Free Hot Little Hands by Abigail Ulman Page B

they give me going-away presents. My first best friend Lara arrives first with a mauve satiny eye mask to wear on the airplane while I sleep. Manya, a girl from my class who my mother always makes me invite to my parties, gets me a Pokémon watch with the price sticker still on it. It cost eighty-five rubles. It stops working two minutes after I take it out of the packet and put it on my wrist. I don’t care; I haven’t liked Pokémon since fifth grade. Anastasya comes without a present. She’s saving her money for America, so she can buy Rollerblades there. My second best friend Raya brings me a diary with a glittery airplane on the cover, a silver pencil attached by a ribbon, and a lock with two little keys dangling from it.
    “You have to tell us everything when you get back,” she says. “This will help you keep a record.”
    “Give the other key to Orlando Bloom when you meet him.” My first best friend Lara winks at me.
    “He’s English,” Raya tells her.
    “They all live there,” Lara says.
    The boys come late and stand all together by the television. The girls are squeezed onto the sofa or sitting on the floor in front of it. My mother comes out of the kitchen with the radio and puts it on the side table.
    “Mingle,” she whispers on her way out of the room.
    “Why don’t they?” I whisper back.
    “
I’m yours,
” Polina Gagarina sings from the speakers.
    I get up and go over to the boys. There are five of them, all leaning back against the wall.
    “Happy birthday,” Anatoly mumbles.
    “Yeah,” says Vlad. He runs a hand back over his wet-gelled hair, then he looks down at his fingers (now all sticky and gross) and shoves them into the pocket of his jacket.
    “Thanks for coming,” I say. I smile at Igor and Slava, and go over to Dimitri.
    “You look pretty,” he says.
    “Thanks,” I say, twirling the Pokémon watch around my wrist. “Um, so do you.” The other boys laugh. I roll my eyes and go back to the sofa.
    “Who’s that?” Anastasya asks.
    I shrug a shoulder. “Some guy from school.”
    “He has a crush on her.”
    “He’s cute.”
    “Yeah, but Kira’s saving herself until she gets to America and meets Johnny Depp,” my first best friend Lara says.
    “He’s French,” my second best friend Raya says.
    “They all live there.”
    Ten minutes later my parents bring out a birthday pie, with SAFE TRAVELS carved into the crust. My grandmother, the maker of the pie, doesn’t come out of our bedroom for the entire party.
    —
    Coach Zhukov and Xenia had come to see my parents when I was at school one day. They told them I was the best gymnast in the group, and a performance at the conference would raise my profile in the world of international gymnastics. They told them about the people who would be in San Diego watching me perform—world-class coaches, the president of USA Gymnastics, and senior American gymnasts like Shannon Miller and Carly Patterson. As for us being alone in a foreign country, Xenia promised she would be there at all times. She would accompany us girls everywhere and stay in the same hotel room.
    They gave my parents the name and details of a government official who could get me a passport quickly. They said they needn’t worry about the cost of the trip. The conference would pay for the basics and, if they wanted to give me spending money, Coach Zhukov could refund them the rest of the term’s tuition. My parents signed the permission slips and in-case-of-emergencies, and Coach Zhukov wrote them a check. That’s how they paid for the digital camera, with a memory card inside it that can hold two hundred photos.
    —
    I take pictures of everything. I take one of Licorice up on his hind legs at the windowsill, trying to swat a moth with his paw. I take one of my father smiling at the kitchen table, my mother beside him, lighting a cigarette. I take one of the upstairs neighbor with her baby in the stairwell, its mouth wide open in a scream. I take some