Free I Must Betray You by Ruta Sepetys Page B

through the frozen dark toward the bus stop. Sleet ticked against my jacket and the cold crept through my shoes. My mother’s eyes darted. She clutched her purse, digging her elbow into it. I felt bad for the purse.
    And I wondered how much she knew.
    â€œDan showed me a video today,” I said quietly. “His friends in America have their own video camera. They filmed a greeting at their house and sent a tape to him.”
    My mother said nothing.
    â€œDid you see their color TV and video player?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t look at their things; I just clean them. It’s none of my business.”
    My mother had worked for the Van Dorns since June. After several months, she had seen much more than I had. What did she think of the disparity? Mama had seen movies from the West. How long had she known that the lives depicted on-screen weren’t fantasy? Did she ever question why other people ate bananas while we lived in a charcoal wasteland?
    â€œIn the video, his friends were in a kitchen. Mama, the food—”
    â€œIt’s none of your business. I don’t want you picking me upanymore. You shouldn’t be interacting with a foreigner. You’ll be questioned by the Securitate.”
    Should I tell her? It’s already happened. I’m a turnător. I’m informing for them, Mama. They knew I was coming to the apartment today. Tomorrow, Agent Paddle Hands will probably be waiting for me after school. They think I’m a good comrade. But I’m going to beat their game. I’m going to get medicine that will save Bunu.
    What would she say if I told her that? How could my mother dismiss everything that was right under her nose? How could my parents accept life under the regime’s heel, crushed and pushed further into the dirt each day, eating nothing but lies and fear?
    â€œDon’t you want better for your children?” I asked.
    She stopped abruptly and faced me. Her chimney of patience began to smoke.
    â€œDon’t you dare tell me what I should want for my children. This is not a game, Cristian. It’s dangerous. There’s no use dreaming of things we can never have.”
    â€œWho says we can never have them?”
    â€œMe! I’m telling you! We can never have them!”
    Finally. She was angry. “Good, at least you’re expressing some emotion.”
    â€œYou know what I’m expressing, Cristi? Exhaustion. Your father and I, we’re so tired. We work constantly and when we’re not working, we’re standing in lines. We’re never home. We’re never together. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
    â€œYou’re wrong. They steal our power by making us believe we don’t have any. They’re controlling us through our own fear.”
    Her palm cracked against my cheek. Hard. She spoke through gritted teeth.
    â€œDon’t you ever say things like that. Do you want to end uplike your grandfather? Can you even imagine what that’s done to our family?”
    What? She was mad at Bunu for having leukemia? That made no sense.
    Before I could reply she stormed down the slick, black pavement.
    Alone.

23
DOUĂZECI ȘI TREI
    Thinking words. Speaking words. Writing words.
    Writing things down helped the most. Seeing my thoughts on a page, it positioned them at a helpful distance, out of my head and mouth. Processing. That’s the English word I found for it. Processing helped me evaluate and sort things out. So I sat in my closet and made notes.
Mama’s face is permanently pinched. She’s mad at Bunu for getting sick.
    Dad’s a ghost and poor Cici gets skinnier by the day.
    If I poke her stomach I bet I’d feel her spine.
    Bunu’s the happiest and he has leukemia.
    Isn’t the Florescu family fun?!
    The teachers were right. I was sarcastic.
    But our family felt gloomier than most. Or maybe I was the gloomy one.
Seeing the video from Dan’s friends—so