My New American Life Read Online Free PDF

and kill her for fun. But the odds were also against their doing that to an Albanian girl they didn’t personally know.
    Had Mister Stanley called Albanians to work on his house? Surely he would have said. Lula sometimes watched a TV show that warned you about the latest dangers—phone scams, dust mites, black mold, carjackings. But the series was in rerun, so you couldn’t tell if the threat was current. Not long ago she’d seen a segment about a gang that went door-to-door and offered to fix your roof, and if you refused your house burned down.
    The three guys were like a comedy act. Two of them looked like twins. Same body type, black cop shades, overly gelled spiked hair. Stocky, big hips, fat asses. She’d gone to high school with guys like that. Maybe she even knew them. The one without the hoodie wore a long black leather coat.
    The third was taller, red-haired, and fell in behind the other two. Cool, both hands in his pockets. Cute. He glanced up at the window and saw her. He had a mustache and longish hair. He reminded her of a boyfriend with whom she’d sniffed glue when she was young and crazy and going to raves in the bunker fields. Now that the Cute One had seen her, pride wouldn’t let her lock herself in the bathroom and pretend not to hear the doorbell.
    The third time they rang, she opened the door but kept the chain on. She looked at them hard, each in turn. Strangers. She would have remembered.
    â€œ Miremengyes ,” they said. Good morning.
    â€œ Miremengyes ,” said Lula.
    â€œLula,” the Cute One said. “Little Sister.”
    How had these guys found her? How did they know her name? Maybe they knew Dunia. Had she sent Dunia her new address? Oh, Dunia, Dunia, where was she? Best not to think of that now.
    â€œWhassup?” said Leather Jacket. On the street they might speak Albanian, their secret code, but on this American doorstep, they showed off for each other in the street slang of their new country.
    â€œRemind me how we’re related,” Lula said.
    â€œAll Albanians are related,” said Hoodie. “Brothers and sisters.” His eagle sweatshirt was half unzipped. Around his neck, on a silver chain, hung a double-headed silver eagle.
    The Cute One gestured at the SUV. “We’re good friends and customers of your Cousin George.” Then he curled his lips in a way that transformed his pretty mouth into Cousin George’s fat liver lips. Lula laughed, partly because it was funny and partly because it was nice to meet someone who could imitate her cousin.
    â€œBrothers and sisters,” said Hoodie.
    â€œOkay,” said Lula. “Got it.”
    Leather Jacket said, “Congratulations. Congratulations on your work visa.”
    â€œHow do you know about that? My cousin doesn’t know yet.”
    The Cute One’s smile uncovered a gold tooth. “Don’t worry how we know. My girlfriend works in immigration.”
    Lula said, “I have a great lawyer. My boss—” The quick sharp looks the men exchanged made Lula sorry she’d boasted. Her Balkan survival instinct had been blunted by the spongy atmosphere at good-guy Mister Stanley’s.
    Lula undid the door chain. Please don’t let them steal Mister Stanley’s television and Zeke’s computer. But who would want Mister Stanley’s ancient Motorola, or Zeke’s student laptop? Maybe that would make Mister Stanley finally buy a flat screen, which would make Zeke happier than the therapist he’d seen weekly when she’d first got here and then decided to stop seeing, a change that inspired Mister Stanley to give Lula a little raise. There would be no more little raises if Mister Stanley found she’d invited these guys into his house. And maybe no green card, no citizenship. Disaster. On the other hand, they were Albanian. They called her “Little Sister” and knew her Cousin George. The Cute One was cute.