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American Drama Contemporary

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

The winter I turned fourteen, my mother asked me to do her job for her.


One night over spaghetti and meatballs, she told me about a boy in her ESL class: Ivan.


"Sweet boy, I think," she said, twisting a cyclone of noodles around her fork. "But I just can't seem to get him to talk. I thought it was just nerves. Some kids are like that, you know? Even ten-year-olds. But it's been a few months now and nothing."


"That sounds like something you should talk to the school about," I replied.


Typically, my mother never brought her work home with her. She must have known, even back then, that in the face of geography pop quizzes and hormones and my impending graduation, her troubles would fall on deaf ears.


And she was right.


At that age, I was fluent in two languages: English and sarcasm. It was the former that my mother required, the one at which I was less proficient.


"I think he might be more willing to open up if he had someone closer to his age to talk to," she said, undeterred. "Someone like you, Gia."


I took a gulp of milk and let out a long, satisfied sigh. "Thanks," I said, lancing a meatball, "but no thanks."


"I know that's not how I raised you, young lady. I taught you to think of people other than yourself."


"I'm not just thinking of myself," I told her. "I'm also thinking of me and I."


My mother sighed, but not the kind of sigh you get after a good swig of milk. It was the kind of sigh that indicated her trump card was coming.


"Ivan's mother said she'll pay you fifty dollars for each tutoring session."


And just like that she had my attention.


Of course, that was before I knew where the money was coming from.


***


At four o'clock the next Wednesday we pulled into a neighborhood on the other side of town. Ivan Volkov's house was at the end of the block. It was a two-story, Victorian, but otherwise nondescript. There were no toys in the yard or chop-shopped cars on cinder blocks like I'd been expecting. No indication of the type of family who lived inside.


The sun was starting to set behind the house as we approached the door. My mother rang the bell, and just to set the tone, I thumped the knocker twice.


The door opened halfway and out popped Ivan's mother's head. She offered my mother a gap-toothed smile as though she were an old friend. Then she nodded her head and disappeared behind the door as she pulled it open. She spoke fragilely, as though her words were made of glass: "Come, come."


The house was quiet, perfumed with a citrus smell. Mrs. Volkov brought us to the edge of the living room, then craned her neck up. In a language both beautiful and haunting, she uttered words with hard consonants and squishy vowels.


Suddenly, a door opened upstairs, producing the outline of a boy. He was dressed in all black, in an oversized fur-lined coat and one of those fuzzy ear-flap hats, which Mrs. Volkov later told me is called an ushanka. He trudged down the stairs with the urgency of a kid getting ready to attend church.


"Say hello, Ivan," his mother urged. "This is Gia." She said my name like it was a rare breed of fish.


The boy looked at me, blinked, said nothing. He did not look at my mother.


"Very sorry. He is little shy," Mrs. Volkov said. She looked from me to my mother as though she didn't know whose forgiveness to beg, whose favor to curry.


"Don't you worry," my mother assured her, patting my back. "This one here is a chatterbox. I wouldn't worry about him being shy for long."


Mrs. Volkov scrunched her brow at the word "chatterbox," but my mother's smile must've convinced her to overlook any barrier in the language. "Yes, please use kitchen table," she said to me. Then, to my mother, "Come, come," and they disappeared into the living room.


Ivan took one side of the table and I the other. Somewhere in the house a clock I couldn't see ticked away the seconds. Ivan coughed, a noise so quiet it sounded like a cat yawning.


"I'm Gia," I said, before remembering my mother covered my introduction. "Hello. Nice to meet you."


Ivan eased his hand along the fur in his jacket, and it was then that I decided we'd start from the basics. Maybe "hello" was too difficult a word for his tongue, the double-L sound too sticky, like peanut butter on the roof of your mouth. Well, there were other ways to say hello.


"Hi," I tried. "Hey. Howdy." And then, for something even a baby could do, I flashed a peace sign like the rappers on the MTV Videos and said, "Yo!"


He didn't budge. Just sat there in his chair and swung his legs around like he was on the world's slowest rollercoaster. Above us, drizzle pelted the roof. The clock ticked. Snippets of living room conversation found their way into the kitchen, my mother's voice: And how is Mr. Volkov doing?"


"He-llo," I tried, spacing the word out. "Now you try. He-llo."


Ivan retaliated by picking his nose.


"You really don't talk, do you?" I asked, and my eyes widened when he opened his mouth.


"It's about that time, you two," my mother said from behind me, before I could get a response. "Five o'clock."


And sure enough, that's what the numbers on the microwave said.


"Thank you," Mrs. Volkov said, and repeated herself when she couldn't get Ivan to say it too. Then, like a magic trick, she opened her hand and offered me a wad of cash. It was held in place by a money clip shaped like an American flag, and I could see President Hamilton's face poking out beneath it.


"What do you say, Gia?" my mother asked.


Understand: I'd had two pop quizzes that day, and after spending an hour in silence with Ivan, I wanted nothing more than to just be done with it all. That's why I made a show of things, why I popped the money clip right then and there, licked my thumb, and slowly counted off each ten dollar bill in the stack. Only then did I thank Mrs. Volkov.


If she was put off by my bad manners, she didn't show it. She only flashed her gap-toothed smile and said, "Same time next week. We are here."


"Same time next week," my mother said on the way out.


The whole way home I expected to get chewed out for my behavior. It never came. Instead, we cruised through the early twilight playing a budget version of Twenty Questions.


"How did it go?"


"Fine."


"Did he talk to you very much?"


"Nope."


"Did he talk at all?"


I shrugged.


"Hmm," my mother replied.


My eyes were closed and my mind was a million miles away when she finally spoke again.


"How did he look?" she said when we were stopped at a red light. "Ivan, that is."


I opened my eyes in time to catch myself making a face in the rearview mirror. "What do you mean, how'd he look? You saw him for yourself, didn't you?" I asked. But with the way my mother was staring, with her eyes halfway between the road and dashboard, the sarcasm didn't feel as good as I thought it would.


"Yes," she said, her voice and her mouth flatlining. The light turned green. "I suppose I did."


***


It was a little like playing a game of Uno, tutoring Ivan. As soon as I saw myself inching closer to a victory, he would pull my card and make me start over.


Every Wednesday we sat at his kitchen table working on the basics. I gave him some of my old picture books to look at. We tried simple sentences like "I work in a post office" and "Bobby starts class at 8:00." I even threw in "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."


Nothing.


Ivan remained a constant in a world of change. When winter gave way to a balmy spring, he stayed in his fur-lined jacket and ushanka. And when Wednesdays rolled around, he spoke the language he knew best: silence.


I didn't mind it. After all, Mrs. Volkov was still handing me that silly American-flag-clipped money every week just for showing up, and by then I'd saved enough to buy my own makeup and skirts.


And, truth be told, I kind of liked the silence. The way I didn't need Ivan and he didn't need me, not really, but we were stuck together like prisoners each week, listening to my voice echo off the kitchen walls and bounce around the quiet house.


For fifty bucks a week, it wasn't a bad friendship.


Always, whenever one of the lessons ended and I collected my money and returned to my mother's station wagon, there would be questions. After the first tutoring session, she refused to go inside Ivan's house. She never said why. Instead, she would spend the hour running errands and return at five o'clock on the dot.


But once I was in the shotgun seat and reaching for the belt, she'd turn into McGruff the Crime Dog, desperate to solve the mystery of what happened inside that house. Over time, Twenty Questions became more of an interrogation than a game.


"How did Ivan look?" she wondered again at the beginning of January.


"Did he say anything?" she questioned a week after Valentine's Day.


"Have you ever seen Mr. Volkov around the house?" she asked, just once, on the last Wednesday in March.


***


One day in May, during the middle of a heatwave, as we pulled into Ivan's neighborhood, my mother announced that this would be my last tutoring session. She said it offhandedly, like it was something that could possibly slip her mind.


"What do you mean?" I asked over the hum of the A/C.


She kept her eyes forward. Licked her lips. When she spoke it was in a voice I didn't quite recognize. "They're moving to a new town for Ivan's middle school." She opened her mouth to say more but then didn't. And by the time we pulled up to the sidewalk, it was already four o'clock, already too late to ask.


"Remember to thank them for their time," my mother said when I got out, and drove off before I even rang the doorbell.


"Ivan is in room," Mrs. Volkov told me, and gestured to a red door at the top of the staircase. "I go get him."


"It's okay," I said quickly. Despite the months I'd spent coming to the Volkovs', I'd never gone further than the kitchen. If they were really moving away, I wasn't going to miss my first opportunity to see a boy's room, even if it was just Ivan's. "I can go. My mom told me you were leaving and I'd like to say bye first."


Mrs. Volkov's eyes drifted upward, but she said nothing when I walked past her.


I knocked twice on Ivan's door, unsurprised when no response came. Then knocked a third time, for courtesy, before I nudged the door open. "Ivan?"


A burst of heat struck me when I stepped inside. There was no fan, no ventilation at all, even though it was over ninety degrees outside. The room was surprisingly clean, devoid of the things I'd been anticipating—action figures and Tonka trucks and glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. On a plain white desk in the corner sat the picture books and ESL practice sentences I'd given him.


He was kneeling on his bed, his knees making indents in the blue comforter, his elbows glued to the windowsill. Outside, the sun stained the front yard, the whole neighborhood. Made the air ripple like a mirage. And maybe all that light is why I didn't notice it at first, not until I knocked again and he finally turned to look at me.


I had never seen Ivan without his oversized jacket, even the week before when the temperature was in the eighties. But here he was, dressed in shorts and a plain blue T-shirt that accented the eggplant-colored bruises running down his arms. Some were big. Others were the size of a pinball. Mostly it was like a constellation; where there was one purple welt, another was sure to follow.


The practice sentences I'd brought felt heavy in my hand as Ivan turned back to the window.


The hour passed by like we were in a slow cooker, waiting for the timer to ding. More than once he caught my eye. More than once I turned away. I found myself stuttering over sentences, fumbling pronunciations, distracted.


About thirty minutes into the session, I put the worksheets aside. They were damp with sweat.


"I heard you were leaving," I said. Then, for the sake of clarity, "Moving, I mean. To go to another school."


Ivan said nothing, let the silence roil around us like the heat, so I decided to visit the picture book collection on his desk. I shuffled through the pile before selecting one with an image of two bunnies on the cover.


"She is liar."


The book hit the desk with a thud and opened to a page where one of the bunnies sat alone in a field of grass. I turned around in time to see the words come out of Ivan's mouth again.


"She is liar."


He spoke like his mother, softly, delicately, with hints of another world, another life. It was what I should've expected, if I ever expected him to talk. Where had he learned that word, anyway? "Liar" wasn't on any of the practice sheets.


"My father is nice man. He do not hurt me." He was looking straight at me when he repeated himself: "She is liar."


"Who?" I asked, breathless, though I wasn't sure if I wanted to know.


He lifted his bruised arm and pointed to something beyond the window, silently inviting me into his world. I approached him in a daze. Walking over to the bed, I knew it couldn't be my mother he was talking about. She never stayed around during these tutoring sessions. She was out at the laundromat or the grocery store. It couldn't be her.


But that's exactly where Ivan had his finger. He was circling my mother's station wagon with his pinky on the glass like it was the answer to a multiple choice question.


And as if summoned by magic, the door opened and my mother emerged carrying her purse.


We were quiet as we watched her advance to the house. She stopped by the mailbox, rifling in her bag, until her hand resurfaced holding a wad of bills stuck together by a money clip shaped like an American flag. She approached the front door, disappeared under the porch awning.


"She is liar," Ivan kept saying, as my mother retreated to the car minutes later. "My father is nice man. She is liar."


My head was spinning. Sweat pooled under my armpits. I couldn't stop myself from stealing another glance at Ivan's bruises, no more than I could stop myself from remembering my mother asking me about his father a few months before. I understood then, and only then, why Ivan had to move away, why my mother had really asked me to talk to him all these months. It all felt like a pop quiz you never wanted to know the answers to.


Ivan's words followed me as I picked myself up from the windowsill and headed toward the door, down the stairs, past the living room where Mrs. Volkov was talking into the landline, speaking words I couldn't understand, and out into the sunshine.


My mother startled when I tapped the window, then unlocked the car.


"What happened?" she asked, glancing at the radio clock. It was only 4:38. "You're done already?"


"They're busy with their moving," I said. And even to my ear it sounded like I could be one of the Volkovs, like my words were made of glass. I knew they would shatter if I said anything more.


"Oh," my mother said. She wrapped her fingers around the key in the ignition but didn't start the car. She turned to face me, study my features. "Did you get your money from Mrs. Volkov?"


She had never asked this before.


"She said she had a special gift for you for all your hard work and help with Ivan."


In my mind's eye, I imagined my mother holding that stack of money—her own money. Had it seemed larger than before? Was it more than fifty dollars?


I decided it didn't matter, that Ivan and Mrs. Volkov would probably need that money more, wherever they were going. 


"Yes," I managed. Not "yeah," not "yep." Just yes.


Peace returned to my mother's face as the engine purred to life. It was the only sound in Ivan's quiet neighborhood. "I'm glad."


And for the last time, we pulled away from the memory of Ivan's house. My mother kept her eyes on the road the whole time, but just once, as we passed his mailbox, I allowed myself one look back, and my eyes found Ivan's.


He knelt on his bed and watched us drift farther into the distance. Just as we rounded the corner, right before he was out of sight, he nodded his head, the same way his mother had the first time I ever showed up to their house. And for all the ways I'd tried to teach Ivan how to say hello, it felt like he was returning the favor. Like he was trying to teach me a new way of saying goodbye.

December 23, 2022 11:27

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43 comments

Riel Rosehill
20:10 Dec 23, 2022

Hi Zaddy! Once again I'm procastinating here whilst struggling to finish my story to post today... (low expectations, please!) This story was masterful. I don't know if it's because I've not been reading your stories so frequently as of late, but once again I'm so impressed by your writing. I thought Gia's voice was spot on for a snarky teenage girl, and the story was intriguind from the start. There were so many questions I wanted answered --- where did the money come from, why Ivan wouldn't speak? I am going to re-read so I can collect...

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Zack Powell
20:41 Dec 23, 2022

😱😱😱 You're shooting for a new story today!? I know you said low expectations but...👀 after reading your amazing one from the other week, I have even higher expectations. 😅 (I know, I'm so cruel!) I'm sure whatever it is, it's going to be just fine. Super excited for it! This was definitely one of those stories that went over 3,000 words that I had to pare down (so many scenes thrown in the dumpster 😭). Wanted to leave a few puzzles pieces in here for the readers to think about and consider. Might have ended up leaving too many. 😂 Such is th...

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Riel Rosehill
23:24 Dec 23, 2022

Too cruel! My story is so unpolished... (had no beta reads and even I couldn't edit through properly - it's late and I'm too tired. this one (but it's fine because the whole series will be edited eventually to fit nicely together - for now I'm just working on getting this plot down, little by little x"D) I can't believe you are doing two - can't wait to see the second one, I'm cheering you on! Now, back to what I'm actually here for, to finish my review :D Stuff I loved: "And she was right. At that age, I was fluent in two languages: En...

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Zack Powell
00:50 Dec 24, 2022

Before anything: I cannot believe you thought your story was gonna need a "low expectations" warning! Absolutely not. Nuh uh. That was GOOD. ---> K, stepping off my soapbox now. Always love hearing your favorite line(s), my dear, because they usually are my favorites too. Case in point: The "flatlining" line and the constellation bit. Did anyone ever tell you that you have good taste? 😎 In regards to the significant thing (disclaimer: I finished writing this at 3:28 in the morning, so it's entirely possible that I threw out my clues whe...

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Susan Catucci
20:45 Dec 28, 2022

Hi Zack - I enjoyed this read very much - the characters are well realized and full. The scenes are alive with tension and suspense, while Gia's teenage angst attitude rounds out the encounters and keeps everything from being too dark to enjoy. I had questions at the end: Was Gia's mother having an affair with Mr. Volkov? Who was abusing Ivan throughout, so that he wore the cover-up coat season after season? Did Gia's mother pay for the sessions out of guilt? Ooooh, I want those puzzle pieces so that I have the whole story clear! Th...

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Aeris Walker
18:18 Dec 25, 2022

Ah, a good old Zack story to cap the year. Like everything you write, these characters feel like real people--someone you've plucked from the middle school down the street or from the check-out line at the grocery store. Gia is a bit self-absorbed and motivated by the promise of a pay-out, but once she's sitting down with Ivan, she is a patient and kind person. Like many teens, there's a lot more to her under the surface. This sentence was effective and strategic: "Of course, that was before I knew where the money was coming from." I mean, t...

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J.C. Lovero
14:35 Dec 25, 2022

Hey there penpal! Just popped in to read your other story for this week. I admire your ability to write two stories for Reedsy in one week. That's awesome. I'm so glad I came over to read this one. The story felt so harmless at the beginning with two teenagers and tutoring. But then you build up that suspense, and I'm zooming by this story trying to figure out what the heck is going on. By the end, I was in complete awe. Your ending was exquisite, by the way. You have such elegance with the English language that I wish I could replicate l...

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Suma Jayachandar
07:12 Dec 24, 2022

Zack, This story begins on a deceptively harmless note,( except for Gia's self-centredness) but soon makes the tentacles of the suspense grip the reader's mind and poke it. By the time I reached the end where a shocking half-reveal is done, my jaw touched the floor. God! I missed this fabulous writing. Thanks for sharing!

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Zack Powell
17:05 Dec 24, 2022

Suma! Always a pleasure to get your thoughts on a piece. Tried out a few new things with this story in terms of stakes and tension/suspense, so it's nice to hear how that landed with readers. Appreciate your wellspring of generosity, and I wish you happy holidays heading into the new year.

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Suma Jayachandar
04:57 Dec 25, 2022

Merry Christmas🎄 and Happy New Year 🎇

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Naomi Onyeanakwe
19:11 Dec 23, 2022

Hi Zack! From the beginning, or from the moment they got to Ivan's house for the first time, there was this somewhat disturbing quality to the story. And as I kept going on, I started feeling physically uncomfortable, and anxious about what was to come. And I think that's what makes this story really good, the fact that the reader can actively feel the intensity. I'm still not so sure what happened here, and I'm going to read it again to fully make sense of it, but this was good. And a nice take on the prompt. Well done, and Merry Christmas ...

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Zack Powell
20:29 Dec 23, 2022

Naomi, thank you! Suspense is my absolute worst genre (well, I mean, Sci-Fi, but we don't talk about Sci-Fi here), so it's nice to hear that there was something "off" about the characters' situation here. As awful as it sounds, knowing someone was physically uncomfortable reading this is what I was going for here with a story of this type of climax, so double thanks! Merry Christmas to you as well, and hopefully I'll see your name again one way or another before 2022 ends!

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Naomi Onyeanakwe
09:49 Dec 24, 2022

Yes, we do not talk about sci-fi here. I feel the exact same way lol. I also really hope you'll see my name here “one way or the other” before the year ends. You're welcome, Zack, and good luck with the contest!

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Wendy Kaminski
17:43 Dec 23, 2022

Incredible story, Zack. The slow reveals which suddenly pounced. The unresolved issue at the end, which is something discomfiting to readers like myself used to an entertainment industry that caters to happy endings, is particularly effective in this case. I was glad for the dark levity: "she'd turn into McGruff the Crime Dog, desperate to solve the mystery of what happened inside that house." :) I really enjoyed this story - thank you for sharing it!

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Zack Powell
21:18 Dec 23, 2022

Thank you, Wendy! Reveals and resolutions are not my forte, so it's nice to hear that they were effective here. And the McGruff line made me giggle writing it, so I'm glad someone else appreciated it. Thanks again!

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13:10 Dec 23, 2022

Wow, this was intense. Great story though, and have a very merry Christmas!! :D

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Zack Powell
20:25 Dec 23, 2022

Thank you, Ms. Wafflez! A merry Christmas to you as well!

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Zatoichi Mifune
16:14 Jun 15, 2023

If I was an emoji right now, I would be a crying emoji. (Hey, that sounds like a story-inspiring line. No stealing, it's mine. ;) That was just... No words. No words.

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Cindy Tian
13:31 Jan 30, 2023

Hi Zack! I have to tell you that your story is very good, and I love the way you write...although I couldn't quite piece together the puzzle by myself since my brain refused to work. Also, I would love to read the deleted scenes if you decided to post them someday :)) Some little questions: - Why did Ivan say that his father is a nice man even after he beat him? - Did Ivan and his mother move in the end? - Why did Gia's mother want her to take the money so much in the end? Okay, maybe they are not little...I'm really sorry for that......

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Zack Powell
16:47 Jan 30, 2023

Thank you so much, Cindy! Totally made my day with this comment. This is one of those stories that I plan on coming back to so I can add those deleted scenes and hopefully address all those little questions. But until that rewrite happens, here's the quick answer for how I'm thinking about things: - Ivan, being as young as he is, twisted the definition of love and wanted to defend his father, even though he was being abused. He just didn't know any better. - Ivan and his mother do end up moving away because of the drama of this event. - Gia...

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Amanda Lieser
23:43 Jan 10, 2023

Hi Zack! You are such an incredibly wizard with words. I was shocked by this story and also utterly heartbroken. I loved the way you described the power of money and the power of language. It felt like a story straight from law and order SVU. I also thought you captured this young narrator’s voice beautifully. Nice job!

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Zack Powell
02:46 Jan 11, 2023

Thank you, Amanda! This is a story I'm going to revisit and revise in the future, so it's nice to know your thoughts on it. Since I've already read your story from this week and given you feedback there, don't hesitate to let me know if there's another story of yours that you want me to read and supply feedback.

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Laurel Hanson
17:51 Dec 29, 2022

This is beautiful. It draws the reader in to the narrator's limited world view, keeps the reader wanted to know more, unravel the mystery, and end with such poignancy. I love that all is not revealed. The ambiguity or the situation mirrors reality. Well done.

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Zack Powell
22:45 Dec 29, 2022

Thanks for this, Laurel. Just came from your hilarious story of the week, so this feels like the biggest compliment. Was really debating whether or not the ambiguous/mysterious ending worked here or not, so I'm glad to know that someone appreciated that not everything was revealed and wrapped up in a nice, simple package. Wanted people to think a little bit on this one, as you've done. Thanks again!

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Laurel Hanson
13:19 Dec 30, 2022

Good lord, I just looked at my comment above and am beyond horrified at the typos. I'm currently riding the covid fever so I am not in good form. Glad you understood what I was trying to say! :)

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Wally Schmidt
17:05 Dec 29, 2022

I figured out early on where the money was coming from, but wowie-the tension was still incredible, building & building and I couldn't stop reading. So many great lines to describe what's going on: "He was circling my mother's station wagon with his pinky on the glass like it was the answer to a multiple choice question." "He trudged down the stairs with the urgency of a kid getting ready to attend church." "She spoke fragilely, as though her words were made of glass.." Powerful writing! Going to put you, writer Zack, on my "to read" list!

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Zack Powell
21:42 Dec 29, 2022

Thank you very much, Wally! Was wondering if anyone would guess early on that the mom was actually the one supplying the money, so it's nice to know someone caught on to the plan. Very much appreciate the line shout-outs, too. Means a lot coming from someone who has two shortlists in just four stories. Thanks again!

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Marty B
17:10 Dec 28, 2022

I was slow to get into the story until the great transition ‘Of course, that was before I knew where the money was coming from.’ then I was hooked! great characters and great suspense!

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Zack Powell
21:37 Dec 29, 2022

Thanks, Marty! That line almost didn't make it into the story, but I thought it needed more of a hook, so I'm glad to know that it did its job.

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Edward Latham
10:36 Dec 28, 2022

Delightful writing Zack. One of my favourite things about this is how you captured the voice of Gia so precisely. The self-absorbed mindset and the disinterested in others' views came across so well. The ending where we get a taste of the reveal but are also left to come up with our own conclusions gives the story a kind of ethereal, classic quality. Nice stuff.

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Michał Przywara
01:30 Dec 28, 2022

This starts off very differently from where it ends up. Initially, it's pretty cheery, almost goofy - largely due to the good-natured sarcastic teen. When we meet Ivan perpetually in an ushanka while indoors, it takes on a bit of a quirky bent. I was feeling Addams family. But by the end, things take a much more sinister tone. We seem to have an accusation of physical abuse, which is denied by the victim. Indeed, this carries a lot of weight, since it's the only thing he says. That Gia's mother was looking out for a student makes sense. I'm...

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Helen A Smith
11:04 Dec 26, 2022

A vivid story in which the characters jumped out of the page. The unanswered questions make it even more intriguing. I’m thinking it’s the girl’s mother who is punishing Ivan for not speaking, a powerful twist. The characters jump out of the page. The silent boy and the moody daughter are a great contrast. Both are not what they appear and it’s the layers beneath that hold the reader.

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Rebecca Miles
07:27 Dec 26, 2022

These are my favourite sort of sinister stories: all seems well, normal, and then the first creases begin to disturb that too smooth surface. I love Ishiguro; he's such a master of this style. Your story reminded me of the opening to Never let me go where the unease builds drop by slow poisonous drop. Glad to see you back on Reedsy.

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Rama Shaar
05:41 Dec 26, 2022

I swear I felt such anxiety, I wanted to throw up! This is absolutely haunting. The description of the accents and the settings were perfect! My only critique is that we don't understand what really happened and what the motive is. All in all, great, engaging, thrilling, suspenseful writing that you feel you can't look away or even exhale!

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Kelsey H
05:26 Dec 26, 2022

I love the dialogue between mother and daughter in the beginning, it felt very realistic, and Gia's sarcastic narration was entertaining. I was a bit confused as to why she expected to see cars on blocks outside Ivan's house, but then I thought maybe to insinuate a rough neighbourhood? -My mother rang the bell, and just to set the tone, I thumped the knocker twice. - I love little actions like this which give an idea of the persons nature. You wrote a great character in Gia, for much of the story she came across as self-absorbed, however ...

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Zack Powell
07:24 Dec 29, 2022

A belated thank you, Kelsey! Glad to hear that Gia's character came through (she was actually based on my awful, snotty 14-year-old self, so writing the sarcasm/self-absorbed aspects was like second nature). And you guessed it: The cars on blocks was meant to imply that she might've thought Ivan was from a bad neighbourhood. Love your interpretation of the ending, that Gia is still unable to understand, even when Ivan starts speaking the same language. Wish I'd made that connection myself while writing this. Might've ended up with a slightl...

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