Superpower in a small package. Only forty grand retail.”

My jaw drops. “Forty thousand—you’re not serious?”

“I am. You can see all the way to Icarus if all the coordinates are right.”

I’m floored—not that I’ve ever heard of Icarus outside of the mythological story.

“It’s a star. Halfway across the galaxy.”

He meets my eyes, and my scalp tingles—I focus on the wall. “Wow. That must be so neat.” I never use the word neat; it’s just what popped out.

“It certainly is. Must hurry,” he says, turning on his heels. “They’re waiting.”

Outside, Andrew stands beside Mr. Jovian, who smokes a cigar. They’re both gazing upward at the night sky. David is in a chair a couple of feet away, his back to me.

“Any aliens tonight?” I say. “Or have they all boarded their spaceships and flown back home?”

The men smile, but none of them laugh. I wonder if I have intruded, but then Andrew steps away from his father, takes my hand and kisses it. He must have felt the warmth of my injured finger because he looks closer at it and then says with his eyes, “What happened?”

I shake my head and whisper, “Nothing.”

Uncle Jimmy sets up the telescope a couple of feet away. “If we’re lucky we’ll see old MACS in addition to Heinze.”

“Maybe. They may have taken a turn,” Mr. Jovian says.

Uncle Jimmy hovers over the eyepiece. “Yes, that is a possibility.”

“They’re sighting comets,” Andrew tells me.

I guess they search for whatever is out there to see. They’re the ones who build the things that enable people to view outer space, so it makes sense.

“So many people act as if the universe starts and ends with the Earth,” Andrew’s father says in my direction. “Why is that, do you think, when the cosmos is right there for all of us to see?”

It feels like a test question.

“Well, I don’t know,” I say with a teasing smile. “Maybe it’s because our brains are so small. We can only handle what is right in front of us. For some, they cannot see outside of their country. For others, they cannot see outside of their state. Still others cannot see beyond the windows of their home. Many are stuck behind their border lines and inside their boxes.”

I can tell from his wry grin that he didn’t expect such an answer. He seems pleased, maybe even impressed.

“You see things a bit differently; I hope you don’t mind my saying.”

“Because I’m Russian, you mean?”

He blows out a cloud of smoke. “That. And because of your past experiences.”

Did Andrew tell him I was an orphan? That my parents were Russian spies?

I smile in an uncomfortable way. I’d like an end to this conversation and hope that Andrew will save me. But I can see that Mr. Jovian would like a response.

“I have lived in two countries,” I say, “which is more than many people who live in the United States can say.”

“Found it,” Uncle Jimmy says as he steps back from the telescope.

Mr. Jovian flicks his cigar. He turns toward the telescope. “Thank you, James.”

Andrew grasps my hand. “I’m going to take Svetlana home.”

“Oh, yes. It’s as we thought,” Mr. Jovian says in response to whatever he sees. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“Indeed, it is,” Uncle Jimmy says. “You think it’s to do with M31?”

“Do you want to drive, or should we walk?” Andrew asks me.

“Walk. I need air.”

“Cool. See you, Dad, Uncle Jimmy. Bye, David.”

David turns and waves from the lawn chair he’s sitting in. I’d forgotten he was there.

“Good night,” I say. “Thank you for a wonderful party.”

Mr. Jovian remains stooped over, his eye to the telescope. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Svetlana.”

 Copyright © 2021 by Kim Catanzarite

End of Excerpt

They Will Be Coming for Us and the sequel, Jovian Son, are available on Amazon and in bookstores. Click below to buy the book in digital (99 cents) or paperback ($18) form.