Hot Little Hands (8 page)

I cross the room and snuggle against her back. I wonder if she misses my grandfather, but instead I ask, “Will you miss me?”

“You and your acrobatics all over the flat. How could I miss that? We'll have some peace around here for a while.”

I don't say anything and she sighs.

“I remember when your grandfather and I left Kurilsk for Vladivostok. I was pregnant with your father and I didn't know when I'd see my parents or my brothers and sisters again. Leaving behind an old place for a new one is like dying. Traveling is like a little death.”

“I'm only going for six days,” I remind her.

“I know,” she says into the wall. “But when you come back, you'll be a woman of the world. You'll have been to a country your parents and grandparents have never been. You'll be more of a grown-up than a child.”

I put my arms around her and feel her belly heaving in and out. When I fall asleep I dream that I am lying on a balance beam. I have to curl over on my side and stay very still in order to not fall off. I keep waiting for the judges to disqualify me for going over time, but they don't say anything.

All the mothers cry at the airport but none of us four girls does. It's been almost a month since we found out we'd been chosen, and we are ready to go. I hug my mother, then my father, then my mother wants to hug me again. She tugs on my ear and I don't complain, because she's sad and I don't want to make her sadder.

“Don't forget to take care of Licorice,” I say, “and give him treats.”

“We won't forget,” my mum promises. “Don't forget to call us when you get there. Please make sure she calls,” she tells Coach Zhukov.

“Of course,” he says. “I've got all the parents' details.” I hand him my camera and I stand between my parents as he takes a picture of the three of us. I look at the photo on the screen. My dad has his eyes closed in it, so I delete it. Then he takes a picture of the four of us girls: Vera, Ehma, Anastasya, and me. And then it's time to go. I hug my parents again and wait for Anastasya to finish saying goodbye to her father, a tall man with a mustache and no wedding ring on. We walk to the door, and turn and wave. Then we head toward security.

I have never been on an airplane before. I get a window seat, right near the engine, and the stewardess gives me earplugs to wear if it gets too noisy. Anastasya, Ehma, and I are seated in a row of three. Vera and the adults are a few rows behind us. The sun is setting as we take off. Anastasya grabs my left hand and Ehma's right hand. She sits back and closes her eyes. “I'm crapping my heart out,” she says.

Anastasya watches
Along Came Polly.
Ehma and I watch
50 First Dates.
The English is too hard for me to follow without subtitles so I listen to the music stations. There are twenty of them. There's jazz, classical, rock 'n' roll, opera, and even a European pop station. I listen to that one for a while and then they start to play “Ya Soshla S Uma.” It's definitely t.A.T.u. singing but the words are in English, and it's called “All the Things She Said.” I can't believe it! I turn to tell the others but they're both asleep, their heads leaning against each other. I listen to the song and go through my beam routine in my head. Handstand into double salto into a one-handed straddle split.

I fall asleep without realizing it, and wake up hours later with a dry mouth. The airplane is dark now except for a few people's individual lights on overhead. Anastasya and Ehma are still asleep. They don't even wake up when I push past them to go to the bathroom.

On my way to the back of the plane, I have to step over Coach Zhukov's right foot, which is stretched out into the aisle. When I look up, I see that the three of them—Coach Zhukov, Xenia, and Vera—are all sleeping. I also notice that Coach Zhukov's hand is resting in his assistant's lap. I wonder if it's an accident, or if they're actually boyfriend–girlfriend and have kept it a secret all along.

In America there are advertisements in the airport for alcohol, banks, and Hawaii. In America, there are moving walkways in the airport, and everyone I see has a small suitcase on wheels. None of them seems to have checked in bags. They roll their hand luggage to the exit and out into the night.

We're all exhausted. We've been through airports in Moscow and Anchorage, and we girls are half asleep on our feet. We shuffle after Coach Zhukov and Xenia. The coach holds our passports and tickets, and takes them up to the customs officer when he's called. The officer looks at our passports, then over at us. He says something to Coach Zhukov and both men laugh.

“He thought you were all my daughters,” he tells us as we head for the baggage claim area, and we giggle.

“Papa, where are our bags?” Anastasya says.

“Yeah, Papa, where do we go next?” I ask.

“Come along, daughters,” he says. “It's this way.” We laugh again.

Outside, the first thing I notice is that there are yellow cabs lined up at the curb, just like the ones in the movies. The second thing I notice is the weather. It's windy and chilly. I worry for a moment that I didn't bring the right outfits with me. I decide I can wear my leotard under my clothes if I get too cold.

The conference has sent a driver to pick us up. He's standing next to a white sedan, holding a sign with Coach Zhukov's name printed on it. Xenia helps us load our bags into the trunk while the coach speaks to the driver.

“Xenia and I will follow you in a cab,” Coach Zhukov tells us as we climb in. “He knows where to go for the hotel. See you there in a few minutes, girls.”

The driver is wearing a blue-and-yellow baseball cap and a leather jacket that reminds me of Dimitri. His skin is the color of Enrique Iglesias's. (I love Enrique Iglesias.) As we drive away, I tell the other girls, “I saw Coach Zhukov touching Xenia's leg.”

“I saw that, too!” says Vera. “They were holding hands.”

“No way.”

“Uh-huh.”

The road from the airport to the hotel is a highway. There is a motel and a billboard for a radio station. Anastasya, in the passenger seat, turns to the driver and asks, “Do we travel by the animal zoo?” The rest of us giggle at the sound of her speaking English. The driver glances over and shakes his head. It's not clear whether he understands her or not. I stare at the people in the cars driving past. I see a blond girl in her twenties driving a jeep car. And a black couple in a station wagon with a baby sleeping in a baby seat in the back.

We see the San Diego skyline just before we turn off at the exit.

“Just like on September eleventh,” Ehma says.

“That was in New York,” Vera tells her.

“Yeah, but it easily could have happened here,” Ehma says.

“No, it couldn't.”

“What do you know?”

“Idiot.”

They're still arguing about it when the driver pulls over to the curb and stops the car. We're parked on a wide city street that's empty except for a few open cigarette shops and bars. The driver gets out and goes around to open the trunk. When we climb out of the car, there's a man standing on the sidewalk, holding a mobile phone. He is tanned with bleached hair, and he's wearing jeans and a tight white shirt.

“Russia?” he says in English, looking right at me.

“Uh, hello?” I try.

“You're all from Russia?” he says.

We look at one another. “Yes.”

He goes over to the driver, who places the last of our luggage on the sidewalk and then hands him a big white envelope. The blond man opens it and looks inside. He gives the driver some cash (just like the money they use on TV), and turns to us.

“Come in,” he says, tilting his head toward the building we're standing in front of. We all look away, down the block. A couple of cars approach and pass us, but neither one is a taxi.

“Coach,” I try in English. “We waiting, Mr. Zhukov.”

“Oh right, he'll come. He's on his way,” he says.

“You are Mr. Colin?” Ehma says.

“Uh-huh.” He nods. “Yep. Come on in.”

The hotel room is up four flights of stairs and is less glamorous than I had imagined. It isn't all that different from our flat in Vladivostok, really—a living room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, hallway, and a kitchen. But in this flat, there is no sofa in the living room, just white plastic chairs; no bases under the beds, just mattresses on the floor; no mother, father, or grandmother waiting for us in the kitchen, just a woman wearing glasses and a floral wraparound dress. She smiles at us, and even though I don't know her, I'm happy to see her.

“My wife,” Colin says. The woman says hello and puts two paper bags on the table.

“Take a seat,” she says. “I brought you McDonald's.”

We grin at one another as we sit down. Colin's wife opens the bags and passes around hamburgers, chicken nuggets, and fries. I unwrap my burger, take a bite of it, and keep grinning as I chew. I've had McDonald's before, but never the real McDonald's, in the country where it was invented.

While the four of us eat, Colin sits across the table and empties his envelope. Our passports are there, along with our original audition photos and the consent forms our parents signed. He opens each passport, looks at its owner, and then hands it to his wife, who slides it back into the envelope. When he opens Vera's she giggles and says, “Is me, short hairs.”

He looks at her and says, “We'll hang on to them, just to be safe. Do any of you have cellphones?” None of us does.

“The coach,” I say. “And Xenia?”

“He'll come,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is perform?” Anastasya asks.

“No,” Colin's wife says. “The performance has actually been canceled.”

“No,” I say, hoping it's just my English skills failing me, and she doesn't mean what I think she does. “Can't be.”

“Yes, I'm sorry, but you arrived too late and the gymnastics has been canceled.” Her face is stern behind her glasses.

“She doesn't know what she's talking about,” Anastasya says in Russian.

“You'll all have to pay us back for your tickets and expenses,” Colin says. They both stand up. “We'll be here tomorrow.”

“It can't be right,” Ehma says after they've gone, dipping the last of her fries in the honey mustard sauce. “The coach will know more. He'll explain it to us.”

“He probably doesn't even know yet,” Anastasya says, with a bite of burger in her mouth. “He's probably busy on the street, kissing his girlfriend, fat Xenia.” The four of us laugh.

We wander into the living room. There's no TV and nothing to do so we flop down onto the linoleum and do our stretches, practice our routines. I'm in a front split with my nose to my knee when Anastasya goes into the hallway and comes back, saying the front door is locked.

We all go to check and it's true, the door is locked, and we can't find a key anywhere in the apartment. What we do find is a condom wrapper next to one of the mattresses.

“Are you sure that's what it is?” Ehma asks, examining the little black pouch with its corner ripped away.

“Definite,” Anastasya says. “I've seen them in my dad's room.”

In the bathroom we find a hair scrunchie on the sink, a towel hanging on a hook behind the door, and a camisole draped over the edge of the tub. It's pale pink and lacy. “Cotton nylon blend,” Vera reads off the label. “Made in the Philippines.” She flings it at me and I screech. It lands on my shoulder and I throw it at Ehma, who ducks aside. I grab it again and chase her into the kitchen.

“Here, here.” I throw the camisole to Anastasya, who dangles it in Ehma's face before tossing it at Vera.

“Yuck.”

“Gross!”

After an hour, we're sleepy and we decide to go to bed. I share a mattress with Anastasya, and the others sleep in the room next door. I put my head on the pillow, lie on my side, and pull the blanket up over my ear.

“I hate this hotel,” Anastasya says. “I don't even think this is a hotel.”

“Let's not stay here tomorrow night. Let's ask the coach if we can move somewhere else.”

“Good idea.”

In the other room, one of the girls coughs, and then it's quiet.

After a few minutes, Anastasya says, “If those people expect me to pay them back for the ticket, they're crazy. There's no way my dad can afford that.”

“Same here.”

“I hate those people.”

“Same here.”

Soon her breathing gets slow and throaty. I try to sleep, too, but I'm cold. The covers are more like a bedspread than a blanket. The window looks out onto an air shaft, and there's a gap between the frame and the sill where the air's coming in. I lie there for a while and then I get up, go into the hallway, and do two cartwheels to warm myself up. I come back into the bedroom and unzip my bag. My leotard and leggings are folded on the top. Under those is my diary. I unlock it and open it to the first page.

Dear Diary,
I write with the little silver pencil.
California is freezing, brrr. I can't wait till the sun comes up.

I take out my digital camera and flip through the photos. Licorice, Mama, Papa, neighbor. Self-portraits, Baba, Dimitri's back. Group photo at airport.

“Where's Ehma and Vera?” Anastasya asks, suddenly sitting up.

“Sleeping. In the other room.”

“Oh. Is it morning yet?” She turns to the window.

“No, it's still night.”

She lies back down and falls asleep again.

Licorice, Mama, Papa, neighbor. Self-portraits, Baba, Dimitri's back. Group photo at airport. Dimitri's back, group photo at airport. Dimitri's back, group photo at airport.

Sometime before dawn, I realize that I don't have a picture of Coach Zhukov. I decide it's the first thing I'll make him do when he comes to find us.