Young Writers Society

 I wake up to complete blackness, my glow-in-the-dark stars still shining bright. Lena is breathing raspily below me, but the ocean waves are loud enough to drown out the sounds.

I lay my hands on my stomach, and immediately remove them because not only does it feel funny but it is so hot in here. In science class back in Seneca, we learned that heat rises. That's definitely true, because I am on the top bunk in the apartment that is on top of the store and my skin feels scalding.

I crawl down the ladder with a blanket, putting it on the floor, and lay down all stretched out. It feels wonderful. I fall asleep a few minutes later.

“Everly, what the heck?“

I blink. It is light now, and Lena is staring at me. Even with the rude awakening, a feeling of relief comes over me when I realize that we get to visit Seneca again.

“What are you doing on the floor?“

I sit up. “It was hot on the top bunk.“

“I almost stepped on you,” she says. “Get back up there so I can change,” she says.

“What's stopping you now?“ I mumble, climbing up the ladder again.

“It's not like you're okay with me seeing you change,” she says.

“I guess you're right,” I say. “So, are you staying at Grandma's, or are you coming this weekend?“

“How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not going back?“

“But-”

“No!“ She says firmly, loudly. She bursts into tears.

“Sorry, Lena. Ne plach,” I say. Don't cry.

“It's okay.“ She says through tears. “But I'm not going back. Nikoly.“ Never.

After what happened, Lena immediately wanted to leave Seneca. She was sick, and sad, and crying, and embarassed because we were getting poorer and poorer with her medical bills, so we moved a month later. We sold our house for $525,000 dollars and bought the store for $300,000, and even with $225,000 we're still drowning in bills.

Lena finishes changing, and apologizes for not going ten times, and insists on hugging me.

She goes up to the top bunk while I change my clothes.

“I'm done.“

I open the door and walk to the kitchen.

“Great way to start the morning, Everly,” my dad says sarcastically, flipping a pancake.

“Oh, Ivan. Leave her alone,” Mom scolds.

“It was just a joke,” he says. “And she needs to be more careful around Lena anyways. Are you packed, Everly?“

“Yeah. Dobryy ranok, Маrk.“ Good morning. My brother is sitting on the couch, reading a Captain Underpants book.

“How can you roll your r's in Ukrainian but not be able to say them in English?“

“Mark,” my mom warns.

I attempt to be nice. “Good question.“

“No kidding.“

I roll my eyes behind his back.

“Dad, who's running the store while we're gone?“

“Sergei. How many pancakes do you want?“

“Just two. I'm not hungry. Who's Sergei?“

“You know Sergei. The Ukrainian foster kid your cousins took in a few years ago. What about you, Mark?“

“What?“ He asks.

“How many pancakes do you want?“

“Five.“

“Are you going to be able to eat all those?“ I ask.

“Yes,” he grumbles. “Just because I'm younger 'n you doesn't mean you have to treat me like a baby.“

“Sorry,” I say in Ukrainian.

“Can you just speak English?“ Mark groans.

“Why? Ukrainian is better,” I say in a teasing voice, again in Ukrainian.

“No it's not. It sounds like animal noises and makes my head hurt.“

“English makes my head hurt.“

“And when you speak it, you sound like a kindergartener. Learn how to talk.“

“I'm working on it.“

“Work harder. Its annoying,” Mark yells from the couch.

I throw up my hands. “I'm doing my best, I promise.“

“What are you doing to improve?“ Dad asks.

“I don't know. Trying to say it right when I talk.“

“Good, lyubyy,” Mama says. Her and Dad exchange a look. “Ale, in a few months, if you are still struggling…” she trails off. “You'll have to go to speech therapy at your school.“

“What? No. Can't I go somewhere else? And school starts in like a week! Why didn't you tell me this before?“

“We can't afford it. Between you being born premature and Lena's…incident, the insurance won't pay for stuff anymore.“

“Well-would it be during class?“

“No…it would be an exchange for an elective.“

“Couldn't I do it after school?“

“Don't be so certain that you will fail,” Mom says.

“Well, I will. I don't know how to even move my tongue in the correct way. I'm not saying the r sound anytime soon.“

“Then why not start speech therapy right when school starts?“ Dad adds, his voice low and his mouth full of pancakes.

“No, no, no. I'll try, please.“

“Everly.“ He pauses, chewing his pancakes. “You just said that you aren't saying it anytime soon. You are going to speech therapy as soon as school starts. I'll email them tomorrow.“

I know that tone. He will start yelling if I say anything back, and Mom will get mad at him for yelling and Mark will get mad at all of us and then Lena will come out crying and it'll all be blamed on me, so I shut up. I don't know why I say anything, ever. It just gets gets me into messes.

Lena comes out of her room and cries her way into getting waffles. We manage to get on the road by eight, and we're in Portland at Grandma's by ten. I speak no words and think about nothing, sad and mad. At Dad? Mama? Mark? Lena? I'm not sure.

And then I remember Sergei. When I was nine, my cousins Dmitri, Olena and Valentina (a boy, ten years old, a girl, thirteen, and another girl, sixteen, who live here in Woodbridge) took him in from foster care. He was thirteen at the time, sixteen now, pale blue eyes and brown hair, and skinny all over. He played lots of instruments, anything he could get his hands on, and he was super nice and showed me cool piano songs on YouTube. He was the only one who ever talked back to my dad.

It was our first time meeting Sergei. We were over at their house for dinner, Dmitri and Mark were off playing somewhere, and me, Lena, Olena, Valentina, and Sergei were still eating. Sergei sat next to my aunt, and me and my cousins sat at a separate table.

My dad was talking about me and Lena.

“Yes, Lena is our shooting star. Perfect marks in school, and the art teacher thinks she has real potential.“

“That's wonderful! And what about Mark and Everly?“

“Mark is doing baseball, and he loves it! He's a great pitcher, I've been teaching him throws in the backyard and he improves every day.“

“And Everly?“ My uncle asked.

He gives them a look. They all laugh, and my face burns. “You know Everly. She's doing okay in school, but she reads too much, and struggles with English. She has lots of growing to do." He laughs.

Sergei glared at him. “Ignore him,” he whispered to me. “That's kinda mean. She's right there,” he had called out.

Dad stared. And stared. He looked down before Sergei did, though, and they continued on as though nothing had happened. We all left the table and played video games until it was time for ice cream. Sergei didn't say much to me the rest of the night, but I never forgot that even to this day.