Hot Little Hands (7 page)

We all burst into speech simultaneously, like guests at a surprise party. Who would get to go? How would he decide? “It's totally gonna be you,” Anastasya said. “You're one of his favorites.”

“No way, I'm sure it'll be you,” I said, but I didn't really mean it. She was a good gymnast but not outstanding and, at sixteen, she was too old now to even think about serious professional competition.

“Girls, girls, quiet down,” Coach Zhukov said. “I'll cure you of your curiosity. I wanted to make this decision right away, before we break for Christmas, so we can start the preparations in time. So, after a difficult weekend of deliberation, and some discussion with Xenia, I have come up with a list of four. Four girls.”

He said all the usual stuff about how it had been a hard decision and we were all deserving, in a perfect world we could all go, blah blah. And then he took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and cleared his throat. “I'd like these girls to come to the front of the room,” he said. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I felt like a cartoon character with a crush. “Vera.” A fourteen-year-old girl called Vera with blond hair down her back got up and stood next to his chair. Her face was borscht red and she had a crazy grin on her face. “Ehma.” Ehma stood up. She was a pretty brown-eyed girl, stupid as anything, but she could twirl with a ribbon like it was a limb she'd been born with. Then he said my name. “Kira.”

“Yes?” I said. I thought he wanted to tell me something or ask me for a favor. I didn't think he was actually calling my name to go to America.

“Told you so,” said Anastasya, pushing me in the back until I stood up and went to the front of the group. I felt so dazey. It was cold in the room and I was just wearing my leotard, but suddenly I felt warm, like I was bundled up in a winter coat with a hat on top.

“And, last, Anastasya,” Coach Zhukov said, and my tall friend came and stood beside me.

“No way,” I said.

“I know,” she whispered. “I'm not even good enough.”

“You are so.” I took her hand and squeezed it.

The rest of the girls sat cross-legged on the floor, staring up at us. I could tell they felt awful. I would have hated me if I hadn't been me, standing there at the front of the room beside the teacher and the other chosen girls.

“Okay, everyone, let's begin our warm-ups as usual. Xenia, please start the tape.” Coach Zhukov turned to us and smiled. “Well done, girls. Now I have some forms for you to take home to your parents.”

The coach said that both Ehma and Anastasya would do floor routines, Vera would be on the uneven bars, and I would be on the balance beam. He said we could choose our own music, and straight away I knew which song I wanted to use: “Ya Soshla S Uma” by t.A.T.u. (I love t.A.T.u.)

We set to work practicing but I couldn't concentrate on anything for more than three seconds at a time. That's how long it took my mind to wander back to one thought: I am going to America. It was my second lucky break.

My excitement lasted the two hours of practice and the twenty-minute trolleybus ride home. It ended a minute after I'd come into the kitchen and put the forms on the table, where my parents and grandmother were sitting down for dinner.

“You can't go,” my dad said. “You know we can't afford it. We can barely afford the lessons.”

“Coach Zhukov said the conference people pay for our tickets.”

“All the way to America,” my mother said, spreading margarine onto a piece of bread. “For a three-minute gymnastics routine.”

“It's not even a competition,” my father said.

“The coach said it's good exposure,” I told them.

My parents looked at each other and tried to make a silent decision.

“Please!” I said. “When else will I get to go to America? For gymnastics!”

“In the middle of the school year.”

“I can ask the teachers for extra homework so I won't fall behind. It's just six days. Look, the form says.”

My mother dipped her bread in her ukha and took a bite. She pulled the form toward her. I watched her face soften as she read what Coach Zhukov had written about the conference.

“San Diego,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, silently willing her to keep reading. “California.”

“It's sunny there all year round,” my father said.

“Really?” I took my coat and scarf off and hung them by the front door, instead of throwing them in a pile on the floor like I usually do, like my mother hates.

“Even in winter,” he said.

My grandmother, who had stayed silent the entire time, finished eating and dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clink. “A twelve-year-old girl,” she said, nodding while she talked, “alone in a foreign country with some teacher you hardly know.” She stood up and pushed her chair back. “You'd have to be crazy.”

“I'm almost thirteen,” I said loudly as she left the room. But my father's face told me all I needed to know about my chances of getting to California.

“Your grandmother's right,” my dad said. “You're too young.”

“It's not fair.” I started to cry.

“Here.” My mother pushed a bowl across the table toward me.

“And don't tell me that thing about life not being fair.”

“Well, it's true,” my father said.

“Maybe it is,” I said. “But it's more fair for adults than it is for kids. At least you get to decide what you can do.”

“Eat something,” my mother said.

“What's the point? If I can't go to America, I'd rather starve and die.”

My birthday party becomes my farewell party. All my friends attend but instead of giving me birthday gifts, like stickers or candies, they give me going-away presents. My first best friend Lara arrives first with a mauve satiny eye mask to wear on the airplane while I sleep. Manya, a girl from my class who my mother always makes me invite to my parties, gets me a Pokémon watch with the price sticker still on it. It cost eighty-five rubles. It stops working two minutes after I take it out of the packet and put it on my wrist. I don't care; I haven't liked Pokémon since fifth grade. Anastasya comes without a present. She's saving her money for America, so she can buy Rollerblades there. My second best friend Raya brings me a diary with a glittery airplane on the cover, a silver pencil attached by a ribbon, and a lock with two little keys dangling from it.

“You have to tell us everything when you get back,” she says. “This will help you keep a record.”

“Give the other key to Orlando Bloom when you meet him.” My first best friend Lara winks at me.

“He's English,” Raya tells her.

“They all live there,” Lara says.

The boys come late and stand all together by the television. The girls are squeezed onto the sofa or sitting on the floor in front of it. My mother comes out of the kitchen with the radio and puts it on the side table.

“Mingle,” she whispers on her way out of the room.

“Why don't they?” I whisper back.

“
I'm yours,
” Polina Gagarina sings from the speakers.

I get up and go over to the boys. There are five of them, all leaning back against the wall.

“Happy birthday,” Anatoly mumbles.

“Yeah,” says Vlad. He runs a hand back over his wet-gelled hair, then he looks down at his fingers (now all sticky and gross) and shoves them into the pocket of his jacket.

“Thanks for coming,” I say. I smile at Igor and Slava, and go over to Dimitri.

“You look pretty,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, twirling the Pokémon watch around my wrist. “Um, so do you.” The other boys laugh. I roll my eyes and go back to the sofa.

“Who's that?” Anastasya asks.

I shrug a shoulder. “Some guy from school.”

“He has a crush on her.”

“He's cute.”

“Yeah, but Kira's saving herself until she gets to America and meets Johnny Depp,” my first best friend Lara says.

“He's French,” my second best friend Raya says.

“They all live there.”

Ten minutes later my parents bring out a birthday pie, with
SAFE TRAVELS
carved into the crust. My grandmother, the maker of the pie, doesn't come out of our bedroom for the entire party.

Coach Zhukov and Xenia had come to see my parents when I was at school one day. They told them I was the best gymnast in the group, and a performance at the conference would raise my profile in the world of international gymnastics. They told them about the people who would be in San Diego watching me perform—world-class coaches, the president of USA Gymnastics, and senior American gymnasts like Shannon Miller and Carly Patterson. As for us being alone in a foreign country, Xenia promised she would be there at all times. She would accompany us girls everywhere and stay in the same hotel room.

They gave my parents the name and details of a government official who could get me a passport quickly. They said they needn't worry about the cost of the trip. The conference would pay for the basics and, if they wanted to give me spending money, Coach Zhukov could refund them the rest of the term's tuition. My parents signed the permission slips and in-case-of-emergencies, and Coach Zhukov wrote them a check. That's how they paid for the digital camera, with a memory card inside it that can hold two hundred photos.

I take pictures of everything. I take one of Licorice up on his hind legs at the windowsill, trying to swat a moth with his paw. I take one of my father smiling at the kitchen table, my mother beside him, lighting a cigarette. I take one of the upstairs neighbor with her baby in the stairwell, its mouth wide open in a scream. I take some self-portraits: one of my feet on the kitchen floor, wearing one red sock, one navy one; one of myself in the mirror, balancing on my left leg with my right one straight out in a half split; one of the inside of my mouth, the back teeth crowded together like schoolkids on the trolleybus. I take one of my grandmother sitting on the edge of her bed in the morning, halfway through a yawn.

“Look, Baba.” I turn the camera around and show her the picture on the screen.

“Great,” she says. “It's not bad enough that I have to get old and ugly, now I have to watch it happen on a little television.”

“It's not a television, it's a camera.”

“Well, watch that you don't get it stolen in America. Those cities are full of thugs and thieves.”

“That's just New York,” I tell her. “I'm going to California.”

The day before I leave is a Sunday but practice has been canceled until we get back. My mum helps me pack my bag in the morning: clothes in the main section, shoes in the front pocket, my ticket and brand-new passport in a secret zippered compartment inside.

After lunch, Dimitri calls and asks if I have time to see him. We arrange to meet at Café VIP downtown. I take the bus there, looking out the window at the apartment buildings rising up beside every street, a light shining behind almost every curtain. I wonder if people in San Diego ever have to turn on their lights in the middle of the day. I imagine big houses with all their windows and doors open, letting the sunshine and warm breeze come in and tickle the legs of the people who live there, who will all be wearing shorts or mini skirts and have bare sandy feet.

When I get to the café, Dimitri is waiting outside, wearing a leather jacket that's too long for him. Inside, he buys us each a mug of hot cocoa. We sit at a table next to the front window and talk about America. He says his cousin went there once and told him that the candies are made with sugar-free sugar. And all the women have bodies like the girls on
Baywatch.
And if you look a black guy directly in the eyes he'll kill you.

“He's in jail now, though,” he says. “Here in Vladivostok. He killed his landlady and her boyfriend.”

“Oh my gosh,” I say.

“Yeah, him and some Chechens were selling guns out of his flat and when his landlady found out, she reported them to the police. He went to prison for four years and when he got out, he hunted her down.”

“And shot her?” I ask.

“No, I think he did it with a knife. He's back inside now. You can have my marshmallow if you like.”

Later, when we leave the café, a wind has started up and the street is empty. I blow warm air into my gloves, then hold my hands over my ears.

“So.” Dimitri buttons his jacket up to the collar. “Do you think you want to be my girlfriend?” He sniffs and spits into the gutter.

“I don't know,” I say, watching his saliva freeze up on the ice. “I might meet someone in America.”

“You're only going for a week,” he says.

“I know. But it can happen quickly. Ever heard of—” I try to find the English expression. “Love at first sight?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I have.” He takes a step toward me and puts his hand on my cheek. The kiss is just as I'd pictured it in bed every morning for weeks: our mouths slightly opened, his tongue skimming my upper lip, my lower lip, then finding the tip of my tongue before he pulls away. He takes his hand back and stares into my face for a minute. “Let me know when you get back, Kira,” he says. Then he turns and leaves.

He's half a block away when I realize I didn't get a photo of him. “Hey, Dimitri?” I call. “Dimitri!” The wind snatches my voice away, and he doesn't hear me. I get my camera out and take a photo of his back, walking away from me on the icy street. It won't help me conjure up his face when I'm in America, but it's better than nothing at all.

That night, I can't sleep and neither can my grandmother. I listen to her bed ticking under her as she turns over. Finally I ask, “Baba, can I get into bed with you for a while?”

“Come on, then,” she says.