At the End of the World, Turn Left Read online

  “Oh!” I say, surprised. I’m thrown off by such an honest admission. I’ve never known anyone in NA. Or AA for that matter, although I know plenty of people who could probably benefit from it. I’m not sure how to respond. I also find myself uncomfortable with his gaze; it is focused and excited, like when Abby does too much Adderall and starts cleaning the house fanatically. Except this is a sober gaze, and the intensity makes my body feel a little like it’s melting.

  “Um. Congrats?” I eventually choke out. Something like electricity passes through us, like a tram as it moves along the cable. To avoid turning into a puddle, or a frozen popsicle more likely, I start walking again.

  “Where you headed?” Tristan asks, still following me, his energy at such a high level it almost rubs off on me.

  “Oh. Center street. Center and Bremen,” I lie.

  “Cool. Me too,” he says. Now that he is closer, I notice he is not only tall, but he is towering over me by at least a foot. Which would make him close to six foot five.

  “Oh really. What a coincidence,” I say, sarcastically.

  “I am!” he says. His excitement has turned to giddiness now, and he is practically bouncing on his toes. He reminds me of a child in desperate need of recess.

  “You can keep following me, but just know I have my hand on my cell and I can type 911 really fast,” I threaten. I pick up my pace. It’s still freezing out, and getting later by the second. Not exactly the best time to be walking around outside in Milwaukee. Especially with some blue-haired giant.

  “Noted,” he says. He speeds up his wide-legged pace to match mine. A bus begins driving past us, its windshield wipers working furiously, but I don’t try to run to the next stop like I might have if Tristan wasn’t walking alongside me. It would also require crossing the entire length of a city block in less than a minute; I’m more likely to slip and fall. I’m no longer in so much of a hurry. I can’t remember the last time someone new took any interest in me, and it’s not like I have anything else to do now that Margot ditched me for her new boy toy.

  “Hey, I didn’t catch your name,” Tristan says.

  “That’s because I never told you my name. It’s Anastasia,” I say. “But people call me Anna because they can’t pronounce that.”

  “Really? And you let them get away with it?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “You should correct them. Otherwise they have the wrong idea of you before you even talk.”

  I watch him, surprised. No one has ever put it like that before, and it’s bizarre to hear it from a total stranger with blue hair. “Yeah. I guess that’s sort of true.”

  We turn right on North Avenue, just east of the bridge. The dim yellow bulbs of its streetlamps are barely visible from beneath the swirling white snow, the river below so black it looks like an abyss. “Technically it’s not wrong, exactly, being a translation and all. And it’s not so bad. My mom’s name is Lyubov. You can’t imagine the number of wrong ways you can pronounce that.”

  Tristan asks, “What is that, Russian?”

  “Yes. It means ‘love’ in Russian. Most people call her Luba for short though.”

  “Are you from Russia?”

  “We are Ukrainian, technically speaking. Or Soviet? I never know how to answer that. We speak Russian, and it was the Soviet Union when we left, but now it’s Ukraine,” I say. “I’ve never even heard a word of Ukrainian, so it doesn’t feel right to me to say I’m Ukrainian. But I’m not from Russia, either. Sorry, that’s probably way too much info.”

  “No, that’s dope,” he says. He rubs his large hands together for a second then sticks them into his very small pockets. I notice a small tear on the side of his black jean jacket, next to an assortment of patches with band names on them. Punk bands, if I had to guess. I remember seeing similar logos in Masha’s old room that is now an office.

  “I think it’s confusing,” I shrug. We keep walking down Farwell, watching the cars swim through layers of slush and snow and dirt, my toes getting soaked and the frigid wind burning the thighs of my legs into numbness. But I ignore my frozen limbs. I am actually starting to cheer up a little. Something about the combination of physical effort and discomfort clears my mind, like meditation. I almost forget I’m not alone, until I catch a blue smear in my periphery vision and remember.

  “What about you? Are you from here?” I ask.

  “Nah, I’m from Virginia originally. Then Austin, and New Orleans for a while. I’ve been traveling around a lot.”

  Passing the Oriental Theater, then a crowd of smokers outside Landmark Lanes, we hit a red light and stop moving. For a second, we stand there, silently. Tristan is close enough to me now that I can smell the patchouli on his clothes. I dissect his river of blue dreads, his bright blue eyes, his nearly invisible eyelashes. He, too, seems to be scanning me. I try not to wonder too much what he sees; my face is likely bright red from the cold, my hair, falling halfway out of my hat, is wet and slowly turning into icicles. I am completely sober and aware enough to count off all my physical defects; my short stature, my sensitive skin, my slightly crooked teeth. That said I also know I’m not ugly. Tristan seems to be making the same or a similar assessment. Because out of nowhere we start kissing.

  When we’re done, the light turns green and we continue our conversation like nothing has happened. Except it has. My stomach is giddy with butterflies. I try to ignore it, and circle back to what we were talking about before.

  “I wish I could travel more,” I say. “I wish I could move, really.”

  “Yeah? Why don’t you then?”

  “My family, I guess. They would be really upset. I don’t have the balls to leave.”

  Tristan purses his lips, lets out a little whistle. “I wish my dad gave two shits what I did.”

  “He doesn’t?” I ask.

  “He has this whole new family now. Doesn’t even remember to call on my birthday.” He creases his brows into what appears to be a grimace, before letting it melt away into impassiveness. “Whatever.”

  “Sorry. That sucks.”

  Tristan shrugs. “He’s Cuban. We didn’t really get along when I was little. I think he called me a fag more often then he used my name.” He doesn’t seem sad expressing this information, which makes it even sadder. We stop again at another light, and kiss again.

  The kiss lasts a long time, considering the circumstances. It’s a very good kiss. But it’s impossible to stay focused on it, with the blizzard still swirling around us, and people walking by. Cars, too, continue to drive through the flooded street. We also happen to be a block away from my grandparents’ house. Visibility right now is nil—and yet, all I can do is worry they might see us. What would my eighty-year-old grandparents be doing walking around a blizzard at night? Who knows. But I can’t get it off my mind.

  Tristan stops suddenly and looks around. “Hey, this road doesn’t go to Riverwest.”

  “Yeah, I am actually not going that way. I just said that to throw you off.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Should I really tell a stranger where I live? I wonder. Then I tell myself to stop thinking. What has thinking ever done for me? Nothing good. However, neither has catching pneumonia. I point north towards Prospect Ave. “That way. Sorry.”

  He looks at me again like I’m a textbook he’s studying. “If it makes you feel better, I’m leaving town tomorrow. I’d like to keep hanging out with you, but no pressure.”

  “Oh,” I say, unsure how to feel about this. “Okay.”

  “You wanna check out this shitty college bar a couple blocks from here? I’ll let you beat me at pool.”

  I’m freezing, and could definitely use a real drink, so I agree to this without much thought. The door guy is so busy texting someone on one of those new smartphones that he barely looks up when he sees us, and even though Masha’s old ID is expired, he doesn’t seem to notice and waves us through. Inside, the place is dark a
nd dank and reeks of sticky beer. But it’s so much better than that party I could puke. I’m surprised to find Tristan with a decent-sized wad of cash in his wallet, and I allow him to buy me several drinks in a row before we actually get around to a pool game. He doesn’t let me win, however, like he promised. In fact, he seems to actively be sabotaging the game. The more we drink the more hyper he gets. He starts poking me with the pool cue, and finding ways to wrap himself around me to show me what I’m doing wrong. When he isn’t doing that, he is juggling the pool balls. Eventually I stop trying, and he wins. By then, I’ve figured out that pool is only an excuse to touch me, and I’m drunk, so we go back outside into the cold to share a cigarette.

  Tristan is in great spirits now. He starts massaging my shoulders while simultaneously smoking without use of his hands, a feat I have never been able to accomplish. While we stand there, this skinny old bearded man we in Riverwest call Rabbi walks by with a grocery cart of old flowers and asks us if we want any. I say no, because I always say no to Rabbi, but to my surprise Tristan reaches into his pocket and hands him a five, and before I know it, I have an individually wrapped daisy in my pocket.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” I say. “That’s so nice of you. I see that guy every day and never think to get anything.”

  “You know he gets those flowers out of dumpsters and sells them for crack money, right?” he asks me.

  “No,” I say.

  “He’s not even a rabbi.”

  “What?!” I frown. “You really just ruined this guy for me. I always thought he was a cute little old man.”

  “Look at his eyes. And his teeth.”

  “I don’t look at his eyes or his teeth. I look at his pants. They’re like halfway up his stomach. It reminds me of my grandpa.”

  “That’s kind of sweet.” Tristan smiles and puts his cigarette out so he can kiss me. When he’s done, I ask, “Can we go? I’m freezing.”

  After that, we start walking again, practically running all the way back to my block despite a red light. Tristan, a gentleman, places an arm on my back, steering me away from puddles that have formed from melting snow. Then, when we are only a block from my house, out of breath, we slow down again. The snow has finally stopped, and the streetlights here seem brighter than the rest of the neighborhood. For the first time I notice Tristan’s clothes are not only black and a little ratty, but that he’s wearing Carharrts and a bandana. I somehow hadn’t realized he is not so much a punk as a train-hopper. Suddenly I find myself wondering how we managed to cross paths.

  “That party doesn’t really seem like your scene,” I say, out of breath.

  “It’s not,” he says.

  “What were you doing there?”

  Tristan looks around in both directions, then reaches into his back pocket to show me a pair of wallets. “I was working.”

  I stop and look at the wallets. One is leather, and filled with cash. The other is a silver purse with a fake diamond clasp. “You’re a thief?”

  “Well, I prefer the term pickpocket,” he says, then laughs. “Just kidding. I don’t give a shit.”

  “Cool,” I can’t help but whisper. Then I remember we’re not in a movie, that he stole things from people, from Margot’s friends. I don’t like Margot’s friends, but still. “Why would you tell me that? We just met.”

  He licks his lips, then puts the wallets back. “Because I have a feeling you’d be good at it.” he says, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “It’s better with a partner.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. For a moment I forget the cold. “I don’t think so. I would feel bad.” I scratch my head, itchy under my hat. Then I start walking again; either for warmth, or to give myself space from Tristan, who is not exactly what I expected. Maybe it’s my fault. The blue hair should have been a clue. But having spent so much time in Riverwest, I’d stopped noticing those things.

  “Why? You don’t need money?” he asks, pointing at my torn shoes.

  “I could get a job, like a normal person.”

  “Is that what you are? A normal person?” he asks, smiling. “Come on, Anastasia! Why should rich people have all the fun? The system is rigged against us from the day we’re born. I’m just evening the scales a little.”

  “So you’re Robin Hood?” I ask.

  He grabs me by the hand and turns me towards him, both a question and an answer in his gaze. It’s so intense my entire body turns into a flutter of nerves. I feel like he can see into my soul or something. “Want to be my Maid Marion?” he asks.

  I look at him skeptically. “What?”

  “That’s Robin Hood’s girl.”

  “I didn’t know he had a girl.”

  “Oh, there’s always a girl,” Tristan says with a wink.

  Then we start kissing again. If I had been thinking of anything else before, it was all gone in a flash. It doesn’t matter how many times a man touches me; it always feels like I’m about to jump off a gigantic cliff. And despite the warning bells going off in my mind, I have to admit I find the pickpocket thing sort of intriguing. Sexy, even. I don’t want to contribute, of course, but I would like to hear about it. There’s something about him that makes me feel like we’ve known each other for years, not less than a few hours.

  We reach my house and stop right outside the door. I watch as Tristan paces back and forth against the sidewalk. “Maybe I’ll stay a couple more days,” he suggests. “How would you feel about that?”

  “I think I would like that very much,” I say, and I let him into the house.

  ANNA

  ________________

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In that elusive slice of morning between getting another drink and getting breakfast, hard metallic pings and the smell of alcohol wake me up out of a deep, deep sleep. Is it raining whiskey? Am I in a sauna? Confused, I open my eyes and look around the small, dark space. No, I’m in my room. Snow is melting and dripping from the rooftop, the radiator is working overtime and an empty liquor bottle has spilled a little onto the floor. My confusion is replaced with an inexplicable feeling of doom and a dire need to drink water. The doom I cannot explain away, but I can hydrate, so I roll out of bed and crawl over Tristan to get to the door. I tiptoe to the kitchen in my underwear, trying not to wake anyone up. I make a stop at the bathroom too, since I am already out. By the time I get back I’m wide awake, and my body is buzzing with the need for a cigarette. Tristan is sleeping through all of this, even the cat-like screams the computer makes while warming up. He is passed out face down, mounds of long blue hair spread out across the pillow like a river, his arms covered entirely in tattoos. He looks sexy, and I should probably go back to sleep. And I would, if it wasn’t for this feeling I can’t shake, like the reoccurring dream I have where I am driving my parents’ old car down a hill and the breaks don’t work. So instead I head to MySpace to see if anyone is online. Truthfully, I just want to talk to Zoya more. And I’m in luck, as she happens to be online. It’s daytime where she is.

  <> Hey. How are you doing?

  <> Hi! I’m good. I’m getting ready to go to work. What are you

  doing up so late?

  <> Can’t sleep.

  <> Why? What’s wrong?

  <> Nothing. Never mind.

  <> Tell me!

  <> It’s not a big deal… but I have to move in a few days, which

  I’m sad about.

  <> Oh, I’m sorry.

  <> That’s okay, don’t worry about me, I’m sure you have

  enough problems.

  <> That doesn’t mean you can’t have your own. Can you stay

  with your parents?

  <> Frankly I would rather live with my grandparents than

  my parents. They’re way nicer to me. No, they’re not an

  option.

  <> I don’t get it. You all seem so happy in your p
hotos.

  <> Everyone seems happy in photos. If they looked sad, they’d

  throw the photos away not post them online.

  <> Not here. Haven’t you seen any photos from the USSR?

  <> Oh yeah, that’s true. I remember my dad telling me how

  strange it was to come here and have everyone smile at

  him. For years he thought Americans were all crazy.

  <> What is Pavel like, anyway?

  <> He… Works a lot. Loves my mom. Really into the whole

  “family” concept.

  <> Why is family in quotes?

  <> A real family accepts each other’s differences. Or they

  pretend to, at least. Not my dad. Everything has to be his

  way. You either become a sad sack doormat or you have to

  blow up everything, like my sister did.

  <> Your sister that’s in Israel? I tried messaging her too, but

  I never heard back.

  <> She’s religious, so she doesn’t really go online much … I’m

  not sure she even knows what MySpace is.

  <> How did she end up there and you’re here?

  <> She never got along with my parents. They fought

  constantly. Then she had some problems in college that

  she didn’t deal with very well. I think she would have gone

  anywhere as long as it wasn’t here, but she happened to

  go on birthright on her winter break.

  <> Are you two close? I’ve always wanted sisters.

  <> Not really. When we were kids, maybe.

  <> Why not? She isn’t nice?

  <> It’s not that… She isn’t mean to me. She’s just not… present.

  I don’t know what it is. We’re too different maybe.

  <> Well, like I said before, you are welcome to come to

  Chernovtsy anytime you want. I will show you a good time.