Free Trophy Kid by Steve Atinsky

alive. Maybe that was what Vladimir had been trying to tell me before Robert’s security team had escorted him from our house.
    I figured if Vladimir’s letters had been hidden from me, then perhaps there were other letters from real relatives that Robert wasn’t allowing me to see.
    One night, when Greta and Robert were out and Guava was in the movie room watching
The Parent Trap
for the thirtieth time with Greta’s assistant, Megan, I snuck into the library and quietly closed the French doors behind me.
    There were two large wood filing cabinets behind Robert’s desk. The first one was sort of an “ownership” cabinet. It contained documents relating to our house and the other properties Robert and Greta owned in Idaho and New York. It also held all the vehicle information: cars, a boat, and so on.
    The other filing cabinet contained a lot of personal documents. Robert kept reviews, good or bad, of every play and movie he’d ever starred in or directed. Greta only kept the good reviews of her acting performances. Additionally, there were hundreds of photographs filed away. Every production had its own file, filled with studio stills, hair and make-up Polaroids, and personal photos taken with other actors and crew who had worked on the movie. Greta’s favorites, and there were many, adorned the walls of the house or were placed on the tops of dressers, mantels, and counters. Also in this filing cabinet was correspondence from family and friends, and a few fan letters that had touched Greta.
    There were even files for Guava and me—that was why I had snuck into the library. The file on me was quite thick. It could have easily been divided into two or three separate folders. There were lots of pictures and cards, and all the legal papers related to my adoption. What I was looking for were the letters from Vladimir Petrovic—and anyone else who might have tried to contact me—that Robert and his security team had confiscated. I was hoping Greta had saved them, but they were not to be found. I didn’t think Robert would throw them away—he might need them as evidence to get Vladimir arrested or something—so I figured they must be at Larry Weinstein’s office. I was placing the folder back in the cabinet when I noticed a yellowed letter-sized envelope at the bottom of the drawer; it must have slipped between the folders.
    When I saw that the writing on the envelope was in Croatian, my jaw dropped. When I realized that the letter was addressed to my mother, I was filled with a mixture of sadness and joy. I heard Guava saying something to Megan, who seemed to be heading for the kitchen. They were probably getting some sort of treat, which meant that Megan would soon be going upstairs to my room and asking me if I wanted any ice cream or cookies, too. I quickly closed the cabinet and quietly snuck out of the library with the envelope from Croatia in my hand. I made it back to my room unseen and immediately sat down on my bed, opened the envelope, and unfolded the paper inside. In the upper right-hand side of the letter was some sort of government seal. The letter was postmarked August 4, 1995, two days before I’d wandered into the street in Dubrovnik. The date, however, was the only thing I could understand, as the letter was in Croatian.
Pretty lame,
I thought.
I can’t read my own language.
    There was one person who could translate for me: Hana, my former nanny.
    I hadn’t seen Hana since I was five or six, when she’d had a quarrel with Robert and moved out of our house, but she had continued to send me a birthday card every year.
    The cards from my birthday party the week before were still piled on my desk, so I jumped off my bed, ran over, and started going through them.
    I found Hana’s card and looked at the corner of the envelope to find her last name…but it wasn’t there! All it said was
Hana.
    Her address was scribbled so illegibly that all I could clearly make out was
Los Angeles.
The street name