August pops up straight to answer me. “A day or two. You can meet us there if you’re not ready by then.”
I shake my head, the fantasy bursting like a bubble. I feel silly for even considering it. I can’t even imagine getting on a train all alone. How would I do it? Why? And is now really the best time to go somewhere? “I don’t know, August. I don’t think I have the uniform for it,” I joke, half-seriously, half about to cry.
He stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think you have the uniform for this either,” he says, waving a hand in the direction of the room, the house, Milwaukee.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Doesn’t it feel like you’re always one floor removed from everybody else?” he asks.
“No. It’s more like we’re all on the same floor, but I’m in a different building,” I explain.
August laughs. “I’d say a bit of both.” I turn back to the screen, to see if Zoya has responded, but she hasn’t. August returns to the floor to stretch. He is mid-bridge pose when the door opens, and Box walks in nervously, looking years younger now that she’s clean, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. She can’t even be eighteen, I realize.
“Thank you so much for letting me use your shower,” Box says. She bends over and ruffles August’s hair, and before I know it, August has jumped out of the bridge pose and is on his feet again. He gives Box a tight squeeze.
“Hey, kid. You need help packing?” Box asks him. The two of them are cute together. They look happy, or at least more content than anyone else I know. It makes me wonder if maybe they understand something about life that I don’t; something like you can’t be satisfied with everything until you can live with nothing.
Maybe this endless want of distraction is what the absence of beauty in your surroundings replaces. My parents should have been happy enough with getting us here, but no; then it became a series of newly desired accomplishments. European cruises and expensive clothes, new floors, healthy savings accounts. Honor roll and college degrees and clean-cut Jewish life partners for their children; money, money, money. It would never end. It would never be enough. Like when you’ve missed eating all day and then try to eat, but no matter how much you consume, it’s too late, you don’t ever feel full.
“That shower was perfection, darling,” Box says, taking the towel off her head and hanging it on my doorknob to dry. “I feel so fancy.” She runs her fingers through her short hair and doesn’t ask for a comb. I notice that she’s still in the same ratty clothes she came here in, a band t-shirt worn so thin I can’t make out the band name, and black jeans at least one an inch too large, torn in the knees. I feel suddenly very much like giving all my things away so I can be free too. It’ll be less stuff to move, at least.
“Anna might come with us,” August says, grinning at Box. Her eyes go wide with surprise.
“Really?” she asks. “Have you gone before? That’s exciting.”
“It sounds fun, but I’m not so sure I can actually hop a train,” I tell them. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Nah,” she shrugs. “It’s fun.”
Maybe they’re not entirely crazy, these train hoppers, to remove the shackles of daily existence in order to be free. Who wouldn’t benefit from a little freedom? We live in buildings we can’t see the bottom of and use machines we don’t know the first thing about recreating. It’s progress, and so much of it is necessary, but it separates you from your natural state. It’s like there is no natural state anymore.
I start looking through my drawers for clothes I’ve been meaning to take to Goodwill that I can instead donate to Box when August grabs me by the shoulder.
“Hey—who’s that guy downstairs?” August asks. “He’s huge!”
I look out the window, at where he’s pointing, to see a young man is standing there, blue hair streaming out of a thick gray hat. In his hands, he has two large Fuel coffee cups. He rings the doorbell.
I smile, without meaning to. My stomach fills with butterflies again. “Oh, that’s Tristan,” I say. Part of me had thought I’d never see him again. But the other part… No, I knew all along he’d be back, that something had started between us last night, because maybe I was wrong to trust Zoya, but I’ve yet to be wrong about a guy being attracted to me. Some things you can’t hide. Or maybe I just know how to look. Certainly if I met Zoya in person, I would have a better idea what her intentions are. But online? It’s impossible to gauge tone from some text.
Right as I’m about to go over there and open the door, my computer makes a noise: an incoming message from Zoya on MySpace. I slump back into my seat.
I’m sorry, it says. Can we talk?
When the doorbell rings again, I turn to Box and August, who are now making out by the window. “Can you let him in?” I ask August. “Please? I just need a second here.”
“Wow, look at you, juggling more than one dude!” August says, slapping me on the back, assuming I’m flirting with someone on here not demanding answers from a girl who thinks she’s my sister. He and Box exit the room and head down the hall as I write, “My dad was so pissed he threw the test on the ground,” I explain.
“Anastasia, it was a mistake,” she writes. “I didn’t know till you messaged me.”
“That wasn’t cool. We had a plan,” I write.
“Let me explain. The truth is, when we first started talking, I had already sent the DNA kit to Pavel. I didn’t think I would ever hear back from you,” she writes. “So when you told me to send it to your address, I contacted the post office and begged them to change the delivery address. I called so many times, Anastasia. I even called the United States.”
“How am I supposed to believe you now?”
“I swear. They told me on the phone the address was changed to yours. I don’t know what happened. Maybe they only said it to get me to stop calling,” Zoya explains. “I’m really sorry.”
A knock at my door jolts me out of this conversation: it’s Tristan. “Hey,” he says, smiling. “I got coffee.”
“Hi! And here I thought you’d disappeared on me,” I say, turning my head. I try to swallow my rage, if only for a moment, but my entire body feels like it might burst into a million pieces. It’s just all too much to take.
“No, I just remember you said you like Fuel coffee,” he says. He hands it over, followed by a cigarette.
“That’s really sweet,” I say, taking them both. When I look back, Zoya is writing me again:
“What about the test?” she is saying.
I drink some coffee and light the cigarette, hoping to feel more relaxed but only feeling less so. Like I’m at the edge of a cliff. “I think it might still be okay, but I need to look at it more.”
“Do you think you can convince your dad to take it?”
“What’s that about?” Tristan asks, hovering now behind me. “Is that Russian?”
“No, I don’t,” I write.
“Anastasia. I understand if you don’t want to get involved. But can you please take the test instead? I am begging you.”
My heartbeat starts to race. Should I really get involved more than I already have? I feel transported into an entirely different story than the one I’ve been telling myself. In this one, I’m not so sure I’m the hero. And I’m certainly not capable of making any important decisions. Not before I figure some other things out first. And definitely not before I drink my first cup of coffee.