Free American Gypsy by Oksana Marafioti

there.”
    â€œBut we need you here, too. Probably even more.”
    He laughed. “Yeah, the show would fall apart without me.”
    I found the entire conversation terrifying.
    â€œFunny how the old man thought we were dating,” he said.
    â€œHilarious,” I said. “Do you want to?”
    He cleared his throat and his ears flushed. “Want to what?”
    â€œWe can go to the movies together sometimes. I mean, do you like me that way?”
    How could I have said those things? He was practically my brother. Uncle Stepan had taken him in, treated him as his own son. Mortified, I couldn’t wait to get to the hotel room, where I’d lock myself in the bathroom and drown in the toilet.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said. “We’re really good friends and—”
    He stopped, curls of his shiny black hair caught in the wind.
    â€œOkay,” he said.
    â€œGood. I only said that because I don’t like going alone.”
    â€œDo you want to go steady with me?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    *   *   *
    In Mom’s eyes, Ruslan’s lineage made him unacceptable, and Dad would never allow his daughter to associate with a moneyless dropout except during performances. Ruslan was as close to a leper as a young Rom got.
    The night Dad caught me and Ruslan backstage, our heads bent over a pamphlet on the Romani equal rights movement in Romania, Dad chased him around the entire theater.
    â€œThe boy is a bastard!” he later said behind the closed door of our hotel room.
    I remember wishing for the building to cave in before the entire band heard my father’s voice in the hallways. Mom was making beef stew on a single burner that she wasn’t supposed to have.
    She shook a serving spoon at me. “There’s bad blood in that family tree. What kind of future does he have? No money, no way to take care of a wife—”
    â€œWife? We were reading,” I said. In truth, I was reading. Ruslan had asked me to help him practice his reading and writing, and I said yes before he was even done. It amazed me that he couldn’t string together the simplest of sentences on the page. He jumbled syllables and words, and knocked the books away in frustration. Dyslexia was something neither of us considered, since we’d never heard of it, but I’ve wondered since why none of his teachers had caught the signs.
    â€œHis own mother didn’t know who knocked her up,” Dad said. “No decent woman will want him.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. He’s too old for me anyway.”
    â€œSee? You’re thinking about it, but beware, my daughter. If I catch that govnyuk (shithead) anywhere near you, I’ll rip his head off.”
    I knew that by “rip his head off ,” Dad meant “He’ll be fired and on the streets.”
    Six months later I turned fourteen. We were back in Moscow, the band on a three-month hiatus. I was so afraid that Ruslan would lose his job that I made certain Dad had no reason to fire him. Instead of going to the movies, we wrote love letters. Zhanna took Ruslan’s dictations and carried the contraband between us like a partisan dodging unfriendly fire.
    The night Ruslan came to talk, Zhanna and I were staying at Esmeralda’s flat. He wouldn’t come in but had asked Zhanna to fetch me.
    The landing was dark, with only the elevator buttons blinking on the wall. When I saw him, I knew something I wouldn’t like was about to transpire. He wore a suit with a black tie over a white shirt. Roma boys dressed like that for official matters ranging from weddings to gang disputes. He was also carrying a briefcase. Next to him I felt distinctly unofficial in my bathrobe and slippers.
    â€œI missed you,” he said. That’s how he started every letter: I miss you. I want to embrace you. I want to be near you. Every sentence