American Gypsy Read Online Free PDF Page B

soothing glow from the rose-patterned lampshades of our Moscow living room, and the irritable cat we left behind, named after Michael Jackson. I missed the mashed potatoes Dad used to make, the ones I refused to eat because of the lumps, and the way my mother’s Climat perfume lingered in our house for hours after she’d left for a business meeting. Surprisingly, I also missed the snow. Blended with the scent of the freshly cut fir trees huddled behind FOR SALE signs near metro stations, the snow smelled like Christmas.
    Moscow snow, though, reminded me bitterly of my first school fight. A month after Aleksey Moruskin pinned the Gyp sign to my back, he sidled up during the sixth-grade school party and asked me to dance.
    â€œNo,” I said, suspicious of his motives.
    Nastya saw the exchange and rolled toward us, knocking people aside like a bowling ball.
    â€œYou Gypsy skunk,” she shouted. “Why don’t you go back to begging with your folks at the train station instead of stealing our boys?”
    â€œDon’t call me that.”
    â€œWhat? Gypsy or skunk?”
    â€œSay it again and you’ll be sorry,” I said.
    â€œLet’s see you try.”
    We made arrangements to meet behind the school in ten minutes. Like a duelist with star power, Nastya brought an entourage of six girls. I waited alone, the winter night biting my skin. Nastya and I stood ten feet apart, our breathing already uneven. The girls cheered louder and, spurred by their enthusiasm, Nastya and I rushed at each other. She slapped my face, and the pain bit harder than the cold. I wished she’d used her fist, because that seemed less degrading. The girls’ voices flocked into the black sky. Nastya landed another one on my face, and then, as if possessed, I roared and punched her in the middle of the chest. She fell in the snow, gulping for air.
    The girls circled their friend, helping her stand as she pressed her hands to her breast. Panic rounded her features into a caricature of herself.
    I took a step closer, my ears loud with the beginnings of hysteria. I didn’t want Nastya to die.
    â€œGet her!” someone screamed.
    I tore across the field behind the school, sinking deeper in the snow with each step and my lungs burning hot. When I finally crossed the field, I sprinted home, but they caught up before I rounded the last corner.
    One of them yanked me back by my coat and shoved me forward face-first onto the ice-covered sidewalk. I rolled over and lay there stunned, surrounded by my classmates.
    â€œWell?” Nastya said, peering at me. “Did you girls see how she almost snatched Aleksey as soon as I wasn’t looking? That’s what Gypsy whores do, because they start having sex at like ten and then they can’t stop.”
    â€œMy mom said they grow boobs and curly hairs faster than normal people,” one of the others volunteered.
    Nastya leaned down. “Not so fast now, are you?”
    â€œYou can have your fat Aleksey,” I spit out, rising as the cold from the ground fizzed into my bones. The night grew darker, even the streetlamps seeming to fade.
    â€œShe’s bleeding!”
    They were gone as the blood crept down my face and over my eyes.
    At home, Mom pressed bandages soaked in hydrogen peroxide to the cut several inches above my hairline while Dad demanded to know what happened.
    â€œI fell down,” I said.
    â€œYou were walking and suddenly fell down?”
    â€œLeave her alone,” Mom said. “Be useful and fetch that chocolate bar from the fridge.” She had read in a scientific journal that eating chocolate helped the body produce more blood.
    â€œAre you out of your mind, woman? She’s going to have a scar. I want to know how she fell down, that’s what I want to know.”
    Mom dabbed iodine around the cut, and I leaned my head into her hands, a bit dizzy.
    â€œWe should call the ambulance?” Dad hovered, trying