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Description
THE GYPSY’S NIECE
CHAPTER TWO

The floor has a perfectly square, rich burgundy carpet, smack-dab in the middle of it. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, dripping with crystal(glass?) tears that emanate rainbow prisms of color on the smooth walls.
Yes, there is a chandelier in the entrance of my new house.
A fucking CHANDELIER.
There is also a bookshelf pushed against the left wall, and I run to it, dropping my suitcases without a care. I skim the titled and run my finger over the spines, hearing their living, breathing hearts. Hundred of characters, beckoning in undulating voices, begging me to know their stories.,..
Aunt walks ahead of me, knowing to let me be: I can get rather preoccupied around books, which is why I always buy them alone, otherwise people get annoyed.
I see books that are obviously published somewhat recently to very recently(To Kill A Mockingbird, Sword at Sunset, The Fey: The Sacrifice, some Danielle Steele…), and others are leather bound and obviously quite old(Great Expectations, Pride and Prejudice, Dracula…).
I can probably look through them more closely later…
Grudgingly, I make my way upstairs.

Indeed, from where I’m standing, the ceiling is like the inside of an ice-cream cone. The one striking difference is the color: opposite sides are deep violet and deep blue. Though no paint could ever capture the true twilight against morning, this ceiling gets pretty damn close.
Even though the room’s open and pretty, it seems creepy, somehow. Someone used to sleep here. Someone used to turn on that beaded lamp on the bedside table, and now they’re dead. At least the drawers of the dresser were empty when I checked, but who knows what’s in the closet? Or under that huge queen-sized four-poster bed?
Oh, right, I guess I will.
Weird…
I go downstairs to see my aunt, because I want to evade THAT possibility as long as humanly possible…

She’s sitting in the dining room, her hands clasped around a mug, tendrils of steam curling lazily. I assume it’s tea, since a copper kettle is on the stove, and the room smells of jasmine)the only kind she drinks).
“Si tut bocklo*?” she asks me.
“Yeah, all I’ve eaten were those potato chips.”
Aunt gets up and opens the fridge.
“Won’t all that be bad now?”
“Really, Nadya. Rosa already took all her Grandmama’s habben* and got us new stuff. She’s considerate that way. I told you that. Listen next time.”
Testy, tired, and starving, I snap, “Well, excuse me for BREATHING.”
Aunt slams down the loaf of bread she’s gotten out(well, you can’t really SLAM Sara Lee’s soft bread, but you the idea), and says in a low, even voice, “Av akai!*”
Somehow, when she speaks Romany when pissed, Aunt is way scarier.
I walk over to her. She holds my chin and lifts it so I have to look her dead-straight in the eye.
“Nadya Bashalde, save that self-righteous, smart-ass anger for when you most need it- when it’s IMPORTANT. If you say stuff like that for everything, it won’t matter as much.”
The thing is, I know she’s right.
“I know, Bibio*. I’m sorry.”
Dropping her hand from my chins she says, “That’s all I ask, chavi*.”
“Correcting Jerkface on the train was important.”
“You know what? I daresay you’re right, even though I wish you would be more careful sometimes. And you made the point better that I ever would have- but there’s a reason God made some people witty and true.”
She laughs and puts her hand on her stomach. “Just like there’s a reason He gave me all this fat.”
“You are NOT fat,” I state for the umpteenth time. “You are voluptuous.”
“Whatever, Nadya.”
After she’s finished putting two slices of bread in the toaster, I ask her, “Doesn’t this weird you out at all? Because I am officially weirded out.”
She nods. “Of course. But LIFE is weird, my Penyaki*. You just have to make something out of the weirdness.
“Do we…need to, like, give anything away? Or has Rosa done that? Does Rosa have her Sumadji*?”
“Don’t worry about that, chavi*.”

Later we completely devour our toast and jam.
Just for good measure, I remind her, “I am NOT going to high school.”
“Yes, actually, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Shut up, Nadya.”
Good grief, we sound like an old married couple.
When I mention this to her, she swats me on the head.
I think my Bibio* needs a man.

Sitting cross-legged on the foot of my bed, dressed in my comfy flannel pajamas, I glance at my watch. It is midnight, and, wimp that I am, I’m still having an elusive staring contest with the closet.
Guess who’s winning?
God, this is so stupid. What’s the worse that could possibly happen? I mean, even if there’s a skeleton in there or something(unlikely, I know, but STILL), it’s not like it can do anything to me. My life is not some cheesy rental film which is supposed to be a “horror” movie(the only way that fits, I have found, is when used sarcastically, as in: “The horror! The HORROR!” accompanied with an eye roll and a case of pretend swooning).
I decide to do reverse psychology on myself, a JedI-mind trick, if you will. “Oh, I guess you can’t do it. I guess you’re too AFRAID to do it. I guess you’re not as tough as you thought you were, HUH?”
I’m proud to say this works, and ashamed to say that despite myself, I poen the door with some trepidation.
In there is just a few boxes.
Puh-lease. I was scared of this? Pssh. I don’t know which girl you speak of, but it’s certainly not me.
I take the lid off the box that says, “LETTERS THOMAS WAR”. It seems to hold secrets that are waiting to exude…
I was planning on reading the first book in that series “The Fey” tonight(even the first sentence sounds promising: “The little girl slammed into Jewel at full run, then slid and fell on wet cobblestone”), but I think it can wait…

Description
THE GYPSY’S NIECE
CHAPTER TWO

The floor has a perfectly square, rich burgundy carpet, smack-dab in the middle of it. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, dripping with crystal(glass?) tears that emanate rainbow prisms of color on the smooth walls.
Yes, there is a chandelier in the entrance of my new house.
A fucking CHANDELIER.
There is also a bookshelf pushed against the left wall, and I run to it, dropping my suitcases without a care. I skim the titled and run my finger over the spines, hearing their living, breathing hearts. Hundred of characters, beckoning in undulating voices, begging me to know their stories.,..
Aunt walks ahead of me, knowing to let me be: I can get rather preoccupied around books, which is why I always buy them alone, otherwise people get annoyed.
I see books that are obviously published somewhat recently to very recently(To Kill A Mockingbird, Sword at Sunset, The Fey: The Sacrifice, some Danielle Steele…), and others are leather bound and obviously quite old(Great Expectations, Pride and Prejudice, Dracula…).
I can probably look through them more closely later…
Grudgingly, I make my way upstairs.

Indeed, from where I’m standing, the ceiling is like the inside of an ice-cream cone. The one striking difference is the color: opposite sides are deep violet and deep blue. Though no paint could ever capture the true twilight against morning, this ceiling gets pretty damn close.
Even though the room’s open and pretty, it seems creepy, somehow. Someone used to sleep here. Someone used to turn on that beaded lamp on the bedside table, and now they’re dead. At least the drawers of the dresser were empty when I checked, but who knows what’s in the closet? Or under that huge queen-sized four-poster bed?
Oh, right, I guess I will.
Weird…
I go downstairs to see my aunt, because I want to evade THAT possibility as long as humanly possible…

She’s sitting in the dining room, her hands clasped around a mug, tendrils of steam curling lazily. I assume it’s tea, since a copper kettle is on the stove, and the room smells of jasmine)the only kind she drinks).
“Si tut bocklo*?” she asks me.
“Yeah, all I’ve eaten were those potato chips.”
Aunt gets up and opens the fridge.
“Won’t all that be bad now?”
“Really, Nadya. Rosa already took all her Grandmama’s habben* and got us new stuff. She’s considerate that way. I told you that. Listen next time.”
Testy, tired, and starving, I snap, “Well, excuse me for BREATHING.”
Aunt slams down the loaf of bread she’s gotten out(well, you can’t really SLAM Sara Lee’s soft bread, but you the idea), and says in a low, even voice, “Av akai!*”
Somehow, when she speaks Romany when pissed, Aunt is way scarier.
I walk over to her. She holds my chin and lifts it so I have to look her dead-straight in the eye.
“Nadya Bashalde, save that self-righteous, smart-ass anger for when you most need it- when it’s IMPORTANT. If you say stuff like that for everything, it won’t matter as much.”
The thing is, I know she’s right.
“I know, Bibio*. I’m sorry.”
Dropping her hand from my chins she says, “That’s all I ask, chavi*.”
“Correcting Jerkface on the train was important.”
“You know what? I daresay you’re right, even though I wish you would be more careful sometimes. And you made the point better that I ever would have- but there’s a reason God made some people witty and true.”
She laughs and puts her hand on her stomach. “Just like there’s a reason He gave me all this fat.”
“You are NOT fat,” I state for the umpteenth time. “You are voluptuous.”
“Whatever, Nadya.”
After she’s finished putting two slices of bread in the toaster, I ask her, “Doesn’t this weird you out at all? Because I am officially weirded out.”
She nods. “Of course. But LIFE is weird, my Penyaki*. You just have to make something out of the weirdness.
“Do we…need to, like, give anything away? Or has Rosa done that? Does Rosa have her Sumadji*?”
“Don’t worry about that, chavi*.”

Later we completely devour our toast and jam.
Just for good measure, I remind her, “I am NOT going to high school.”
“Yes, actually, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Shut up, Nadya.”
Good grief, we sound like an old married couple.
When I mention this to her, she swats me on the head.
I think my Bibio* needs a man.

Sitting cross-legged on the foot of my bed, dressed in my comfy flannel pajamas, I glance at my watch. It is midnight, and, wimp that I am, I’m still having an elusive staring contest with the closet.
Guess who’s winning?
God, this is so stupid. What’s the worse that could possibly happen? I mean, even if there’s a skeleton in there or something(unlikely, I know, but STILL), it’s not like it can do anything to me. My life is not some cheesy rental film which is supposed to be a “horror” movie(the only way that fits, I have found, is when used sarcastically, as in: “The horror! The HORROR!” accompanied with an eye roll and a case of pretend swooning).
I decide to do reverse psychology on myself, a JedI-mind trick, if you will. “Oh, I guess you can’t do it. I guess you’re too AFRAID to do it. I guess you’re not as tough as you thought you were, HUH?”
I’m proud to say this works, and ashamed to say that despite myself, I poen the door with some trepidation.
In there is just a few boxes.
Puh-lease. I was scared of this? Pssh. I don’t know which girl you speak of, but it’s certainly not me.
I take the lid off the box that says, “LETTERS THOMAS WAR”. It seems to hold secrets that are waiting to exude…
I was planning on reading the first book in that series “The Fey” tonight(even the first sentence sounds promising: “The little girl slammed into Jewel at full run, then slid and fell on wet cobblestone”), but I think it can wait…