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Description
THE GYPSY'S NIECE
Chapter 1

I have never walked on eggs before. But I think it can't be more difficult than holding two weighty suitcases while the line to get off the train inches forward at a snail's pace.
My God. I think the actual train ride took less time than this...
"Miss, please get your suitcase off my foot," someone growls grumpily behind me.
I turn around and see a man who looks like he's in his thirties, wearing a navy blue suit and tie. Beads of perspiration cling to his flushed forhead, and his hazel eyes are glaring at me.
"Oh. Excuse me."
I roll my suitcase away from where it has indeed landed on his shiny shoe.
"Damn immigrants," he mutters audibly. Aunt's back stiffens and she clutches the handle of her luggage tightly.
"What was that?" I demand, facing him.
"Nothing," he snaps, glancing at his Timex watch.
"Be careful, chavi," Aunt whispers to me warningly.
Whenever I am "chavi" to her she becomes "Lala" to me, her name. It means "tulip" in Romany. I disagree with the meaning. A tulip does not nag her niece all the freaking time.
"Whatever, Lala," I whisper back, giving her a look that I hope says, "I'm finishing this whether you like it or not".
When I face him again, I lift my chin up to him defiantly. "I'm proud of who I am, sir," I declare, well aware that my carmel-colored skin and black hair has already placed me into a specific category in his mind.
The line moves forward, and I skitter to catch up to it.
Switched from annoyed to angry snap-fast, he asks, "Why don't you go back where you came from?"
Blood boiling, I reply, "Why don't YOU? Back to England or Poland or Sweden or perhaps the Mayflower or wherever your ancestors came from? Because, let me tell you, it was not here. Unless, you're Native American, you can't get off telling people to 'go back where you came from'."
"Why, are you?"
"No, in fact, I'm not. But think well before you utter such stupid words, or you'll find yourself eating them."
His face twists in rage.
"Fu-"
The conductor walks by.
"Any trouble here?"
The man says "no" at the exact time I say "yes".
"Ma'am?" he inquires to my aunt.
She takes in a deep breath.
I know she'll cover it up. She'll say it's a misunderstanding, or some junk like that. That's the difference between Aunt and I- she's not willing to sacrifice having a bit of a mess to say what needs to be said.
"Well-"
"What can I say...(I glance at his metal name tag)Peter? Some people are just plain rude," I interrupt.
"I see." He eyes all three of us, then checks for baggage in the upper compartments. Once he's out of earshot, I tell Mr. High-and-Mighty, "Te aves yertime mander tai te yertil tut o Del."
"What the hell does that mean?!"
"You'll never know."
And he never will, because we're finally leaving the train.
And I'm finally starting my new life.

We walk past Hudson News, Starbucks, and the restrooms till we find the glass exit doors and walk out to the cracked sidewalk and the bright sun high in the sky. Aunt attempts to hail a taxi.
"That was a very foolish thing you did, Nadya," she tells me.
"That was a very righteous thing I did," I correct.
"Perhaps it was both," she compromises.
"Perhaps," I accept.
"We should have named you 'fiery' instead of 'hope'," she says, laughing softly.
I nod.
"But Nadya..."
Here we go. Aunt Lecture #52:
"We-Must-Keep-Our-Identity-Secret-You-Can't-Reveal-It-Here-Or-At-School".
"But Bibio," I whine, "Why do I have to go to school? Why can't I be homeschooled like before? Most chavis stop going after fifth grade anyway."
"Because," she says adamantly, still relentlessly trying to get a cab, "I want you to have a better education than that, Penyaki."
"From what I remember of history class at my old school, they never talk about us! They mentioned us in passing when we talked about the Holocaust, but we just learned about Anne Frank and the Jews."
We're attracting strange looks, which is to be expected. We always do when we use our mixed language of Romany and English(I call it "Romglish").
"Yes, well, the paler you are, the more people care and write about you in the history books...For the paler ones are the ones who write them," she says astutely.
I used to hate it when she spoke in riddles, but I don't mind it as much anymore, because I understand it more quickly now.
"Doesn't that bother you?"
She shrugs.
"It is what it is."
"Well, it bothers ME."
Aunt gives me a look.
"You need to learn to accept the way things are, chavi," she admonishes.
"No."
People are also staring at us because Aunt is wearing a long, red skirt with intricate designs. It whips around dramatically in the breeze.
Mythbuster on Gypsies #1:
No, the women do not always wear long, flowing skirts. However, the tradition is that our legs must be covered, so I wear jeans, too. I do have my fair share of long, flowing skirts, though.
Aunt finally hails a cab, and we shove our suitcases in the trunk. I slam the yellow lid.
When we get into the backseat, Aunt grabs her purse, pulls out a scrap of paper, and read the address to the driver.

I take in the Victorian house with an appraising eye. I love old houses, espescially this one that has a view of the ocean. Maybe I love old houses just because history is my favorite subject, but I also just like the feel of them. It's hard to explain...
As soon as I spot the cone-shaped tower-thing(well, not exactly a TOWER, but it does stick out somewhat), I point to it and exclaim, "Misto! Bibio, can that be my room?"
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever you want, chavi."
She's hauling her stuff over the stairs of the porch, so I follow suit. Swiftly, she lifts a seemingly random white floorboard with chaipped paint and grabs a gold key that's there.
"Impressive."
"Nais Tuke. I did spend quite a few afternoons here, after all. It was a huge part of my growing up..." She stares wistfully at the wrought mahagony door.
"Wait...Why wouldn't Rosa live at her Mom's house?" I ask, confused.
"Her mom died in childbirth with her," Aunt informs me rather bluntly.
"Oh..."
I feel more connected to Rosa now. My mother is dead, and my father...well, he might as well be.
Aunt turns the key, swings open the door, and steps inside our now-home.

Description
THE GYPSY'S NIECE
Chapter 1

I have never walked on eggs before. But I think it can't be more difficult than holding two weighty suitcases while the line to get off the train inches forward at a snail's pace.
My God. I think the actual train ride took less time than this...
"Miss, please get your suitcase off my foot," someone growls grumpily behind me.
I turn around and see a man who looks like he's in his thirties, wearing a navy blue suit and tie. Beads of perspiration cling to his flushed forhead, and his hazel eyes are glaring at me.
"Oh. Excuse me."
I roll my suitcase away from where it has indeed landed on his shiny shoe.
"Damn immigrants," he mutters audibly. Aunt's back stiffens and she clutches the handle of her luggage tightly.
"What was that?" I demand, facing him.
"Nothing," he snaps, glancing at his Timex watch.
"Be careful, chavi," Aunt whispers to me warningly.
Whenever I am "chavi" to her she becomes "Lala" to me, her name. It means "tulip" in Romany. I disagree with the meaning. A tulip does not nag her niece all the freaking time.
"Whatever, Lala," I whisper back, giving her a look that I hope says, "I'm finishing this whether you like it or not".
When I face him again, I lift my chin up to him defiantly. "I'm proud of who I am, sir," I declare, well aware that my carmel-colored skin and black hair has already placed me into a specific category in his mind.
The line moves forward, and I skitter to catch up to it.
Switched from annoyed to angry snap-fast, he asks, "Why don't you go back where you came from?"
Blood boiling, I reply, "Why don't YOU? Back to England or Poland or Sweden or perhaps the Mayflower or wherever your ancestors came from? Because, let me tell you, it was not here. Unless, you're Native American, you can't get off telling people to 'go back where you came from'."
"Why, are you?"
"No, in fact, I'm not. But think well before you utter such stupid words, or you'll find yourself eating them."
His face twists in rage.
"Fu-"
The conductor walks by.
"Any trouble here?"
The man says "no" at the exact time I say "yes".
"Ma'am?" he inquires to my aunt.
She takes in a deep breath.
I know she'll cover it up. She'll say it's a misunderstanding, or some junk like that. That's the difference between Aunt and I- she's not willing to sacrifice having a bit of a mess to say what needs to be said.
"Well-"
"What can I say...(I glance at his metal name tag)Peter? Some people are just plain rude," I interrupt.
"I see." He eyes all three of us, then checks for baggage in the upper compartments. Once he's out of earshot, I tell Mr. High-and-Mighty, "Te aves yertime mander tai te yertil tut o Del."
"What the hell does that mean?!"
"You'll never know."
And he never will, because we're finally leaving the train.
And I'm finally starting my new life.

We walk past Hudson News, Starbucks, and the restrooms till we find the glass exit doors and walk out to the cracked sidewalk and the bright sun high in the sky. Aunt attempts to hail a taxi.
"That was a very foolish thing you did, Nadya," she tells me.
"That was a very righteous thing I did," I correct.
"Perhaps it was both," she compromises.
"Perhaps," I accept.
"We should have named you 'fiery' instead of 'hope'," she says, laughing softly.
I nod.
"But Nadya..."
Here we go. Aunt Lecture #52:
"We-Must-Keep-Our-Identity-Secret-You-Can't-Reveal-It-Here-Or-At-School".
"But Bibio," I whine, "Why do I have to go to school? Why can't I be homeschooled like before? Most chavis stop going after fifth grade anyway."
"Because," she says adamantly, still relentlessly trying to get a cab, "I want you to have a better education than that, Penyaki."
"From what I remember of history class at my old school, they never talk about us! They mentioned us in passing when we talked about the Holocaust, but we just learned about Anne Frank and the Jews."
We're attracting strange looks, which is to be expected. We always do when we use our mixed language of Romany and English(I call it "Romglish").
"Yes, well, the paler you are, the more people care and write about you in the history books...For the paler ones are the ones who write them," she says astutely.
I used to hate it when she spoke in riddles, but I don't mind it as much anymore, because I understand it more quickly now.
"Doesn't that bother you?"
She shrugs.
"It is what it is."
"Well, it bothers ME."
Aunt gives me a look.
"You need to learn to accept the way things are, chavi," she admonishes.
"No."
People are also staring at us because Aunt is wearing a long, red skirt with intricate designs. It whips around dramatically in the breeze.
Mythbuster on Gypsies #1:
No, the women do not always wear long, flowing skirts. However, the tradition is that our legs must be covered, so I wear jeans, too. I do have my fair share of long, flowing skirts, though.
Aunt finally hails a cab, and we shove our suitcases in the trunk. I slam the yellow lid.
When we get into the backseat, Aunt grabs her purse, pulls out a scrap of paper, and read the address to the driver.

I take in the Victorian house with an appraising eye. I love old houses, espescially this one that has a view of the ocean. Maybe I love old houses just because history is my favorite subject, but I also just like the feel of them. It's hard to explain...
As soon as I spot the cone-shaped tower-thing(well, not exactly a TOWER, but it does stick out somewhat), I point to it and exclaim, "Misto! Bibio, can that be my room?"
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever you want, chavi."
She's hauling her stuff over the stairs of the porch, so I follow suit. Swiftly, she lifts a seemingly random white floorboard with chaipped paint and grabs a gold key that's there.
"Impressive."
"Nais Tuke. I did spend quite a few afternoons here, after all. It was a huge part of my growing up..." She stares wistfully at the wrought mahagony door.
"Wait...Why wouldn't Rosa live at her Mom's house?" I ask, confused.
"Her mom died in childbirth with her," Aunt informs me rather bluntly.
"Oh..."
I feel more connected to Rosa now. My mother is dead, and my father...well, he might as well be.
Aunt turns the key, swings open the door, and steps inside our now-home.