《It Starts with A Fairytale》


 Chapter 1

    Love, a simple four letter word that strikes fear or admiration into the heart whenever it''s spoken. Love defies every form of life for the species we classify as humans. The Ancient Greeks even invented eight words just to convey the specific meaning of the kind of love one would invoke on someone else.  Eros, named after the God of Fertility, is classified as the love that produces romance, and most notably associated with lust. Philia, taken from the word platonic, this love''s meaning translates to "love without a physical reaction,"  a friendship type of love. Agape, love that is bigger than oneself, it is the love we feel set on our hearts when we meet strangers. Storge, love that flows through blood, a specific type of loyalty and faith to one''s family. Mania, obsessive, pure jealousy depicted as what the venom of the tongue describes as love. Ludus, playful, this is the type of love we all know as our first crush, silly and nowhere near a full commitment. Pragma, endurance, this love is never ending, it has been formed through hard work and even longer amounts of time. The last kind of love is Philautia, perhaps the most looked over, it is the love of oneself.


    There is not a single person involved in a person''s life that does not invoke an inkling of any type of love from one person. Peter Pan can often be classified as a form of childrens'' entertainment, but it is so much more than that. Peter Pan is a story of love, the type of love that transcends from just the romantical kind. Peter Pan loved Wendy, Tiger-Lilly, and TinkerBell. There is no evidence that says he loved one more than the others, in fact all the evidence just points to different instances where Peter Pan loved all three of them. Peter loved Wendy with Philia, Tiger-Lilly with Eros, and TinkerBell with Storge. You can never love someone the exact same way you love another person but you can love them in an equal amount.


    I could literally read the entire paper to my Mom without even having to glance at it once, but watching her face as she reads is priceless. Nia Krovopuskov can not for the life of everyone who is dear to her, which includes her kids, can not control her facial expressions. Whatever the first thought that resonates in her brain is the exact expression that chooses to materialize on her ebony face. I''m not entirely sure which expression I find funnier, the way her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, how her mouth pushes up to curl beneath her nose, or the way she purses her lips together to roll her eyes.


    I''m on the edge of my seat waiting for her judgment, well technically my knees. She''s got my paper in one hand and is steaming her shirt with the other, completely devoted to both tasks. Her eyes drift from the paper to me, with her face expressionless as she waves the paper in the air. I can feel my heart grow cold with disappointment, her approval was one I hellbent on.


    "You didn''t like it," I frown before pushing myself off her bed.


    Mom''s whole face erupts in a smile bigger than I''ve seen in the past few months. She''s practically beaming as she returns the steamer to it''s holder and approaches me. "Didn''t like it? Nes, this is fantastic!" She envelopes me in a hug that rocks me side to side, as best as she can being five inches shorter than me. "Your writing has completely grown since that clinic you went to this summer. I mean it was good before but this," she lets me go to hand over my paper, cradling it between both our hands. "This is a pure work of brilliance. I hope you have a couple of copies of this. I''m going to put one on the fridge, definitely take one for Jenna to read-. Oh, your grandfather, he needs to be sent a copy!"


    She''s rambling, and Mom only rambles when she''s too excited to comprehend that maybe she won''t be understandable. I''ve only seen her this happy a few times, one being when my brother Dj got offered a full academic and athletic scholarship to FAMU, when my little brother Laki got accepted into the magnet school, and now. I hadn''t done anything big like the other two, but you wouldn''t know that with how much she''s dotting on me. I''d made her proud and there was no other feeling in the world that amounts to the pride of a parent that you received from a job well done.


    "You know, this semester was the first time I''ve ever read Peter Pan." Mom halts her praises to look at me with a perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. "It''s classified as a children''s book, but neither of us have even read or seen the numerous adaptations of it."


    Mom purses her lips together before glancing down at the paper she still holds in her hands. "Yeah, I wasn''t exactly a fan of Peter Pan myself, therefore I didn''t expose my children to it." She shrugs playfully before folding the paper and sticking it in her purse. "Enough judgment, go get dressed for school." She gently pushes me out into the hall, plants a kiss on my forehead, and shuts her door after backing into her room.


    I quietly laugh to myself before venturing into my own room. I pass my little brother in the process, his door is wide open revealing a messy room complete with him lying on his barely distinguishable carpet playing the switch. He''s laying on his stomach, with the switch propped up on the floor and his legs kicked up in the air. The sound of Bowser announcing his plans to keep Peach makes him groan before pressing harshly on the buttons to skip the scene.


    "A little early to be so impatient in the morning, little brother."


    Laki barely spares me a glance before his game picks back up. "A little early to be frightening the neighbors with that mask of yours."


    I don''t even glorify his statement with a response, instead I cross the threshold, made mostly of lines of abandoned lego creations, and head to the little desk in the corner. Laki''s room is always messy but this little space is as neat as a button. There is nothing out of place, every color pencil, marker, eraser, pen, paper and even his books have a designated space. The object of my pursuit is staring up at me from its place in one of the numerous caddy holders that are mounted on the desk.


    "I need a pen," I announce with my hand hovering over the one that appeases me.


    "What kind and which one?"


    Picking up the pen I turn it over in my hand to answer his question. "Gel, Zebra, blue." I click the pen repeatedly, only stopping with a call of my name.


    "Nesyyyy, stop it," he grits out while putting his game on pause. "I have no pens in Zebra shape and blue is an extremely vast category, you need to be more specific."


    It''s the same thing every time I come in here to borrow something. The description is too vague, or not exactly accurate, but so what? Then my annoyance turns into Laki''s temper tantrum, which brings Mom into it  to play referee, that usually ends with me apologizing for doing absolutely nothing. I didn''t have the patience to go through that process today so I just go ahead and grab the green sticky note and jot down the pen''s description. When I finish I pull the sticky note up and tack it to the corkboard hanging above the desk, and  below the section labeled ''things borrowed.''


    "I left you a sticky note, with all the information." I finish before he can interrupt me. "Thanks."


    He mumbles something along the lines of no problem before standing up, Switch in tow and heading downstairs. Seven o''clock, Reading Rainbow reruns are on, something he never misses.


    Laki, he''s quite something. Being the youngest out of  five automatically gives you this pedestal standing, especially if the time between the first kid and the last is seventeen years. That big age gap only provides one thing, a spoiled child. Now, Laki isn''t a bad kid, he''s just a, he''s a sour patch kid. At times Laki is the sweetest kid ever, he''ll give you anything that you need and he can provide, but then he has these days where he just wakes up to be a menace to society. It''s crazy, he''ll come in the kitchen after he wakes up and will just roast you for doing absolutely nothing before retiring back to his room for isolation. I call those days, Laki''s Twilight Zone, for two reasons, one he absolutely adores The Twilight Zone and those days happen so quickly and come out of nowhere. But despite his neurotic personality I do honestly love him, maybe because he''s the only one of my siblings who at one point did what I asked them.


    Dj''s the oldest and boy does he act it. If there''s a dispute that needs to be solved and Mom is a no way- contestant the problem is immediately brought to him, which he solves with as much wisdom as Mom would have. It''s those situations, where he''s the mediator between siblings and being just an awesome sounding wall, that I miss about him. Dj''s in college now, which means he has a little less time to focus on things concerning the home front because he has to focus on the school front. I wish I could have been selfish and begged Dj to attend a college a little closer to home so he could visit more but after him taking a gap year just because of what was going on at home he deserved it.


    Then there''s my twin, Adam, he''s our family''s problem child. You know that book NO David, yeah if David was a rebellious teenager he would be Adam. Adam is hard-headed, self-destructive, and completely independent without actually knowing how to be independent. He and Mom have recently, in the past couple of years, started to butt heads, and not in a good way. It had gotten so bad that she had no other choice but to ship him off to boarding school, which he''s been there for the past school year and the current one. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    I''m the only girl, and the second youngest, but most notably the most boring, Arnesia Briella Krovopuskov. There''s not much to say to describe an introverted scrawny middle child. I stick to the background and let my brothers take the spotlight, nothing wrong with that when it''s been like that forever.


    When I''m fully dressed I go ahead and make my way downstairs. Like always Laki is lying right in front of the t.v., his arms folded over his backpack to keep his head propped up so that his attention can focus solely on the current episode displaying across the screen. He''s seen that exact episode with Billy Cosby and the Author book at least ten times, yet he still sits through it completely entranced like he hadn''t.


    Mom is standing in the kitchen, preparing Laki''s lunch, her eyes flicking occasionally between the tv and the front door like she''s waiting for someone to just waltz right in, which is highly unlikely. Since we''ve moved to Fort Pierce we''d vastly have neighbors just pop up. Like me my mother tended to keep to herself, which meant that she didn''t have a plethora of friends. Sure she had the parents of her kids'' friends that she talked to and the occasional co-worker but none so close that she actually invited them over or out. If she hung out with someone at all it was because they''d made the first step, they''d begged repeatedly to meet up. Nia Krovopuskov was not an outgoing person in these recent years, in fact the only two people that she''s talked to on a regular basis in the last five years was Aunt Natasha and Pop Pop.


    Aunt Natasha was not Mom''s sister, in fact she is not at all biologically related to us in any way but she''s one hundred percent family. Aunt Natasha and Mom had met a long time ago, when the both of them were just starting primary. Apparently one of their classmates was picking on little Natasha and little Nia was not having it, out of pure adrenaline Nia decided to pure the apple juice the guy had stolen from Natasha and pour it on his head. Did Nia end up having to sit out on two days of recess, yes, but she also ended up with a lifelong best friend who sat beside her each day at recess. Times have definitely changed because now it hardly seems like Aunt Natasha would let someone pick on her, not just because she''s a grown adult now, but because she''s a total baddie and Mom is a total pacifiest, who backs away from any type of confrontation.


    Pop Pop is Pop''s father, though the two of them have a less than cordial relationship. Apparently Pop Pop wasn''t such a great dad, which is why he''s a completely hands on grandfather. I used to find it surprising with how frequently Pop Pop started visiting us when we moved to Florida, always popping up claiming he was just checking in on Mom. I suppose he was just trying to offer a sense of familiarity, like our lives weren''t completely uprooted in just a couple of days. Pop Pop was a good person like that, putting his own responsibilities on hold to make sure his family was okay, he knew it was hard for us being without Pops and he tried his best to fill that void as best as he could.


    Dallas Krovopuskov is not dead, he''s just in a tricky situation as Mom likes to say. The whole reason we moved without him was to keep us safe. Like usual parents don''t tell their kids every excruciating detail, just the basics and the basics happened to be that it wasn''t safe for us in Montanna any more. The solution that had been agreed upon was that Mom and the kids would move while Pops tried to get a handle on the situation. It''s been five years so there''s no telling exactly how things are going. All I can say is that things are definitely different in these past couple of years than in the first ten years of my life.


    Plopping myself down at the bar I reach my arms over and pluck a  strawberry out of the cartoon. "Can I have some money for lunch?"


    Laki''s lunch box has contained the exact same ingredients since he started pre-k last year, strawberries, pretzels, roast beef and havarti sliders, and a kool-aid jammer. Mom doesn''t even need to look at her hands to assemble the lunch and instead chooses to glance at her phone that is buzzing on the counter.


    "Yeah, there''s some on my dresser."


    I nod and kiss her cheek before darting in front of the tv, earning a groan from Laki, and making my way upstairs to her bedroom. I like to think of Mom''s bedroom as being the aftermath of some kind of natural disaster. Clothes are strewn out over the floor, shoes concealing every inch of carpet she has, and the covers on her bed tangled until they''re threatening to fall off. I didn''t understand how she did anything in this mess, yet she always says she can find anything she needs within two minutes. Her dresser though is the only clean surface in the room and the clip of money sitting on top of it is the needle in the haystack.


    Before I can grab it my gaze flickers over to an off white folder sticking out of the top drawer. The seal that was tasked with keeping the folder closed is broken, a silver wax stamp with a K insignia made up of an olive branch. The stamp is unmistakably that of Skorpa Kastellanos, Pop Pop. He only uses a seal when whatever it encloses is important, money for Laki''s magnet school, booster donation for Adam''s boarding school, and Dj''s trust fund information when he went off to college.


    I know I shouldn''t, that it''s a complete invasion of privacy but my fingers clasp around the rough material and gently coerce it out of the drawer. It''s bigger than a letter envelope but slightly smaller than a pony envelope and it has a bit of weight to it. It''s full of papers but one sticks out from the rest due to the yellow sticky note sticking to it with Pop Pop''s unmistakable Russian cursive.


    The documents have been finalized and stored in the appropriate places with a copy to make sure your wishes are both respected and honored. Though I am unmistakably upset it has come to this, as always it is my utmost duty to respect whatever you may come to terms with, though I wish there were any other way that could benefit us all and not just a select few


    -For eternity your Napea, Skorpa.


    The document the sticky note is attached to is typed up in a polished beige piece of paper, the characters drawn perfectly as if by a brush. It takes me a moment to recognize it as a copy of Mom''s script and even longer to realize what the document actually is.


    In the event that I am no longer able to care for my children, Dj, Adam, Arnesia, and Laki should be handed over to Skorpa Kastellanos with full and complete custody. In the event of my death, Liam Mcknight should be informed and given the entirety of my estate to do with it as he sees fit. In the event of my passing, Meraki Academy should be handed over to Natasha Alimes and Leonard Nahum. In the event that I am in a near death situation, when the only reason I am living is due to the support of machines or medical intervention I, Iphigenia Krovopuskov, being of sound body and mind, requests to not be resuscitated and peacefully laid to rest. I wish to be cremated and then and only after may you inform Dallas Krovopuskov of my death and relinquish my ashes to him.


    At the bottom is Mom''s signature and Dr. Rolloki, the first doctor that treated her. I know I should be overcome with sadness at reading my mother''s last will and testimony but for some reason a sense of gratitude fills me. The date listed on the paper is almost two years ago. Two years ago my mother was advised to write down her last wishes because of her diagnosis. My throat clenches tightly before I slip the document back into the folder and put it back where I found it.


    "You should not be in someone''s room if they are not there to invite you."


    Laki''s voice makes my heart speed up and I  jump to turn around and see him. He''s standing at the threshold with a stern look in his eyes as his gaze flickers from the folder and back to me. His throat bobs a little before his eyes narrow on the folder.


    "You definitely should not be meddling in personal things." His tone is deathly even, like it was his own personal effects I was going through. "You have no right! None," he''s growing more emotional when his voice gets higher and his words turn into rambling.


    Not today, please dear god not today. Before he can fully break down I pull him into my arms, ignoring the way he tries to squirm to get away and just hold on tighter. His breathing is heavy as he keeps fighting and I can hear the frustration of his coming out in tears. His tiny fists are beating against my chest, as hard as they can as his neck strains back to get further away from me.


    "No, I don''t want this!"


    I know, I want to say but that would be too much. Talking over him would just make it worse.


    "I want out, out, get out!"


    All I can do is nod as the pounding of his fist grows less chaotic. His breathing has evened out into small huffs and he even feels cooler to the touch. It doesn''t take long until his arms just fall limp at his sides and he begins taking deep breaths on his own.


    "Let me go now, please." His voice is much softer now and for reassurance his hands maneuvers to the outside of my body to gently tap my own back, once and then two more times.


    It takes more convincing on my own part to accept that he is okay now. If I don''t let him go when he''s ready then we''ll have a bigger meltdown, one that I wasn''t actually good at handling. Smaller meltdowns were easier to handle, just a couple of moments of pressure and quietness got him back down to earth, anyone could do it really. But a bigger meltdown required more, a gentle touch that I only saw Mom capable of calming. So I convince myself that he''s better and slowly unhook my arms from around him.


    His chocolate eyes are rimmed red, still damp cheeks streaked with saline makes them appear even more doey. His braids are falling over his forehead, the ends gently brushing over those long beautiful lashes of his. He''s avoiding eye contact, embarrassed for having a moment in front of someone who isn''t Mom. He swallows slowly before lifting his eyes up to meet mine.


    "Mommy already left," he whispers.


    I nod, not trusting my own voice to not throw him back into disarray.


    He glances at the clock on the nightstand and his hand reaches up to settle itself in mine. "It''s time to go." Is all he says and I let him lead me downstairs to get our stuff before heading out.


    A lot of people have triggers that invoke different reactions. Drug addicts can get sweaty when approached by their pharmaceutical of choice. Survivors can go still at the sight of their abusers. Likewise, Laki has meltdowns when he''s exposed to one of the worst moments of his life, and it''s reasonable for a five year old who witnessed what he did.

 Chapter 2

    My debate class is literally the bane of my existence. It''s not that the class is bad at all but that the students are just so aggressive, and being the daughter of Nia Krovopuskov, was an innate pacifist. A simple opinionated question could send my classmates into an active frenzy that carries on long after the bell has rung to dismiss us. The debates are good, don''t get  me wrong, just last week we had to argue from both sides on how the Chicago Seven''s Trial was handled accordingly and improperly. I was the adjudicator, which was the best position for my nerves. Today however, I just have this odd feeling that something won''t be able to be contained in the confines of this room.


    Ms. Nickels is a fairly young woman, she just graduated from Spellman five years ago making her around thirty-two. She''s one of those teacher''s that''s always smiling until it''s time to get down to business and then she''s like a different person, but not in a bad way. Ms. Nickels is a big advocate of higher education, and she constantly reminds us that it''s never too late to get that higher education. In fact at least twice a month she makes us debate on different reasons to get a higher education and how it benefits us. Even though most of us are juniors with a handful of sophomores she dedicates at least six weeks out of the semester to finding out our interest and supplying us with career paths that best fits us.


    Right now the classroom is pretty mellow, students are still trying to allow their breakfast to digest and are talking amongst themselves with a noise level even Laki would approve of. Ms. Nickels usually runs a little behind on Thursdays, due to a meeting between the cluster of Elective Arts teachers and usually doesn''t come in until twenty minutes into class. These days are my favorite because it gives me time to work on my math homework for my next class, which I was borderline failing.


    "Okay guys, I apologize for my tardiness." Ms. Nickels voice waves in from the hallways, carrying like a song until she steps into the classroom with a smile. "I know that today is typically a chill day, but since you guys were testing all week and missed this class  I''d like us to get back into the swing of things." She sits her bags down behind her desk before walking to the back of the room where the podiums and white board reside. The classroom is silent as she uncaps a marker and begins writing the topic for today. "Today''s topic, which might be a tad controversial in today''s society: are mixed children considered black or white?"


    The tension in a room is often described as being so thick that a knife couldn''t cut through it, but that''s not how I would describe the atmosphere now. Now it just feels like all the air''s been sucked out of the room and I''m slowly suffocating. The looks being exchanged back and forth throughout the classroom vary between, "I can''t wait to put my two cents in," and "no, anything but this." Ms. Nickels is the only person who doesn''t look at all worried about the outcome of this debate, she merely only hops onto the counter and takes her seat, waiting for us to begin.


    Before we can split up into groups and draw sides Ms. Nickels raises her hand, halting our conversations. "No teams, I just want to hear your personal opinions." She must hear the snide remark Alex makes about the topic because her lip tightens in a line and she narrows her eyes at him. "I need you all to remember that this is a safe place where you may be opinionated on your own accords, but being opinionated and being disrespectful do not coincide with one another. At any point where I feel you have crossed the line of disrespectful you will receive a citation, and there will be no debate about that. Do  I make myself clear?"


    We respond in unison, not wanting to invoke neither a citation nor Ms. Nickels'' wrath. With a nod of her head she watches as hands shoot up and picks out who gets to go first.


    Naiomi is the first one to go up and she does so with a timid gait that keeps her focused on her feet before she gets to the security of the podium. Once  there she takes a deep breath before starting. "Mixed children are fairly new, to an extent, before America was colonized and every other colonized content there was no such things as mixed, therefore there was no name for it. Children of multiple races were not notified as being mixed until the term mulatto was declared as a derogatory term." She takes a break to glance back at Ms. Nickels to make sure she wasn''t venturing too far from the topic, and once she got a subtle nod she turned back to us to continue on. "Mulatto was used to refer to the children slave masters fathered with their slaves, and at that time mulattos or mixed children were purely classified as black, because white people did not want to soil their own blood lines. These situations set the precedent and it''s because of them that we still classify mixed children as Black. Thank you."


    We''re required to clap after each statement so that no one feels that their classmates chooses the victor. Ms. Nickels is the only person who doesn''t clap, and she unlike my mom has the perfect restraint to not express what she''s thinking on her face. Three more people go up, each of them using history to solidify why mixed children were considered black, until Dasia is called up.


    Dasia is the only other mixed kid in this class and she''s soft spoken in general until she gets behind a podium, then and only then is when she becomes a pit-bull. Dasia is the person we unanimously voted to be team captain and she has been since her sophomore year. Once she gets up to the podium she pushes up her glasses and begins tapping her nails against the podium''s surface.


    "First I would like to denounce the term mixed it, like mulatto, has recently been classified as a derogatory statement. The politically correct term is biracial, and to stipulate whether biracial children are considered black or white depends on their skin tone and how they''re raised." Her eyes scour the crowd and land on me before she continues. "Biracial children come in a multitude of shades, I happen to be on the more bronzed side of the biracial skin tone, and others can border the line of an almost Caucasian like skin tone." She doesn''t outwardly call me out but she implies it enough to get some of my classmates to look at me. "Society automatically divides you into race classes the moment their eye drifts over you, and that does not exclude biracial children. The term white-passing was used to classify biracial children during a time of segregation because people realized that it was perfectly possible to misidentify biracial children as white just because of their lack of obvious melanin. That''s still the situation today, people talk about the other races to biracial kids because they can''t automatically distinguish if the person is light skinned, biracial, or just white, which means that we can not decide where to put biracial kids in a race bracket. There is no correct answer to this topic, because not only do biracial kids seem almost impossible to classify but even at times different people like to be placed in a different bracket based on category." Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    When  I get up to to podium I turn to Ms. Nickels first, "can I speak from my own experience since this isn''t a formal debate?" She raises her eyebrows but nods for me to go ahead. "I personally don''t like being classified as black." My classmates gasp, but I knew that was coming long before I got up. "But I don''t like being classified as white either, and that is nothing against the two races but my personal preference." I try to ignore the heated glares coming my way and instead twist the chain of my bracelet around. "My mom is African-American, and my dad is European, Russian and Greek to be exact, therefore I''m not just biracial but multiracial. Since I was a kid my parents never made me choose a race to classify as because what was the point? I knew who I was, I knew my family history, and I was secure in it. I wasn''t introduced to picking a race until I moved here, and that''s nothing against you guys it''s just that we were raised with different mindsets and that''s not wrong." Some of their faces soften at that and I can feel my heart stop beating so loud. "I don''t choose to classify as either white or black because I don''t want to choose. If I classify as one or the other it means I''m dignifying one of the races as being better than the others and that''s not something I want to do because it''s not fair. To choose means I have to choose between my parents, which one is better, and it''s not fair to the people that raised me to decide which one of them was better."


    The bell rings before I can officially say I''m done but that doesn''t stop me from rushing to get my things and head into the hall.


    "Hey, Kuro, wait up!"


    Another thing I detested was having to shorten my name so that it was easier to pronounce. Krovopuskov just didn''t roll off of everyone''s tongue so for the best Mom shortened it when we moved here. Reggie pulls up beside me, too late to catch the groan I let out because of the thirty seconds shaved off my walk to my next class. I like Reggie, I do, we had three out of eight classes together and he occasionally offered his help when I was struggling with my calculus homework.


    "Hey, Reggie."


    He gives me a short nod before licking his lips and placing his hand on my back, right behind my left shoulder. "Listen, I just wanted to applaud you for not choosing sides."


    I don''t usually speak up front during the debates unless it''s a requirement which meant I had a tad bit of social anxiety. It meant slot for someone to compliment something I had trouble with convincing myself to do and a smile breaks out on my face. "Thanks I-."


    "I mean it doesn''t matter that your white father is halfway across the country living the lavish lifestyle, and your black mom is working to support four kids by herself." His tone is even but it carries an air of deception to it the second we cross the threshold into Math. "But hey, no reason to make the white man feel inferior in anyway right?"


    My smile falls and a pit settles in my stomach at his words. "You don''t know us, my parents or my family. Please don''t make assumptions about what is or what is not going on."


    He nods slowly before sidestepping me and entering the classroom. "I may not know him personally but no one needs to when he has no shame in broadcasting his affair while being married and having a child." He takes pride in the way my face falls because a smile slowly creeps out across his face. "You didn''t know? God, your parents had probably one of the most notable open relationships in the world when they first got married, well your Pops did.  They say it was over every magazine and blog sites in the Western United States. I''m not at all surprised your Mom got the hell out of dodge, just that it took her sixteen years."


    There''s a dull throbbing sensation behind my eye and I hastily blink in a lame attempt to get it to subside. "How, why would-."


    "Because your dad, your father with a white savior complex did it all for appearances but couldn''t give up his own desires." His smile falls and for a moment he actually seems remorseful with the information he''s giving me. "Arnesia, the only thing he cared about was his own happiness."


    The throbbing gets worse and the pain spreads behind my other eye as well. It''s sharper now, like a continuous jab and my notebook falls to the ground with a soft thud as my hands reach up to cradle my head.


    "He''s doing this intentionally?"


    "Nia, you can''t stop this!"


    "The hell I can''t, that''s my kid in there!"


    "Iphigenia-."


    "No! I refuse to suffer any longer at his hands because Dallas Krovopuskov only cares about what he wants."


    The distorted memory only makes things worse and my brain starts to feel like its too big for my skull, throbbing erratically and bringing forth tears. My eyes snap shut trying to bring at least a little bit of sensory comfort but it''s still too much. I can still hear the chatter in the hallway, still sense Reggie standing over me, and I can even hear my math teacher making his way over to me with questions of concern.


    "Arnesia? Reggie, what happened?" Mr. Laine''s hand lands on my shoulder and I involuntarily cry at the jolt of pain that courses through me until he snatches his hand back. "Someone hit the intercom!"


    It''s chaos, pure chaos as I finally try to peel my eyes open. The kids in the classroom are whispering to each other with wide eyes, Reggie is furiously jamming his finger against the intercom button, and Mr. Lain is practically hyperventilating as his eyes scan over every inch of me with knitted brows. The voice over the intercom is staticky so I can''t make out much of what''s being said. The bell chooses the exact moment the intercom shuts off to ring and it''s almost surreal the way everything falls into place.


    The pain stops, almost as instinctively it appeared it just disappeared. The world quietens and everything just stills for a moment, just an air of welcomed peace. My fingers gently unclasp my head and I gently rub them against my temple, soothing what no longer hurts. My gums ache slightly and I chalk it up to how I was clenching my jaw to try but fail at not making any noise to attract unwanted attention. When I convince myself to bring my hands away from my head and back down to my sides I sway slightly before looking down.


    I could''ve sworn I paired my ripped jeans with my chucks, white chucks that were much too dirty to be considered white. But I must be wrong, because I''m starring at my pink chucks, though they''re spotted with white, non-white, splotches.


    "Arnesia-."


    "My chucks," I start just as the haze begins to descend once more. "They were white and now they''re pink." I take a deep breath before I shakily lift my hand to my mouth. It''s sticky and when I pull it away the pads of my fingers are coated in a dark crimson liquid that could pass for black in the right light. The room begins to sway and my eyes sweep my surroundings before they focus on Reggie, tucked into the corner with wide eyes. "You should call my mom, not Dallas Krovopuskov," I advise before I fall  back into the darkness.

 Chapter 3

    "I remember when you were just a thought, a tiny bubble of imperfection


    Only I know the stressful night and the endless whispers of dejection"


    A gentle lulaby sung by a sultry voice is what guides me out the darkness. It feels as if it takes forever for my limbs to cover the length of ground and lead me out into the open. Immediately after crossing the threshold of darkness a shore begins, made completely of smaller pebbles, charcoal and blue in color. There''s a curtain of fog right where the shore should meet the waterline, thick and too dense to let any light in, not that there was much to allow. The atmosphere is dark and gloomy, like the day described at the beginning of The Cat in the Hat. A small row boat is nestled on the shore, half of it covered by the fog and the other half calling to me to sit and row.


    The boat doesn''t rock as I enter it, in fact the oak it''s constructed out of is sturdy and offers a little comfort to my weariness. I don''t have to put much effort into rowing the boat forward, the current takes over and pushes me through to the fog, closer and closer to whoever is singing.


    A woman sits in the middle of a gray lake, her eyes fixated on the silver waves beneath her and her hands clutching tightly against the sides of the boat. Her auburn hair is thrown into a braid casted over her shoulder and she wears a gold band adorned with olive branches around the crown of her head. When she lifts her head our eyes connect and she rears back slightly with a curled upper lip.


    "Unreal," she whispers before her expression softens and she tilts her head to the side. "Arnesia? You are Arnesia?"


    My name falls off her tongue like she can''t stand the syllables that formed it, like she had to force herself to expel them without gagging. It doesn''t help that she shudders when she says it or how her emerald eyes narrow in on me.


    I nod and she mimics me. "Where are we? I''ve never been here before, and I don''t even know where he is." Her eyebrow arches but I''m too busy looking at what few surrounding there are. Fog, an endless fog settled all around us and a ball of light which I can only imagine is the sun resting behind the thick fog. "I want to-. No, I don''t want-."


    "You ramble," she speaks softly as her hands finally let go of the sides of her boat. "You ramble when you are scared," her eyes twinkle and she sings her next words like she''s amused by it. "Like Iphigenia."


    Something inside me subsides and I release a breath I hadn''t even remembered holding. Only the people closest to Mom referred to her as Iphigenia, it must mean this woman knows her pretty well. Not to mention how carefully she wields the syllables and pronounces it almost as effortless as calling someone Tom. Not many people could clearly pronounce her name, not even with numerous exemplary pronunciations.


    "I know her well enough. It is you I am more interested in," she wears a genuine smile and tries to lean towards me but the boat rocks and she recoils into it immediately with tight lips. "It has been quite some time since I last saw you, in fact you were nothing but a babe."


    My mouth falls open and from the way she''s grinning she can piece together why. I hadn''t said anything out loud about only Mom''s close friends calling her Iphigenia, and yet she responded as if I had. Even now as I''m running it all over in my head I can see the obvious joy lighting up her eyes.


    "Did, did you just read my mind?"


    Her face falls as soon as I finish my question and the water beneath us takes the opportunity to finally calm, which attracts her eyes before she glances back at me. Her nostrils are flared now and her hand reaches out to me, too quickly for me to yank my own hand away and too startled to escape what strong grip her slim fingers have around my wrist.


    She speaks in a foreign language. The words are harsh on her tongue, similar to Pop Pop''s Russian pronunciation but way more intricate with its phonic system. It sounds a tad familiar, as if I had heard it long ago but I could make no sense of it now, especially not when I was starting to get weirded out.


    I latch my hand around her wrist, almost as bony as my own and pull as hard as I can. "I hate to be rude but you are invading my own space and I don''t like it," I announce with an air of struggle before she finally lets go and sits back down in her own boat. My wrist is slightly red from the hold she had on it and I hiss when the pads of my fingers run over the inflamed skin.


    "I am sorry," she whispers before taking a deep breath. "I am, though I do not believe those I harmed would take my word as valid."


    "Upset? Maliki, I am livid! How could you do this to her?"


    The fog thickens as my Mom''s voice breaks through and I try to locate it but everything just becomes hazy. Her voice sounds so close and yet she''s no where to be seen.


    "Nia, I did what I needed to. I do not serve at-."


    "No, but you are messing with my child''s health, and so help me God that will end with you-."


    The fog denses up so much that all I can see is blackness, there is no more faint illumination, or the sound of the water. Just pure darkness and the clear voice of my mother and someone else I did not know.


    "Malaki, I fear we will not get anywhere like this," the heavily accented voice chuckles. "My wife, she is quite stronger than we all give her credit for. Please do not trigger her." If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    There''s a prickling sensation along my neck and it sends goosebumps through me. It''s like when a limb has fallen asleep and you''re trying to return circulation to it. There''s just this feeling of numbness covering me.


    "Don''t undermine me, Dallas, please."


    Light begins to seep through the darkness, small spots giving way to a cracked ceiling and dream catchers dangling down. The coldness is the first thing that resides with me, I was freezing and my teeth were chattering against each other nonstop. The distant sound of shoes shuffling against the floorboards makes me want to locate them but I can''t even turn my neck or even move my body.


    "You realize it was your undermining of me that brought us where we are today?"


    Dallas Krovopuskov, that heavily rough, Russian accented voice belonged to my father. My father who I had not seen in five years. My father whose voice sounded so foreign in my ears but also like a childhood lullaby that was always stuck in the back of my mind. He was here.


    "What is that saying you and Natasha had always been fond of? ''You made this bed, now lie in it,'' yes?"


    There''s a sharp inhale before I hear the doorknob turning. I still can''t move and the way my bed is positioned I couldn''t get a clear view of the doorway unless I was on my side.


    "Nessy?" The voice unmistakably belongs to Laki and when he comes to my side his hand hovers above my cheek, never quite touching but his warmth still mixing with my own, or lack of. "Papa''s here and we''re leaving soon. When you get better," he clarifies before moving back to crawl up into the bed beside me.


    The switch powers up quietly and for a moment it''s just the sound of Mario jumping and running filling the atmosphere. The temperature has slowly started to warm up to the point my teeth are no longer chattering and I''m no longer wishing for another blanket to be thrown onto the of the comforter I''m already under. The numbness in my body is slowly starting to subside, most notably in my neck and I can finally turn it so I can get a good look at Laki.


    He''s sitting crisscrossed on the bed with the switch in his lap and his hair fresh out of braids hanging over his forehead. He''s changed out of the clothes he''d worn to school and is now just wearing his boxers and an undershirt, his typical after school outfit.


    "Nia, this conversation is far from over!"


    "Yes it is, because I am going to check on my child. My child that was harmed today."


    She climbs the stairs with no dispute to her statement and when she steps through the doorway I want to cry at the sight of her. She looks so drained, everything about her makes me feel like we''re going to be right back where we were a year ago. The lack of livelinesses in her skin, the limpness of her hair, and just the way she carries herself is scary.


    "Hey," she smiles gently before pressing a kiss to my forehead and sitting on the bed to look at me. "How you feeling? You and your nose had quite the Niagara Falls moment in second period."


    My brain throbs at the mention of Mr. Lain''s class and I groan at the sensation. "How long did I black out for?" My fingers are already working at massaging my temples even though it hardly offers any relief.


    Mom''s brows are knitted together as she peers down at me. "Six hours," she replies hesitantly before shooing Laki to his own room. Once he''s gone her own fingers fly to overlay mine and instant relief washes over me. "Nes, what happened when you blacked out?"


    There''s this feeling you get when you''re sick as a little kid. This feeling that every cell in your body is brutally betraying you, beating you up from the inside out and there''s nothing you can do to stop. You take all the medicine, eat all the soup, drink the tea, slather yourself in Vick''s vapor, and you pray that you can just sleep it all off. There''s nothing you can do to beat it, but there''s always one champion who''s reigning supreme over getting your well-being back in check, and it''s your Mom.


    Moms'' hands are, if not the most, one of the most powerful things on earth. The way things just seem to get so much better after a Mom puts her hands on it. It''s unbelievable, unbelievable of the amount of love, comfort, and healing they possess and Nia Krovopuskov was not the exception. Because right now I was reliving in the relief she was giving so much that it takes her wrenching that relief away for me to comprehend what she''d asked.


    Her eyes are hard as she looks down on me with an impatient expression. "Arnesia, what happened when you blacked out?" She asks a little more forcefully this time.


    I shake my head but quickly put a stop to that when the pain starts back up. "Nothing," I stammer. "I woke up here, heard you and Pops," her eyes soften and I almost wish I hadn''t added the last part, "arguing."


    Her hands fall to her lap and she takes a deep breath before her eyes close. "That''s a bit more complicated than it seemed." She hesitantly opens her eyes and flashes a soft smile before reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "We''re just worried about you and it made tensions a little high. It''s nothing for you to worry-."


    "Nia, now!"


    She tenses at Pop''s voice but does glance back at my door like she expects him to be standing there, but he isn''t. The hallway is still empty and her hands are still clutched together in her lap, the lilac nail polish that had been covering her nails chipped and speckled on her jeans.


    She turns back to me and takes a deep breath. "You should rest. Today was a long day and it put your body through quite a lot." Her lips are cool against my forehead and as the darkness overcomes me her kiss is the last thing I feel.


    "To be the mother of a babe swaddled in fresh crimson


    A union between two envokes another and then it will be forever done."


    The fog shifts and reveals the same woman, still sitting in her boat but this time she looks more at ease than anything. Her smile is more genuine now and she''s less focused on the current below her but at the sky above her.


    "I see no time was wasted in sending you back?"


    My gaze drifts up to what she''s staring at and I see at the sight in front of me. It''s a volcano, billowing out smoke which I know realize the fog surrounding us is not in fact smoke but smog. There is no lava coursing down but I imagine there is only a matter of time before it does. It''s beautiful, the way the smoke billows up with each puff and how small amounts of rock dislodge themselves and roll down into the water. It''s amazing how something so beautiful can be so destructive in two different moments.


    "Mount. Apathia," her soothing voice brings my attention back to her but her''s remain on the volcano before us. "That is where back is." She finally turns to look at me and there is something so familiar about the smirk she wears that it sends chills down my spine as her right  hand dangles over her boat, waiting patiently for me to offer mine up.


    Without giving it too much thought I stretch my own hand over the side of my boat and grip onto hers. Her palm is cold against mine but with a quick squeeze she retracts it and returns it to her lap.


    "I was once called Anne by those who loved me, and it is nice to finally meet you, Dreya."

 Chapter 4

    A blinding brightness is the first thing that welcomes me back into consciousness. My curtains have been parted and sunlight streams directly onto my face, offering a kind of warm feeling that goes no deeper than the surface, not that I had expected it to. Beneath my skin my bones are frigid, the type of cold that can only be remedied with a scolding bath and dryer fresh clothes. I shudder slightly before burying myself deeper into my covers, maybe if I lull myself to sleep the cold won¡¯t be as bothersome.


    "This is quite a lot of covers for a person living in what has been described as the "devil''s armpit," the voice is thick with boredom as heavy shoes drag against the floor.


    When I look over the covers a hulking figure stands at my bookshelf, his fingers trailing the spines of the books. He''s taller than I remember, though that could have something to do with me barley coming past his hip bone the last time I saw him. His hair also looks different, the quiff style looks oddly boyish on him and at the roots his strands hold a ginger tint, that would have been impossible to spot had it not been for the bright rays of light, before they fade to a dark brown. Crimson etchings of an ancient script peak out from beneath his collar, and as if he knew it captivated my attention he tugs at the cable knit sweater in an attempt to hide the markings.


    Cable Knit? He¡¯s one to talk about multiple layerings especially considering the little dot of perspiration running down his neck. At least for me I wasn¡¯t feeling the affects of my layering, at least the way I wanted to.


    "Starring is not polite, and I would hate to tell Abrial that we have failed at parenting you." He pulls a book out effortlessly and hums before turning around to face me with a smirk. "Do not make a liar out of your Pops."


    A smile pulls at my lips as I gaze up at him in complete and utter glee. Five years, it was five years since I had talked with let alone seen Dallas Krovopuskov. There were no words to describe the excitement coursing through me.


    Pops inhales deeply before standing at my window, his back to me as his hand spreads against the pane. "You have a lot of Greek readings in here. Is there a reason?"


    My gaze drifts to the book at his side, Hesiod¡¯s Work and Days. He hasn''t put it down since he picked it up. It was like he was fascinated with it but when I''d watched him gaze upon it his face twisted into a snarl. Now I was unsure if he was amazed at my collection or horrified with what it consisted of.


    "I- you''re part Greek are you not?" My stutter catches his attention, and he looks at me over his shoulder with furrowed brows. "I mean, I wanted to learn a bit of my family history and you weren''t here to learn from," I trail off when I realize what I said and how his jaw locks. "Pops, I didn''t-."


    "There are no books of Africa-American culture here," he hesitantly drops the book onto my nightstand and goes back to the bookshelf. "In fact, there is not even one that is written by a black author. Did you not want to learn about that part of your family history?" His tone is heavy with accusations and something in me constricts.


    "Mom is here," I state clearly before climbing out of bed and grabbing the book he discarded. "Mom was here for five years, I didn''t need to search for a history no one could tell me about."


    There''s silence before quiet chuckling sounds throughout the room. It isn''t pleasant like one pronounced in humor or joy, but almost the exact opposite. It¡¯s more like nails scraping against the chalkboard, antagonizing and vindictive. The sound sends a shooting pain through my head, and I wince before falling to take a seat on the bed and clutching my head.


    It doesn¡¯t hurt as much as yesterday in class, but the pain can not be mistaken as mere headache. My brain feels as if someone was taking a blunt instrument and jamming it up my nose canal until it barley hits brain matter and retracting it just as quick just to do it once again. The pain only lasts a moment before it vanishes into thin air and leaves me starring at my sock clad feet.


    "Your mother self-identifies as an orphan, according to her records she was raised in an orphanage by an Indian woman." Pops scoffs and pulls another book from my shelf. "She knows nothing of her familia history, that is what you should be learning." He pauses and clicks his tongue, ¡°what is that saying, the sins of the mother will be my own?¡±


    When he looks down at me there''s this gleam in his eyes, like he knows something I don¡¯t, and he finds amusement in it. The looks is one I know all too well and yet I find it almost foreign on my own father¡¯s face.


    The amusement on Pop¡¯s face is wiped away almost instantly and replaced with a much more reserved one. "Where is your brother,¡± instead of directing the question to me he backtracks until his heels hit the wall beside the door and places his hand on the doorknob. But he¡¯s gazing at the picture frame propped up on my desk.


    It¡¯s a loaded question, one that I assume he thought was going to be no trouble with me, he was wrong. "He is downstairs from the sound of Reading Rainbow." I stand and move past him to look at which picture he''s exactly looking at.


    It''s Laki''s fifth birthday party. The Indiana Jones theme is heavy in the costumes as coating the birthday boy, Pop Pop, Adam, and Dj. They''re all smiling at the camera that I think Mom is holding. Cake is smeared on Laki''s nose and he''s holding onto Adam''s neck for dear life in response to be lifted so high. Dj''s arm is over Adam''s shoulder and Pop Pop stands behind all of them with the biggest smile and a western hat tilting to the side.


    "Your sarcasm is not as cute as it was when you were younger," his gaze moves to mine and it hardens as he flicks the frame to face downwards. "Dj, where is he currently residing-."


    "Dallas, breakfast is ready and I do like being on schedule contrary to your own privileged tendencies.¡±


    The man who appears in the doorway is lanky, not as lanky as me but there is not any type of bulkiness displayed underneath the slim fitting button down. Wings are inked across his neck in charcoal ink, which contrast nicely against his tanned skin. Salt and peppered hair is shaved down and for a moment I''m tempted to stand on my toes to look at the top of his head for waves.


    He flashes a straight white smile at me and lowers his head in a slight bow. "Dreya, it is good to see you again. It has been quite a while and you have certainly blossomed, your mother¡¯s influence no doubt.¡±


    I nod with tightened lips; I have no idea who this is. "Thank you." I give one last look to My Pops whose gaze is still locked on me. I swallow and leave the two of them in my room, only hesitating when I hear the man make a comment on my books.


    "Interesting."


    When I get downstairs Laki has his hand fisted around the fabric of Mom''s sweatshirt. I''m surprised not to find the switch settled into his free hand but when I spot the tears of frustration escaping the corner of his eyes I realize it wasn''t by choice. Mom is whispering something to him as she moves around the kitchen with two plates, one loaded with bacon and the other with French toast. The table is set for five and all the other breakfast food is already in the center of the table.


    "But, he hasn''t been here," Laki expresses through a whine as Mom leads him to his seat, to the left of the head.


    "I know that, but it wasn''t his fault for that," her voice gets slight choked, but she clears it with pressing a kiss to Laki''s cheek. "Your Pops is a little bit more traditional, and he likes a firm foundation when raising kids. He doesn''t understand that you learn a little differently but give him time and he can learn all about you."


    I scoff and sink down in the seat next to him. "Yes, because Dallas Krovopuskov sounds very much adaptive."


    Mom arches a single eyebrow after kissing the top of my head. "What do you mean? I felt as though you two were connecting up there, though I suppose I may have misinterpreted it and got distracted," her eyes roam to the newspaper laying on the counter.


    Mom does not read the newspaper. In fact she hardly even knows what''s going on in the world outside of our household. It was me who had to convince her to get out and vote for the last election because contrary to her nonchalant I cared what society I was going to inherit. So the newspaper laying open to current events makes me assume that one of the two house guest upstairs had been previously occupied by it.


    "He was acting too entitled for it to be only eight in the morning."


    "Huh, are you sure this is your child Nia? I find she has too much of a bite to be the spawn from a line of pacifist," the man from earlier comes into the kitchen with Pops behind him and a soft smile on his face as he looks down at me.


    "Maliki, no politics at the table." She pats his shoulder with a brief flash of teeth that he returns. "That''s law number one here, and I do remember having such a fixation for laws."


    He sucks his teeth repeatedly before sitting at the head of the table. "Regulations, I have a fixation for regulations." He must catch Mom''s eye roll because he turns to Pop with a flicker of annoyance on his face. "Please tell your wife that laws and regulations are two very different things."


    Pops is still standing behind Maliki when the request is made of him. His gaze is focused on where Mom is grabbing the syrup and canister of powder sugar. He chuckles quietly when she turns around and gives him the stink eye.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "My wife says-."


    "Dallas," she interrupts before placing the syrup and sugar in the middle of the table.


    A smile breaks out on Pop''s face and for the first time this morning there''s a genuine look on his face. His eyes close momentarily before he reopens them and sits into the seat across from Laki. "I assume my wife understands the difference between law and regulations and that right now you are in her domain." His eyes twinkle and he turns to Maliki with a wink. "Respectfully of course."


    Maliki hums at Mom when she sits across from him at the opposite head. "That sounds like the Nia I knew."


    I can''t help but send a look to Laki who''s already looking at me with a twisted expression. We were thinking the same thing. Mom has at most three real friends, and only one of them she talks to on a regular basis. The other two she misses greatly and she says it all the time, mentions them every chance she gets and yet neither of them are Maliki. Maliki was a stranger, someone whose name has never once been mentioned.


    "I haven''t exactly changed, elbows Laki."


    Laki quickly retracts his elbows and furrows his brows together as he looks between Maliki and Mom.


    "If I were to inquire Liam on this I doubt he would agree with you." Maliki turns to Pops and gestures to the plate of French toast he holds. "Do you think so?"


    Pops glances at Mom while simultaneously handing the plate to Maliki. "Without a doubt, in fact you might just be unrecognizable let Skorpa tell it."


    Mom tenses at that and she clutches her fork tightly as she stares at her plate. "Skorpa''s been talking about me to Liam," her voice is small and when she looks up her eyes are wide. "Why isn''t he here?"


    There''s this bond between Mom and Uncle Liam, something I haven''t seen anything else like it. They were so close that when I was younger they''d continuously mistaken him for my pops at the school activities.


    Maliki looks hesitantly to Pops before lowering his silverware and folding his fingers together to rest underneath his chin. "Liam McKnight is, currently at the moment indisposed." He says it slowly like he''s unsure of his choice of words until they''re already rolling off his tongue.


    "Indisposed," Mom repeats slowly. "Is he okay?"


    "Well, you went missing for five years without a word of notice to him," Pops scoffs. "What do you think?"


    The silence following his words hits hard and Mom''s gaze drifts to the centerpiece. A clear champagne bottle filled with a rolled-up parchment. She drops her fork and reaches for the necklace dangling around her neck. It¡¯s a copper medallion, too small and simple to be worth anything but I¡¯ve never seen here without it.


    "I- he would understand," she fumbles over her words and when she finally looks up her eyes are wet. "Him of all people would understand."


    Pop''s expression sours and he turns to fully face Mom with his arm across the back of the chair next to him. "Yes, maybe if you had actually held a conversation before uprooting yourself." A smile erupts on his face but it doesn''t match his eyes and when he sets his eyes on me I go cold. "That, the talking would have prevented much of this mess, yes?"


    There''s a fire in Mom''s eyes and they are now no longer wet but in slits as she focuses all her attention on Pops. "Do not, turn this on me. I know you were raised with a thick head but let me elaborate. Your actions have reactions, yours particular invoke quite a substantial reaction." Her hand reaches out towards where his rest against the chair''s back but he intercepts it pinching her wrist with a frown.


    "Wife, please."


    Mom grunts but does pull her hand away to stare out the window. "Skorpa said he''d understand that many would understand." Her nails tap against the wood, attracting Pop''s gaze. "He also said that if it had been him, Abrial would not have hesitated to do the same." Her head turns slowly to face Pops and she leans forward. "And that is all the approval myself and you need."


    The air thickens with the tension between my parents, silent and teetering the edge of chocking. Well, there goes the warming reunion I had anticipated all these years.


    Maliki clears his throat loudly, attracting the focus of everyone at the table and smiles softly before placing his napkin on top of his finished plate. ¡°My dear Nia, I believe it is crucial that you and I have a conversation,¡± he surveys the table before his eyes narrow on Laki. ¡°One that is best suited for our ears only.¡±


    Mom nods and slowly stands from her seat but not without side eying Pops. ¡°Kids, clear the table please.¡±


    It doesn¡¯t take much to clear the tables, just transferring the food from their plates to Tupperware and then storing them in the refrigerator. Laki does a pretty good job at that, making sure everything is in the adequate container to take up the minimal space in the fridge.


    I on the other hand tend to focus more on the dishes. It was something about standing at a sink filled to the brim with hot soapy water that was just soothing. I could stay there for hours just washing dishes by myself and starring out the window. In fact, I preferred it.


    I¡¯m elbow deep in the scalding water when a familiar presence looms at my side. From the corner of my eyes I can see the hesitance in his expression before he exhales loudly and rolls up his sleeves. He reaches for the wet dishes in the empty compartment of the sink.


    ¡°Can you not,¡± I interrupt his movement with a timid voice. His hand retracts and he cast me a sideways glance just like Mom had previously given him. ¡°It¡¯s just I like doing the dishes by myself. You can stand there if you¡¯d like but I¡¯d rather do them myself. Chores,¡± I shrug.


    Pops hums and turns so that his back rest against the counter, but his eyes remain glued to my side profile. ¡°Your mother has advised me to apologize for my behavior earlier. I will admit that was not at all how I imagined our reunification to take place.¡± He blows through his teeth and shifts before walking around me to the fridge. ¡°I have never been too good at showing my emotions in a positive mannerism and I due hope that is not a fault I have past down to you children.¡±


    I turn my head slightly so I can watch Pops, he¡¯s completely mesmerized by the memorabilia covering the stainless-steel surface. Pictures of school portraits, the proofs because Mom always forgot to send in the money before it was due. Adam¡¯s recent report card is posted up there, even though he has less than stellar grades with only an A in mathematics. An older paper I wrote is up there, carefully preserved in a plastic cover with a red ¡®excellent¡¯ sprawled on the top left-hand corner. There¡¯s also a picture of Pop Pop and Mom on there, he¡¯s reading a book and she¡¯s dozing on the couch.


    It¡¯s the moments he missed.


    ¡°I used to envy your mother you know.¡± Pops voice is monotonous as he plucks the picture of Mom and Pop Pop down for a closer inspection. ¡°She had so much love in her life, it was something that was foreign to me. I envied you as well.¡±


    ¡°Me, why?¡±


    ¡°Not just you, but your brothers as well.¡± He looks up and his eyes hold a lighter hue, almost shamrock. ¡°You four evidently had something I did not possess in my many years, the admiration of Skorpa.¡±


    The irritation I had felt earlier towards my father trickles away and I am overwhelmed with empathy.


    I remember when I was younger, maybe four that Ama had told me that things were not as good as they were in our own lives. I think it was Father¡¯s Day and if I remember correctly, I was pushing for us to include Pop Pop in our festivities rather than exclude him like we previously did. Pops was not in any type of way welcoming towards it and back then his and my desires always mimicked each other, and it made me upset that we were on opposite ends. I argued for Pop Pop, so adamantly you wouldn¡¯t think I was barley four but that I was a lawyer who¡¯s career was hanging on by a thread.


    Ama said that while Pop Pop was a great grandfather, arguably one of the best, he was not an equal father. Pop Pop was not there at all for Pops and I suppose that¡¯s shown with how Pops refers to his as his government name whenever he¡¯s brought up.


    Dallas Krovopuskov has dedicated his entire life of fatherhood to be the Father he didn¡¯t have growing up. The father he wished he had. Before we left he was at every event, no matter how small. He even came to the book fair because he heard Dj saying how it would be easier to pick things out if he had a second opinion. But he¡¯d missed a lot, five years worth of events and I had thrown it in his face not two hours ago.


    My lips part to apologize but his words come fast than mine.


    ¡°You have moved all the dishes from this morning from the suds to the empty side already. Why are your hands still in the hot water?¡±


    When I look down he¡¯s right, all the dishes are cleaned now and are just waiting for a rinse. Yet my hands are still in the water, though I couldn¡¯t exactly call it hot anymore. It¡¯s at a lukewarm temp and now that my attention has been called to it my own temp shoots back down for the chill from earlier to return to my bones.


    ¡°Oh,¡± I shake my hands free of the suds after pulling the stopper out and grab the towel next to me. ¡°I hadn¡¯t noticed.¡±


    His eyebrows knit together and he nods slowly. ¡°Yes, I noticed.¡±


    The door to the house opens and we both turn to look as Mom and Maliki walk through with their gaze focused and a parchment between them.


    ¡°Ah, Maliki have you informed my wife of the circumstances?¡± The faux enthusiasm makes Mom lift her head with an eye roll before she looks at me.


    ¡°I can hear you Dallas, as can everyone else there is no need to speak through a screen.¡±


    Maliki¡¯s eyes widen and his hand flies to his chest. ¡°Nia, I am offended you think so lowly of me. I am no mere-.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to Adam?¡± Laki¡¯s voice quiets everything as he appears in the doorway. There¡¯s a hopeful expression in his eyes as he looks from Mom until his gaze rest on the Alderman. ¡°Right?¡±


    Maliki¡¯s hand drops and a stoic expression covers his face as he looks down at Laki. ¡°That would be correct. Though I must admit I have to return to my work while the four of you travel to your brother.¡± He slowly makes his way across the room to Laki and kneels on one knee so that he can be on eye level with him. ¡°I do assume that it will be you who keeps this Dynasty in line, am I correct?¡±


    Laki¡¯s fingers immediately go to twiddling each other but it¡¯s harshly intercepted by Maliki who takes his hand to sandwich in between his own.


    ¡°You do not have a choice, you understand that, yes?¡± Maliki¡¯s voice is hard and his expression is harder.


    I almost move to pull my brother away from him but Mom steps beside me and places her own hand in mine.


    ¡°I understand, yes,¡± Laki answers hesitantly while lifting his eyes to stare at Pops. ¡°Will it work, coming from me?¡±


    Pop¡¯s lips pull into a smirk and he huffs. ¡°If you mean it, then of course.¡±


    This entire dialogue baffles me and I try to pull out Mom¡¯s hold, but she laces her fingers with mine and brings them up to her mouth. Her breath is warm over them as she blows over them, once, then twice before kissing them. She holds them there for what feels like minutes before she lets my hand drop to my side and pats my shoulder.


    When I look back to where Laki and Maliki were they are now both standing with a scroll extended between them. Laki is looking at it like it¡¯s the most fascinating thing in the world and Maliki is starring down at him with glee radiating off his face.


    ¡°I assumed you might like this, after all you are Nia¡¯s son and you must believe I am not the last person to say this.¡±


    ¡°I believe you.¡± Laki takes the scroll from him and replaces it with his hand in a firm shake. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Maliki nods and turns to face my parents. ¡°I will see the two of you back in Montana.¡±