“Your parents are immigrants,” he said. “You have a strange name. You speak a strange language. And you are not a Barbie doll. That is the cruel truth. You aren’t going to get by in this world with your looks alone.
“To succeed in this country, you’re going to have to compete with men. Men are selfish, petty, and cruel. The world where this behavior is rewarded is called business. To beat men in business you will have to be smarter and tougher than them. We know you’re smart. We know you’re very, very smart. But are you tough?”
Nadia tried to sniff in the tears before they rolled out. She bit down harder on her tongue. “Yes, father.”
He smiled for a beat, and turned his face into granite. “We’ll see. You’re on your own for three days.” He handed Nadia a whistle attached to a long pink chain she could wear around her neck. “For emergency purposes. If all else fails, get to high ground, and blow.” He turned to Marko. “Let’s go, slacker.”
Marko walked over to Nadia. She spied the concern and affection in his eyes that always perked her up. As soon as Marko caught her glance, though, he put on his easygoing smile, the one that wanted to make light of any situation.
“It’s just three days, Nancy Drew,” he said. “Three days is nothing. You and me, we can take three days of anything, right?”
Nadia stood up and looked her brother in the eyes. “Right.”
She tried to muster her inner strength, but her lips trembled and her eyes watered. She was about to look like a pathetic little girl, the same weakling she’d been before Marko had made her strong. The thought of him seeing her cry was unbearable, so she jumped up, grabbed her knapsack, and ran farther into the forest. She knew how to appear cool even if she was nervous. It was part of daily living because her father made her nervous all the time.
“I’ll be okay,” she said over her shoulder. “I can do this. If a boy can do it, I can do it.”
“That’s right, Nancy Drew. If a boy can do it, you can do it.” A few seconds passed and then she heard Marko’s voice again. Louder now, to make sure she heard him. “Hey little sister. What’s your name?”
“Nadia,” she said.
“What does it mean?”
This time she turned her face to the side so her voice would carry in his direction and shouted, “Hope.”
She walked aimlessly for a minute, wishing she’d never agreed to take the stupid test. The merit badge wouldn’t make a difference. All the kids would still pick on her. Compete with men? What the heck was her father talking about? This whole thing was wacko. She didn’t want to compete with anybody. She wanted to be left alone.
Eventually the walking calmed her down, and her training kicked in. Her PLAST troop master was Mrs. Chimchak, a woman who’d fought for a free Ukraine against the Nazis and the communists in World War II. She thought American kids were spoiled, so her purpose in life was to make her scouts miserable. She’d taught them survival skills, how to build a shelter and an eternal fire, even how to gather water from dew with nothing more than a bowl, a plastic bag, and a pebble.
Nadia headed down the path in the opposite direction from where her father and brother had disappeared. The first thing she had to do was find the right place to build her camp. It had to be near water so she could boil it and drink it, but on higher ground so if it rained the water would flow away from her. As a plan for a campsite began to take shape, the tears stopped flowing and she started to believe she could do this. In fact, it might not be so bad. Maybe she’d want to stay a fourth and fifth day for fun.
But as she descended toward the river, the sun vanished behind a patch of clouds and the darkness of the forest enveloped her. A light wind shook the pine trees to either side of her and they began to whisper and move as though they were human, capable of pulling her to their trunks with their branches and devouring her with hidden mouths, and deep down, Nadia knew she was mistaken.
CHAPTER 3
He’d picked me up in a black Camaro IROC with tinted windows and an exhaust note so loud my father started swearing as soon as he heard it. He thought it was the neighbor next door, a truck driver who liked to rev his motorcycle as loud as possible to piss off the low-rent boat people from Eastern Europe. At least that’s what he called us. But when my father saw it was Donnie he became all smiles. Sure the kid neglected his schoolwork and didn’t know Ukrainian from uranium, but this was America and he was only a freshman in high school. Our Uke parents were prepared to overlook all sorts of questionable character traits if it meant their sons and daughters might marry a purebred.
I was thirteen at the time. Most parents wouldn’t have allowed their thirteen-year-old daughter to go out on a date with a sixteen-year-old boy, including mine. But in this case they were willing to make an exception because he was Ukrainian. My father had a private chat with Donnie before we went out. I’m sure Donnie fed him a well-rehearsed series of lies about his intentions, and my father happily digested them. My mother seemed less sanguine about the matter, but she told me that I was a lucky girl to be going out with such a handsome young man.
Donnie said he was going to take me to the McDonald’s on the Silas Deane Highway in Newington — I liked it because it was the only one around with the old-fashioned arches. But instead of pulling in, he drove straight past it to the parking lot of the Grantmoor, a motel known for hourly room rates used by married couples, the kind who weren’t wed to each other. Donnie said we were going to work up an appetite first. Who was I to say no? I was a mere mortal. The thought of being kissed by an angel terrified and enthralled me at the same time.
In fact, I’d never been kissed before he leaned over and pressed his lips to mine. Soon he was working his fingers expertly and turning me into his personal puddle of mush. The sensations racked me with such fury I was prepared to marry him on the spot. Then he pulled away and said, “Do you fuck?” I shrank back in the seat with horror and embarrassment and shook my head no.
He tried to force himself on me but I had to give him credit. As soon as he felt my flesh turn cold and heard the word “No,” he stopped. I didn’t get a burger, fries, or a milkshake, and within a week the story went around that he’d gone out with me because he’d never fucked a fat girl, and he wanted to see if they were really as grateful as all the guys said they were.
Now, here he was, pouring me a flute of Champagne.
“C’mon,” he said. “It wasn’t that bad. I never forget it when a girl’s hips buckle, especially for the first time. We had a moment. You felt it. Big time. I know you did.”
I suppressed my revulsion. “Yeah, but you never bought me that cheeseburger.”
He chuckled in a patronizing way. “That’s why I’m giving you the bubbly now.”
He offered me a flute.
I shook my head. “I can’t, Donnie.”
His face dropped. Something between disappointment and anger. “Are you saying no to my generosity?”
If corporate America had taught me one thing, it was that strength respects strength. My goal was to be agreeable but not arrogant, and to use my intelligence to weaken his resolve. That’s the only weapon I had with which to defend myself. My brain.
“No, Donnie. I’m not saying no to you. I’m saying yes to my policy.”
“Policy? What policy?”