Free Boy on the Bridge by Natalie Standiford

apartment with two other families. Most of the other people she’d met lived in kommunalki , too. Having an apartment all to yourself was a privilege — or a piece of great good luck. How had Alyosha — a sign painter for movie theaters — gotten so lucky?
    He carried in a plate of pickles, cheese, and bread; the wine; and three glasses. He poured some wine and gave each girl a glass. “A toast. To our friendship.”
    Friendship. Laura checked a wince at the word, and on Karen’s meaningful glance sent back a psychic message: pure speculation.
    “To friendship.” They clinked glasses and drank. The doorbell rang.
    Alyosha sprang to the door and soon ushered in Olga, dark eyes heavily lined in black pencil and carrying a bouquet of flowers. Laura caught Karen’s eye: That’s her.
    “Lyosha, dear!” Kiss, kiss. “I found daisies! This time of year! Am I the first to arrive? I’ll get a vase….”
    She marched toward the kitchen with a glance into the living room. “Girls! Hello! I’ll be right there.”
    Another look — sympathetic — passed between Laura and Karen. Why did the sight of Olga send Laura’s mood plummeting? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected to see her.
    “Now we have a party!” Alyosha rubbed his hands together with gusto. “Where’s Roma?”
    “Right behind me!” Olga called from the kitchen.
    A stocky young man with a bushy mustache and thick hair, like Stalin’s, burst through the door and grabbed Alyosha by the shoulders. “Aaaach!” he grunted happily, waving a bottle of vodka. “Alyosha, my friend.” He gave Alyosha a smacking kiss on each cheek.
    “This is Olga’s husband, Roma,” Alyosha said to Karen and Laura.
    Laura’s spirits suddenly rose as she and Karen went to greet him. “Olga’s husband! How nice,” Karen said.
    “This is Karen, and this is Laura,” Alyosha told Roma.
    “The American girls!” Kisses all around. “Olga and I went to art school with Alyosha,” Roma explained.
    Olga came out of the kitchen with the vase of flowers. “I spent more time posing than painting.” It sounded like she was bragging. She set the flowers on the table and took the vodka from Roma to put it on ice.
    “She posed for all of us,” Roma added. “But she was Alyosha’s favorite model.”
    “After Tanya,” Olga said with a flirtatious bat her of eyelashes.
    Laura was tempted to ask, “Who’s Tanya?” but Olga’s tone made her bite her tongue. She didn’t want to hear the answer from Olga.
    The doorbell rang again and two more men came in, introduced as Vova and Grisha. Vova was blond and cute, with a trim beard. Laura caught Karen checking him out.
    Everyone chattered and laughed in Russian. Laura sipped a small glass of vodka, struggling to keep up with the conversation. It went faster than she was used to, peppered with unfamiliar slang and expressions she didn’t understand. She glanced at Karen, who looked a little blank, too.
    Roma refilled Laura’s and Karen’s shot glasses with vodka. “Don’t sip it,” he warned. “That’s how you get sick. Down it all at once — oop-ah! ” He threw his head back and tossed down another shot to demonstrate. “Go on, girls. Oop-ah! ”
    Laura looked to Karen, but she was no help, saying, “Come on, girl. Oop-ah! ” They clinked glasses and drank their shots in one gulp. Laura gasped and reached for a slice of cucumber. She felt a surge of warmth.
    Alyosha turned his Neil Young record over and “Southern Man” played. “I heard Kukharsky sing this song at Café Bluebird,” Vova said.
    “He sang Neil Young in public?” Grisha asked. “And it was okay?”
    “I hate Neil Young,” Olga said. “His voice is whiny.”
    “This song is government approved,” Vova said.
    “Because it criticizes the American South,” Karen guessed. “I can see why they’d like it.”
    “Exactly.” Vova nodded.
    “Alyosha, take this whining record off and put on the Beatles.” Olga pouted.
    “It will be over