Toothless Tiger
When we got back, a skinny figure wearing all black was standing by the door. All black, in this weather? I didn’t take much interest in them, preparing to run to my room and scribble out some of my frustration into a song, but when we finally trudged up the long driveway and reached the figure, all plans of a song flooded quickly out of my head. The girl was tall and willowy, with shoulder-length tousled curls and a short choppy fringe. On anyone else it would have looked ridiculous, but something about her made it look flawless. She was wearing a bunched black dress, all over frills and dangling fabric, and her mouth was painted a deep, dark red. All of this was hypnotising in itself, but when my eyes drifted up to meet hers I felt as if someone had thrown a football at my chest and all the wind was knocked out of my body. Her eyes were blue – no, blue doesn’t fully describe them They were electric, they were alive, turquoise and green swirling around like a crystal ball. They looked like a stream running in a forest that no human has ever crossed before, full of mystery.
My momentary speechlessness allowed Mother to bundle past me and shake hands with the girl. “It’s to nice to meet you,” she said haughtily. I noted with disdain that she subtly affected her voice to sound more upper-class. She was most likely taken aback with the girl’s somewhat scruffy appearance. “I’m so sorry, I thought the agency was sending a man, Miss…”
“Zamolodchikova. It’s Yekaterina. But, uh, Katya’s fine. And yes, they were going to, but he broke his leg a couple of days ago and didn’t have a replacement. I was around, looking for a gig, so I said I’d do it,” she replied, ending on a wide smile. I was pleasantly surprised to hear an American accent – we hadn’t heard one of those since Father died five years ago and we moved from Wisconsin to England. Mother seemed similarly taken aback.
“That’s an… interesting name. But you’re American?” She questioned, pressing her immaculately painted lips together. I rolled my eyes, knowing how she’d heard the foreign-sounding name and her upper-class Socialist alarm bells were ringing. I already felt defensive of this girl, and hated the idea of Mother disapproving of her. I turned my back and watched William and Charlotte draw shapes in the dust of the front drive with a stick.
“I was born to Russian parents in Boston, ma’am. They didn’t feel the need to stick around, so they named me and both kicked the bucket. But I’ve been in Boston my whole life. American first, Russian second.” Katya rebuffed, ending the statement so formally and rehearsed it sounded like a salute. I snorted slightly and Katya caught my eye, a tiny smirk on her lips, and I felt a jab of adrenaline shoot through to the pit of my stomach. At least Mother seemed satisfied.
“Oh, thank goodness! Even with detenté, you never can be too careful!” She chortled in her false, tinkling laugh. My skin crawled in irritation. “Now, you’re an experienced gardener?”
Katya nodded cheerfully.
“Lovely. Beatrice will show you to your room so you can unpack and freshen up, and then I’ll show you what I want doing.”