Gamer - страница 7

“You little troublemaker!” I said, trying to tickle her.

She laughed and fought me off. In the scuffle, my hand caught her somewhere it shouldn’t. I pulled it away at once, and we both froze.

“Enjoy that?” she asked seriously, almost accusingly. I already felt ashamed and embarrassed by the clumsy accident.

“Inna, I… It was an accident…” I couldn’t put any more words together. All I knew was that my cheeks were burning.

“Meet my parents first. Then you can start getting fresh!” she said so sternly that it took me a moment to notice her smile.

Once I realized she was joking, I could finally breathe. Inna laughed, and I joined in. When we’d calmed down a little, we walked on.

“For you, I’d meet every parent in town!” I boasted.

“Just mine will do for now!” Inna turned serious. “But don’t worry. We’ll find you some more motivation!”

She started laughing again. This time, I wasn’t laughing. I wanted to find that motivation. Besides, the joking was over as far as I was concerned: we’d reached her gate. It was an ordinary wooden house with a small vegetable garden in the yard. The fence around the property was about eight inches taller than me. Inna’s father was waiting in the yard.

“Nikolai Stepanovich!” her dad said, holding out his hand.

He was a man of average height, wearing a striped sailor’s shirt and old sweatpants. His dark hair was going gray, and his beard had been left to grow a little untidily. He’d probably been working in the vegetable garden before we arrived. Something about him reminded me of a truck driver in an old Russian movie.

“Andrey!” I shook his hand and stood there, not knowing what to do with my smile.

“Come on inside. Lyuda’s got everything ready,” Nikolai Stepanovich said, ushering us in.

I was a little embarrassed that they’d prepared for my visit. You didn’t go to all this trouble to meet an ordinary friend. It suggested a long conversation, and I wasn’t ready for one.

“Mom, this is Andrey. Andrey, this is Lyudmila Zakharovna.”

In my confusion, I held out my hand. Lyudmila Zakharovna shook it as though that were exactly what I was supposed to do. She wore a formal dress, her curly, dark-blond hair neatly styled. A little girl peeked out from behind her.

“And this is Alina!” Inna smiled at the child and picked her up. Alina looked at me for a few seconds, then clung to her sister and buried her face in her shoulder, making it clear to the family that she was scared of me.

I was no good with children. The moment I was left alone with one, the conversation died. I never knew what to ask or what to play. Luckily, nobody expected me to do that now.

We sat down at the table. Inna showed me my place. Apparently they’d planned that part too. As we settled in, the head of the household appeared, now wearing black pants and a gray T-shirt. The gardening clothes were gone.

The table was set with a tea service for four, plates of candy, spiced cookies, and sweet rolls. Lyudmila Zakharovna brought in a hot pie. Everything in the kitchen was simple and somehow solid: the dishes, the curtains, the table itself. I thought of Inna’s dresses and realized how perfectly they belonged here. As her parents took their seats, we exchanged glances and tried to smile as if nothing special were happening.

“Well, tell us! How’s school?” her mother asked as she settled Alina into her high chair.