Page 7

How to Act

Aleks

I think I should be scared.

It seems like the right emotion to feel as a sixteen-year-old leaving their family and country behind to stay with a bunch of strangers, but I don’t feel it.

Then again, I don’t feel much at all most of the time.

My foster mom knows this about me. She asked me only once if I had everything I needed when it was time to go to the airport, and then she sat with me in contented silence until the moment I had to board my plane. Because I was a minor, she was allowed through security to sit with me — and I think she knew that alone was enough.

With a kiss on the cheek and a smile, she let me go with a promise to call every Sunday and to be good for the family that was being so kind to house me.

Mom never fusses with me. She knows how I am.

I love that about her, that she doesn’t try to change me. She doesn’t try to make me like my foster siblings, the ones I’ve seen come and go while I’ve stayed put. Some of them are smart. Some of them are funny. All of them are good enough to be adopted.

But not me.

If I’m not scared, maybe I should be excited.

I’m in America for the first time. I’m here to play hockey. My housing, food, and education are being taken care of. I’m so close to my dream of playing in the NHL, I can practically reach out and touch it.

But I don’t feel excited, either.

A couple picks me up at the airport. The man is tall and broad-shouldered with a bit of a belly. He has thick black hair, tan skin, and is wearing a nice, tailored suit and a Rolex. His wife is much shorter than he is, with silky brown hair, fair skin, and a kind smile. She wears a pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse, along with heels that make her a couple inches taller.

They introduce themselves as Charlie and Holly, but I call them Mr. and Mrs. Conaway, like Mom told me to.

Mr. Conaway takes my luggage and Mrs. Conaway asks me questions as we make our way to the parking garage, mostly about how the flight was and if I’m excited to be here. The questions continue from Holly on the drive from the airport out to the suburbs of Chicago where I’ll be staying with them. Winnetka, my mom called it.

We pull up to a brick house bigger than any I’ve ever seen. It reminds me of the one from Home Alone , with large trees, white columns, and huge windows. It’s so big it could be a hotel. The lawn is green and sprawling, and we drive up a stone path hidden behind a gate before parking in a garage with two other cars.

Charlie gets one of my bags while I get the other. Holly makes a comment about how I pack lighter than she does for a weekend trip. I can only guess how big her closet is and don’t doubt her statement.

Holly tells me all about the house as we go inside. She says it has six bedrooms and eight bathrooms. She tells me how happy she is that it’s summer now and that she can sit out on the back porch and get some sun. She tells me she hopes I like my room.

The room I’ll be staying in is up a grand staircase and down the hall on the second floor. My room, like all the others in this mansion, has a view of Lake Michigan. It feels like an ocean to me, so vast and endless and blue. I stare out at the water and their private dock with a large boat, wondering how to act.

I feel out of place in my old boots and coat. I should have washed my hair before the flight.

I find myself wondering if my birth parents ever saw anything like this, if the woman who birthed me ever walked along a sandy shore before she died. I wonder if my father ever took me swimming before he left me, before he decided I was too much to handle without my mother on this Earth to help, before he died alone in a tent with a needle in his arm.

Charlie makes a joke to his wife about saving some of her questions for dinner that pulls me back to the present. He kisses her cheek when she flushes at the comment, and then tells me to get settled and they’ll see me downstairs.

The closet is the size of my old bedroom in Berne, the one I shared with my foster brother. The bed is three times the size of the cot I used to sleep on.

I still don’t feel excited.

I unpack, take a shower, and change into the nicest clothes I have — a pair of jeans Mom bought me for this trip, and my favorite long-sleeve shirt from the hockey club I played on in Berne. Even though it’s late in Berne, I call my mom using the cell phone and SIM card she bought me with money I know she didn’t have to spare. I’ll have a different cell phone soon, and a laptop, too.

I’ve never had a laptop before.

“It’s okay to smile,” she tells me before we hang up, as if she can see my face. “It’s okay to enjoy yourself. This is a wonderful opportunity, Aleks.”

“I know.”

“Ich liebe di so wie du bisch.”

I love you, just as you are.

“I love you, too.”

When I go downstairs, I wonder if Charlie and Holly have left. The house is quiet, and I wander through the living area, taking in another impressive view of the lake until I stumble upon the kitchen.

There’s a girl there.

She’s sitting at the kitchen island, the chandelier above her casting her in a warm glow. Her hair is brown and damp, sticking to the skin of her arms and back. It’s so long it nearly touches the hem of the sweatpants she’s wearing, which have been rolled twice at her hips.

I can’t see what she’s doing, but she’s bent over the counter, focused on something. One foot is tucked under her while the other is propped up on the barstool to her left. She keeps tugging at her hair with her right hand while her left works.

I realize as I get closer that she’s writing.

At first, I think it’s a poem. But then, I see the strange symbols and notice how she’s tapping her foot, how she’s humming a rhythm so quietly only she can hear.

I realize it’s a song.

The next step I take is close enough for her to hear, and she gasps, whipping around to look at me. She clutches her song to her chest like I might steal it or, worse, see what she’s written. I’ve scared her, which I’m used to, so I don’t apologize.

In fact, I don’t say anything.

I just… stare.

She’s beautiful.

Her eyes are an electric blue, a shade so bright and brilliant it puts the lake to shame, even with the large-framed glasses covering them. She has thick, dark lashes and brows the same color as her hair. Her lips are a dusty pink, pouty and soft- looking. She has a beauty mark on her left cheek, just below the crease of her eye.

She blinks at me, lashes fanning over her tan cheeks.

“There you are,” someone says from behind me. It’s Holly. She sweeps into the kitchen with a wide smile. She’s wearing a dress, a bit more casual than what she was wearing before, but still nice. She moves to stand behind the girl, kissing her cheek and placing her hands on the girl’s shoulders with a gentle squeeze. “And I see you’ve met our daughter, Mia.”

Mia looks at her mom, and then back at me, her cheeks red now.

“Hi, Mia,” I say.

“Hi,” she says back.

When she smiles, a dimple appears on her left cheek, just an inch below her beauty mark.

The emotion finally hits me.

Now, I am excited.