Free Broken Glass Park by Alina Bronsky

Gray is a nice color. It’s underrated. Ignored. Has a bad reputation. But I’m warming up to it.
    “Maria,” I call out, surprising even myself, “there are some shoes out here.”
    The answer comes quickly, high-pitched, kind of surprised. It’s not a word so much as an “Oh!”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” I say angrily.
    Maria appears in the kitchen doorway. She’s in flesh-colored tights and a floral-pattern blouse. She’s frantically patting down her hair.
    “Little Sascha,” she says, her eyes wide. “You’re home so early today. We . . . I hadn’t expected you.”
    “What do you mean early?” I say. “I’m not early.”
    “You always have your get-together Friday afternoons,” Maria says.
    “My club,” I correct her, realizing she’s right. Fridays the philosophy club meets after school. I’d forgotten. “And so what? Aren’t I allowed to come home when I want?”
    “Yes, yes,” Maria says quickly. “Of course, of course.”
    She looks a little pale to me today.
    The circular saw is the correct answer. It is the only one of the four things that doesn’t rot.
    Instead of going into my room, I go to the kitchen. Maria blocks my path. I have to shout at her for a second before she steps aside. I take a step forward and make the big discovery.
    Sitting at our kitchen table is Grigorij, the father of Anna’s friend Angela. I recognize him from seeing him around. We always say hi to each other. He’s short and wiry, has a black moustache and a messy head of salt-and-pepper-colored hair. He’s in an undershirt and sweatpants, trying to hide behind his teacup. But he can’t, even though it’s a big cup. Steam rises from the cup. Grigorij’s holding onto a spoon, the other end of which is in a jar of jam. The still life is completed by a plate of cookies.
    “Hi, Uncle Grischa,” I say out of habit.
    Grigorij puts the spoon in his mouth and licks it off—probably just a displacement activity as he ponders his next move.
    “Hello, Sascha,” he says. I hear an unfamiliar rustle. I frown, concentrating, until I realize it’s the sound of Grigorij’s feet—in blue socks—fidgeting around beneath the table. Probably looking for his shoes.
    “Your shoes are in the entryway,” I say coolly. “Or do you already have a pair of slippers you keep here? Just don’t tell me you use mine. I wouldn’t know, because before today our paths haven’t crossed in this house, have they?”
    “You’ve got it all wrong, Sascha,” he says. This gets me briefly fired up, because there’s nothing I hate more than people talking ridiculous bullshit.
    “What exactly have I got wrong?” I ask. Maria disappears like a shadow at noon and reappears just as quickly with Grigorij’s shoes in her hand. She lays them deferentially at his feet.
    “You might as well put them on for him, too,” I say, looking at the wall. “Why half-ass it?”
    Grigorij slips out of his chair and squats to tie his shoes.
    “It’s not right, acting this way, Sascha,” he says, lifting his wrinkled face toward me.
    “What’s not right?” I ask loudly. It comes out that way because my anger is being tempered by a gnawing, sudden sense of pity. Just what I need, I think. Her genes. At exactly the wrong moment.
    Couldn’t I have gotten her beautiful eyes instead? Please?
    Grigorij stands up. Even upright he’s half a head shorter than I am. He still has to raise his head to look at me. And he does.
    “What?” I ask. “What did I say? How’s Angela? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
    “Angela’s not doing too well,” Grigorij says. “She had her wisdom teeth removed, but they did a crappy job. Her whole face has been swollen for a week now. She can only eat through a straw. Her only consolation is that she’s lost a bit of weight because she can’t really eat. She’s been jealous of all the skinny girls for years—especially you.”
    I grunt.
    “I make her banana milk,” Grigorij says, looking up