HOME | DD

Description
The Gypsy's Niece

CHAPTER 5

                                                                                                                                                                          August 11, 1992,

                                                                                                                                                                          Wednesday



Dear Nadya,

            I miss you a lot

            I know that's something you're supposed to reserve for the end of the letter, but I wanted to tell you straight off the bat.

            Lunch break at Mom's store is so lonely without you, you have no idea. We are the only ones in the universe who appreciate the beauty of Coke, Oreos, and a poppy-seed bagel with cream cheese. My Mom just rolls her eyes at it, used to it, but everyone else looks at me like I'm a freak.

            I've taken to pretending you're here, imagining what light you would look best in. Yes, that's me, the photographer. Well, also the wannabe novelist-poet. But, as you very well know, only my photos have actually gotten published (albeit I never told them my age in the teen art magazine, but still). I'm too chicken to submit my writings.

            You were always the artist.

            Sorry. I mean you 'are' the artist. You're not dead, thankfully, so I don't know why I'm referring to you in past tense. You're just not- HERE.

            Thanks again for the portrait you left me for a going-away present(though I wasn't the one going away, but whatever). I still think you made me look way prettier than I actually am.

            You tell me no, I'm just being modest. Also that you were just “accentuating my best features', which is the SAME THING, Nadya.

            I had to deal with the wicked Lydia Pearson, ex-girlfriend of Gunther, as  you know. IT was terrible I'll describe it to you in its vivid wretchedness.

            So, the second she comes in, I stiffen, prey to predator. I swear that girl is like a snake, with her lithe, impossibly skinny body, sneering always lip-glossed mouth, sharp little nose, perfectly clear scales(ahem- I mean SKIN), straight, poison-striped(ahem- I mean HIGHLIGHTED) blonde hair, and narrowed green contact-lens color grass-green slits(ahem- I mean EYES), which were fixed on me with malice.

            Honestly, I don't know WHY Gunther ever went out wwith her. Oh, right, now I remember: Lydia was #2(just behind her gorgeous goddess-like best friend and partner in evil, Jessica Martin) on the male school-wide list that was passed around in homeroom of Girls to Fuck. I hope Gunther hasn't, you know. He SAYS he didn't'

            Anyway, I'll stop now, before I get swallowed up by my insecurities.

            So, she strolls in, and grabs every size zero short skirt and low little pink or striped tank top she can get her filthy hands on, then walks up to me (baxtalo*, baxtalo* me!) and demands a dressing room.

            Now, Constanta, you’re probably thinking, I'm sure she didn't actually DEMAND for one'

            But no, she did. Wanna know how I know?

            Now, this is verbatim, and remember it as a classic line in great literature;

            'I demand a dressing room.'

            Touche.

            I smiled as genuinely as I could manage under the circumstances, handed her a key, and chirped, 'Here you go. Only eight items per dressing room, miss.'

            She narrowed her slits and hissed, 'Cut the crap, Constantinople,' bestowing me once again with her oh-so affectionate nickname. Then she flung some extra clothes at me and entered her designated dressing room, carrying exactly nine items of clothing with her.

            Nine.

            Hmmm. Do you suppose that was on purpose?

            Naaaah.

            She came out in a dress, a skintight red number. And when I say skintight, jeepers creepers, I DO mean skintight. I could see the fabric straining, boobs bulging. It was so tight I could see patches of fat on a skeleton-esque girl, and it was disturbing. I had no doubt it would be riding up her ass at least somewhat, and when she did a 360 my suspicions were confirmed.

            'How do I look?'

            How did she LOOK?

            You see, there were so many ways I fantasized answering this.

            'Well, you look like if you pass any gas whatsoever you'll go shooting out of your dress straight to the fucking moon'

            'Well, you look like you need to east less white-girl found. You know the stuff. Cut down on the refined white sugars, 7up, Sprite, Vanilla Lattes, pink-frosting confectionary cookies, sugar donuts, clam chowder, cream of chicken soup, artery-clogging nasty ranch dressing, artery-clogging mayo, and artery-clogging whipped cream.'

            'Well, no WONDER Miss Beauty Queen is still an (alleged) virgin- if this is how tight you wear your underclothes, your myriad of boyfriends probably couldn't even peel your panties off.'

            Unfortunately, I snapped back to reality, where she was looking at me expectantly.

            'You look great!' I chirped again in my employee-to-customer lingo. 'We probably have one in a size up.'

            Her nostrils flared. No, I'm not kidding. They FLARED.

            'Are you insinuating that I'm fat?'

            Woah, I thought. Someone's been studying up on her SAT vocabulary. 'Insinuating'?

            'Of course not. It's just a wee bit tight, that's all.'

            A wee bit tight? A WEE BIT TIGHT?!
            Ah HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA…

            I kill myself.

            'Fine,' she replied coolly, sauntering over to her domain.

            Lydia stopped halfway, then turned towards me, sizing me up from my feet to the top of my head, all 5 feet 11 inches of me.

            'You're tall. You shouldn't wear heels when you're with Gunther. Guys don't like their girlfriends being taller than them. Just a little friendly advice,' she said, giving a smile that would be described as anything but I gave a curt nod and a curt 'Thanks' and walked away.

            I was facing the wall, on my knees, an open bottle of Coke next to me, hanging shirts from a box Mom had given me of new shipments, then piling them up to the right of me.

            What happened next happened so quickly and was so unfair; my eyes still pitifully tear up because of it.

            All I know is that I heard glass make that weird sound it makes when it's pushed on hardwood floor, and the soft sound of fabric fluttering down. Confused, I got up and turned around, stepping towards whoever needed something.

            'May I help-'

            Stupid, stupid, stupid.

            I had knocked the moved-Coke over, and it spilled and soaked into the red dress placed behind me.

            Did I mention how the dress was not actually meant to be sleazy, but that Lydia had gotten the wrong size(obviously- a 00 instead of a 0, perhaps?), and it was a designer label and actually quite gorgeous when worn right?

            Did I mention that it was beaded and made of chiffon?

            Did I mention it cost 90 dollars(not including tax)?!

            I looked up to Lydia's venomous expression, a manicured hand over her mouth.

            She pushed down on the glass bottle, rolling towards her with the heel of her stiletto sandal, one, two, three times. It crunched and shattered loudly.

            Did I mention that we don't have security cameras because Mom says they're too expensive?

            Lydia leaned towards me and said, vindictively, 'That was for stealing him.'

            She backed away from me.

            Mom came rushing in, of course.

            'What is going on?'

            As she spotted the dress, her eyes bugged out of their sockets.

            'Oh, Mrs. Rees, I'm SO sorry. You see, I didn't want the dress, so I put it behind Constanta, thinking she would re-hang it for me, but she turned around and knocked over her drink-'

            'No, I-'

            'Then she stepped on it, and yeah.'

            Lydia lowered her eyes shyly, demurely and sugary, as fake as a pink packet of Sweet'n'Low.

            'You clumsy dolca*!' Mom snapped.

            'NO, I- '

            'Look what you did! This is coming straight out of your paycheck, chavi*!'

            'Mom, that's like, 12 hours! And I didn't-'

            'Ring up this girl's receipt for her remaining clothes NOW.'

            You see, Nadya, I'm not like you in this respect. You would've done some terrific word-sparring, but my mind was blank and cold, and even if I had thought of something witty or clever to say, my mouth was dry.

            Mom left to go back to the storage room, muttering about 'loss of profit'.

            'Have a nice day,' I told her flatly.

            'I already have,' she said in a lilting, singsong voice, prancing out the door, with a full 'Adrianna's Boutique' bag.

            I had to sweep up the glass and try really hard not to cry.

            Your guy sounds GREAT. Tell me if you meet up again. Oh, and if he has a vicious ex? Just hire a hitman to get rid of her, cause I do NOT want you to go through what I had to go through.

            Your best friend,

            Constanta

            PS: I'm using the leftover fabric to make stuff, so I'll make you a headband- it'll look fantastic with your dark brown hair.

            RETURN ADDRESS:

            Constanta Marshall

            Lark Street Apartments Room 302

            Albany, NY 612201

                                                                                                                                                                                August 14, 1992

Dear Constanta,

I miss YOU a lot. I go to the ocean every morning now (unbeknownst to Bibio), and I think about how you're a total fish and would live in the water if you could. No, wait, actually, you're more like a mermaid because mermaids are beautiful. Which is what YOU are.

Goodness, how many times do I have to convince you? Do I have to go over the credentials again?

1.)    Smooth latte-colored skin

2.)    Ocean-blue eyes that are NATURAL and not the result of the engineering and new innovations of contact lens

3.)    Very long, long, long sooty Bambi lashes

4.)    High cheekbones

5.)    Black satiny hair

6.)    Long, long, long miles off-the chart legs

7.)    Full lips, always soft and pretty from your endless supply of coconut chap sticks (I mean, Holy Guacamole, you ask for them every freaking birthday/Christmas)

8.)    You have curves which actually give you a goddamn shape, whereas mine is just my huge BOOBS and then stick insect all the way down, barely any sign of hips, thus making me look like a disproportionate alien

I cannot believe they don't understand the pure ingenious beauty of our 5-star meal of the Coke, Oreos, and poppy-seed bagel with cream cheese! For one, even though it doesn't sound like it would necessarily go well together, it is as perfect as hot cocoa when it's snowing.

Do they not see what the food represents? Are they that hopelessly blind? We’re both hapas (your father's white, your mother's Romany, my mother was white, my father's Romany). The Coke represents that we're American but our family's made of immigrants from Romania, brown. The Oreos represent this exotic combination as well (hel-oooooo, dark cookie, white filling), rendering us our beautiful latte and/or caramel skin, a mixture of dark and light. CLEARLY the poppy-seed bagel, in all its deserving glory, also shows a long mixture of our family tree (white bagel, dark poppy seeds, white cream cheese).

All this states the absolute truth:

HAPA SISTERS ARE FOREVER!!!! HUZZAH!!!!

Duh.

Oh, and when I visit there, poor, darling, dear Lydia is going to get familiar with my excellent right hook. You know how excellent it is since you've seen me use it when our however-many-times-removed cousins got too close and personal at the huge family gatherings.

God, what a bitch. Actually, bitch is too kind. She deserves to get sent naked to Antarctica. Let her freeze; let the polar bears eat her evil body. No, actually, also let her work 12 hours of unpaid labor, get spite thrown in her face, and have to sweep glass shards.

I hate her. I know it's not a very gracious thing, and at Church they tell us to not hate anyone, but I do.

Bitch.

Anyway, speaking of cousins (like 3 paragraphs back, but nevertheless), I looked at the family char thing with Bibio*, and it turns out that you are my Mom's sister's (my other Bibio, that I don't know very well, Alexandra) brother-in-law's daughter.

Let's say, for all extents and purposes, that my aunt's brother-in-law is my 'uncle', so you would be my for-real cousin! In-law.

Cool, huh?

Well, I'll always think of you as my sister. 'Cousin-in-law' just sounds

Bleeeh.

Yes, I DID 'meet up' with Raphael again, at the 7-11, in fact. Pure coincidence, though. We both got those Big Gulp cherry slushies and talked each other's ears off. He kissed me, and both of our mouths were all red and sticky and sweetly cherry-licous.

It was, to paraphrase, magnificent.

But'that was certainly no angel kissing me. Angels are virtuous and holier-than-thou and pure and there we were, committing one of the Seven Deadly Sins: Making Out With Your Boyfriend In The Convenience Store Aisle. Which falls into Lust, obviously.

I'm surprised we're not as dead as doornails. That was SOME kiss'

That was when I decided to have him meet Bibio. She approves, even though he's definitely not a Traveller. As she put it, 'You finally met someone smart enough for you. Dare I say, even smarter?'

I scowled at her.

School's in exactly 16 days. I'm not bitching and moaning nearly as much as I used to, because Raphael will be there.

I know it'll sound(or read) so completely mushy, but' when I'm with him I feel like I can be anyone I want to be, you know?

Oh, geez! Retch! That's so not me! At all!

But there it is, embarrassingly enough.

Your Best Friend,

Nadya the Mighty

PS: Sorry I'm not as good at writing letters as you are

RETURN ADDRESS:

Nadya Bashalde

4451 102nd Avenue., SE

Center Falls, RI 02863

                                                                                                                                                  August 29, 1992

Hey,

I’m writing a letter to you and you're exactly five blocks away from me (when I timed you, you were unfairly and insanely speedy in your run of those five, and hardly tired AT ALL afterwards, I might add. Damn you). Wow, the suspense.

You may have noticed that here is a return address but NO STAMP. This is because I deemed the stamp unnecessary, since I was the one who hand-delivered this letter. I left the return address just in case you find a rift in the space-time continuum and need to write me a letter.  I'm probably running back home as you're reading this, trying to beat your impossible time.

Lala, if you're reading this (though I do believe I specifically addressed it to your niece) simply because you can't resist it, I'm sorry, there's nothing juicy here. But may I say that I immensely enjoyed those divine cinnamon-nutmeg-hazelnut-chocolate cookies you offered me, and remind you that, as I am an ever-hungry teenage boy, that you make hundreds of them for me?

And if it's Nadya reading this, pass the message on to her, would you?

Since I am a junior and you are going to be a sophomore, I am going to give you a veteran's view on the teachers I had last year, A-Z

Mr. Blanks

Subject/s: Science

Secret: If you're finished with the lab, COPY THE CONCLUSION down and memorize it. You will need it for the tests. He won't tell you you'll need them, but trust me, you will. His study guides are lame, and he only puts one out of the ten things on there on the actual test

Definitely Don't Do It: Lip. The man cannot stand cheekiness. I had to learn that the hard way. I know how inclined you are to exercise you steroid-addled candor, but trust me, it's not worth it.

Ms. Carey

Subject/s: Art, Drama, Music/Choir

Secrets: She SAYS she loves Georgia O’Keefe and Shakespeare, but she's truly a sucker for Monet, Titian, really new contemporary artists (the more obscure the better), and the Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals.

Definitely Don't Do It: If you drift off during class or diss her eccentric taste in clothes, you will find yourself eaten alive by her notorious lectures, which have been known to go on for years. Really When I got one, I was convinced I had gotten gray and grown a long beard like Jesus. If it weren't for the bell and her need to get home to watch 'Masterpiece Theatre', I probably would have convinced myself I WAS, in fact, Jesus.

Mrs. Meyer

Subjects: English, History

Secret: Don't write what you THINK teachers want to read. She's big on honesty, freedom of expression, and all that jazz. You can even swear.

Also, in history, she'll give you 'recommended reading' for extra credit. She gives a lot more points than she says she will, just to see who's serious.

Definitely Don't Do It: Sucking up. You will get nailed down in such a humiliating manner, you won't know what hit you.

Mr. Stone

Subjects: English, Math, Health/P.E.

Secret: If you need help on the work(he's not easy on his students), ASK HIM. If you don't, you'll get lost in the maze of scared confusion. He is really good at helping, actually getting even the most difficult concept to make sense, and will tutor before school, after, lunch, whatever.

Definitely Don't Do It: It doesn't matter if you haven't had breakfast. It doesn't matter if you think your stomach will implode upon itself. If you eat in front of him, do you know what he DOES? He takes YOUR food, eats it, and says, 'That is how it feels to have someone eat in front of you.'

Also, if you cut corners in the mile, no matter how sly you are about it, you get 30 surprise-and-attack push-ups. No exceptions.

Good luck!

I love you.

Yours,

R

RETURN ADDRESS:

Raphael Rentz

3025 Central Blvd.

Center Falls, RI 02863

                                                                                                                                       August 30, 1992, Monday

Dear Raphael,

I win.

I will not even try protecting your poor little ego. You were halfway to your house, but I sprinted, caught up to you, and jumped you (Mind. Out. Of. Gutter. NOW). You fell over and I laughed, screaming, 'I WIN, I WIN!' You growled at this. Then you kissed me, and when you were done, I said, 'I still win.' Then a cantankerous old man shoved open his window and yelled 'You fellas get off my lawn!'

To which you replied, 'Surely you jest! Good sir, it is a fair day, and I have a fair lady with me! Have you never been a young lover before?' sounding like freaking Lancelot du Lac, probably just to get him pissed(it probably did).

We fled before he could answer your smart-ass reply.

You do remember, right? You should, as it was only, oh, yesterday.

So. I win.

It's not very cool that I only have one class with you, since I apparently got every question right on the Music Aptitude test the counselor gave me when we had a 'date'(shudder) set up, thus bumping me up a letter.

Since you gave me that handy little guide (thank you, by the way) I have enclosed a colored pencil sketch of you with cherry-red lips, respectively. From memory, of course, we've gone to the 7-11 on so many various escapades, the cashiers there know us on a first-name basis.

It's our first day of school in approximately 6 hours. Good luck to you, too.

Love,

N

Description
The Gypsy's Niece

CHAPTER 5

                                                                                                                                                                          August 11, 1992,

                                                                                                                                                                          Wednesday



Dear Nadya,

            I miss you a lot

            I know that's something you're supposed to reserve for the end of the letter, but I wanted to tell you straight off the bat.

            Lunch break at Mom's store is so lonely without you, you have no idea. We are the only ones in the universe who appreciate the beauty of Coke, Oreos, and a poppy-seed bagel with cream cheese. My Mom just rolls her eyes at it, used to it, but everyone else looks at me like I'm a freak.

            I've taken to pretending you're here, imagining what light you would look best in. Yes, that's me, the photographer. Well, also the wannabe novelist-poet. But, as you very well know, only my photos have actually gotten published (albeit I never told them my age in the teen art magazine, but still). I'm too chicken to submit my writings.

            You were always the artist.

            Sorry. I mean you 'are' the artist. You're not dead, thankfully, so I don't know why I'm referring to you in past tense. You're just not- HERE.

            Thanks again for the portrait you left me for a going-away present(though I wasn't the one going away, but whatever). I still think you made me look way prettier than I actually am.

            You tell me no, I'm just being modest. Also that you were just “accentuating my best features', which is the SAME THING, Nadya.

            I had to deal with the wicked Lydia Pearson, ex-girlfriend of Gunther, as  you know. IT was terrible I'll describe it to you in its vivid wretchedness.

            So, the second she comes in, I stiffen, prey to predator. I swear that girl is like a snake, with her lithe, impossibly skinny body, sneering always lip-glossed mouth, sharp little nose, perfectly clear scales(ahem- I mean SKIN), straight, poison-striped(ahem- I mean HIGHLIGHTED) blonde hair, and narrowed green contact-lens color grass-green slits(ahem- I mean EYES), which were fixed on me with malice.

            Honestly, I don't know WHY Gunther ever went out wwith her. Oh, right, now I remember: Lydia was #2(just behind her gorgeous goddess-like best friend and partner in evil, Jessica Martin) on the male school-wide list that was passed around in homeroom of Girls to Fuck. I hope Gunther hasn't, you know. He SAYS he didn't'

            Anyway, I'll stop now, before I get swallowed up by my insecurities.

            So, she strolls in, and grabs every size zero short skirt and low little pink or striped tank top she can get her filthy hands on, then walks up to me (baxtalo*, baxtalo* me!) and demands a dressing room.

            Now, Constanta, you’re probably thinking, I'm sure she didn't actually DEMAND for one'

            But no, she did. Wanna know how I know?

            Now, this is verbatim, and remember it as a classic line in great literature;

            'I demand a dressing room.'

            Touche.

            I smiled as genuinely as I could manage under the circumstances, handed her a key, and chirped, 'Here you go. Only eight items per dressing room, miss.'

            She narrowed her slits and hissed, 'Cut the crap, Constantinople,' bestowing me once again with her oh-so affectionate nickname. Then she flung some extra clothes at me and entered her designated dressing room, carrying exactly nine items of clothing with her.

            Nine.

            Hmmm. Do you suppose that was on purpose?

            Naaaah.

            She came out in a dress, a skintight red number. And when I say skintight, jeepers creepers, I DO mean skintight. I could see the fabric straining, boobs bulging. It was so tight I could see patches of fat on a skeleton-esque girl, and it was disturbing. I had no doubt it would be riding up her ass at least somewhat, and when she did a 360 my suspicions were confirmed.

            'How do I look?'

            How did she LOOK?

            You see, there were so many ways I fantasized answering this.

            'Well, you look like if you pass any gas whatsoever you'll go shooting out of your dress straight to the fucking moon'

            'Well, you look like you need to east less white-girl found. You know the stuff. Cut down on the refined white sugars, 7up, Sprite, Vanilla Lattes, pink-frosting confectionary cookies, sugar donuts, clam chowder, cream of chicken soup, artery-clogging nasty ranch dressing, artery-clogging mayo, and artery-clogging whipped cream.'

            'Well, no WONDER Miss Beauty Queen is still an (alleged) virgin- if this is how tight you wear your underclothes, your myriad of boyfriends probably couldn't even peel your panties off.'

            Unfortunately, I snapped back to reality, where she was looking at me expectantly.

            'You look great!' I chirped again in my employee-to-customer lingo. 'We probably have one in a size up.'

            Her nostrils flared. No, I'm not kidding. They FLARED.

            'Are you insinuating that I'm fat?'

            Woah, I thought. Someone's been studying up on her SAT vocabulary. 'Insinuating'?

            'Of course not. It's just a wee bit tight, that's all.'

            A wee bit tight? A WEE BIT TIGHT?!
            Ah HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA…

            I kill myself.

            'Fine,' she replied coolly, sauntering over to her domain.

            Lydia stopped halfway, then turned towards me, sizing me up from my feet to the top of my head, all 5 feet 11 inches of me.

            'You're tall. You shouldn't wear heels when you're with Gunther. Guys don't like their girlfriends being taller than them. Just a little friendly advice,' she said, giving a smile that would be described as anything but I gave a curt nod and a curt 'Thanks' and walked away.

            I was facing the wall, on my knees, an open bottle of Coke next to me, hanging shirts from a box Mom had given me of new shipments, then piling them up to the right of me.

            What happened next happened so quickly and was so unfair; my eyes still pitifully tear up because of it.

            All I know is that I heard glass make that weird sound it makes when it's pushed on hardwood floor, and the soft sound of fabric fluttering down. Confused, I got up and turned around, stepping towards whoever needed something.

            'May I help-'

            Stupid, stupid, stupid.

            I had knocked the moved-Coke over, and it spilled and soaked into the red dress placed behind me.

            Did I mention how the dress was not actually meant to be sleazy, but that Lydia had gotten the wrong size(obviously- a 00 instead of a 0, perhaps?), and it was a designer label and actually quite gorgeous when worn right?

            Did I mention that it was beaded and made of chiffon?

            Did I mention it cost 90 dollars(not including tax)?!

            I looked up to Lydia's venomous expression, a manicured hand over her mouth.

            She pushed down on the glass bottle, rolling towards her with the heel of her stiletto sandal, one, two, three times. It crunched and shattered loudly.

            Did I mention that we don't have security cameras because Mom says they're too expensive?

            Lydia leaned towards me and said, vindictively, 'That was for stealing him.'

            She backed away from me.

            Mom came rushing in, of course.

            'What is going on?'

            As she spotted the dress, her eyes bugged out of their sockets.

            'Oh, Mrs. Rees, I'm SO sorry. You see, I didn't want the dress, so I put it behind Constanta, thinking she would re-hang it for me, but she turned around and knocked over her drink-'

            'No, I-'

            'Then she stepped on it, and yeah.'

            Lydia lowered her eyes shyly, demurely and sugary, as fake as a pink packet of Sweet'n'Low.

            'You clumsy dolca*!' Mom snapped.

            'NO, I- '

            'Look what you did! This is coming straight out of your paycheck, chavi*!'

            'Mom, that's like, 12 hours! And I didn't-'

            'Ring up this girl's receipt for her remaining clothes NOW.'

            You see, Nadya, I'm not like you in this respect. You would've done some terrific word-sparring, but my mind was blank and cold, and even if I had thought of something witty or clever to say, my mouth was dry.

            Mom left to go back to the storage room, muttering about 'loss of profit'.

            'Have a nice day,' I told her flatly.

            'I already have,' she said in a lilting, singsong voice, prancing out the door, with a full 'Adrianna's Boutique' bag.

            I had to sweep up the glass and try really hard not to cry.

            Your guy sounds GREAT. Tell me if you meet up again. Oh, and if he has a vicious ex? Just hire a hitman to get rid of her, cause I do NOT want you to go through what I had to go through.

            Your best friend,

            Constanta

            PS: I'm using the leftover fabric to make stuff, so I'll make you a headband- it'll look fantastic with your dark brown hair.

            RETURN ADDRESS:

            Constanta Marshall

            Lark Street Apartments Room 302

            Albany, NY 612201

                                                                                                                                                                                August 14, 1992

Dear Constanta,

I miss YOU a lot. I go to the ocean every morning now (unbeknownst to Bibio), and I think about how you're a total fish and would live in the water if you could. No, wait, actually, you're more like a mermaid because mermaids are beautiful. Which is what YOU are.

Goodness, how many times do I have to convince you? Do I have to go over the credentials again?

1.)    Smooth latte-colored skin

2.)    Ocean-blue eyes that are NATURAL and not the result of the engineering and new innovations of contact lens

3.)    Very long, long, long sooty Bambi lashes

4.)    High cheekbones

5.)    Black satiny hair

6.)    Long, long, long miles off-the chart legs

7.)    Full lips, always soft and pretty from your endless supply of coconut chap sticks (I mean, Holy Guacamole, you ask for them every freaking birthday/Christmas)

8.)    You have curves which actually give you a goddamn shape, whereas mine is just my huge BOOBS and then stick insect all the way down, barely any sign of hips, thus making me look like a disproportionate alien

I cannot believe they don't understand the pure ingenious beauty of our 5-star meal of the Coke, Oreos, and poppy-seed bagel with cream cheese! For one, even though it doesn't sound like it would necessarily go well together, it is as perfect as hot cocoa when it's snowing.

Do they not see what the food represents? Are they that hopelessly blind? We’re both hapas (your father's white, your mother's Romany, my mother was white, my father's Romany). The Coke represents that we're American but our family's made of immigrants from Romania, brown. The Oreos represent this exotic combination as well (hel-oooooo, dark cookie, white filling), rendering us our beautiful latte and/or caramel skin, a mixture of dark and light. CLEARLY the poppy-seed bagel, in all its deserving glory, also shows a long mixture of our family tree (white bagel, dark poppy seeds, white cream cheese).

All this states the absolute truth:

HAPA SISTERS ARE FOREVER!!!! HUZZAH!!!!

Duh.

Oh, and when I visit there, poor, darling, dear Lydia is going to get familiar with my excellent right hook. You know how excellent it is since you've seen me use it when our however-many-times-removed cousins got too close and personal at the huge family gatherings.

God, what a bitch. Actually, bitch is too kind. She deserves to get sent naked to Antarctica. Let her freeze; let the polar bears eat her evil body. No, actually, also let her work 12 hours of unpaid labor, get spite thrown in her face, and have to sweep glass shards.

I hate her. I know it's not a very gracious thing, and at Church they tell us to not hate anyone, but I do.

Bitch.

Anyway, speaking of cousins (like 3 paragraphs back, but nevertheless), I looked at the family char thing with Bibio*, and it turns out that you are my Mom's sister's (my other Bibio, that I don't know very well, Alexandra) brother-in-law's daughter.

Let's say, for all extents and purposes, that my aunt's brother-in-law is my 'uncle', so you would be my for-real cousin! In-law.

Cool, huh?

Well, I'll always think of you as my sister. 'Cousin-in-law' just sounds

Bleeeh.

Yes, I DID 'meet up' with Raphael again, at the 7-11, in fact. Pure coincidence, though. We both got those Big Gulp cherry slushies and talked each other's ears off. He kissed me, and both of our mouths were all red and sticky and sweetly cherry-licous.

It was, to paraphrase, magnificent.

But'that was certainly no angel kissing me. Angels are virtuous and holier-than-thou and pure and there we were, committing one of the Seven Deadly Sins: Making Out With Your Boyfriend In The Convenience Store Aisle. Which falls into Lust, obviously.

I'm surprised we're not as dead as doornails. That was SOME kiss'

That was when I decided to have him meet Bibio. She approves, even though he's definitely not a Traveller. As she put it, 'You finally met someone smart enough for you. Dare I say, even smarter?'

I scowled at her.

School's in exactly 16 days. I'm not bitching and moaning nearly as much as I used to, because Raphael will be there.

I know it'll sound(or read) so completely mushy, but' when I'm with him I feel like I can be anyone I want to be, you know?

Oh, geez! Retch! That's so not me! At all!

But there it is, embarrassingly enough.

Your Best Friend,

Nadya the Mighty

PS: Sorry I'm not as good at writing letters as you are

RETURN ADDRESS:

Nadya Bashalde

4451 102nd Avenue., SE

Center Falls, RI 02863

                                                                                                                                                  August 29, 1992

Hey,

I’m writing a letter to you and you're exactly five blocks away from me (when I timed you, you were unfairly and insanely speedy in your run of those five, and hardly tired AT ALL afterwards, I might add. Damn you). Wow, the suspense.

You may have noticed that here is a return address but NO STAMP. This is because I deemed the stamp unnecessary, since I was the one who hand-delivered this letter. I left the return address just in case you find a rift in the space-time continuum and need to write me a letter.  I'm probably running back home as you're reading this, trying to beat your impossible time.

Lala, if you're reading this (though I do believe I specifically addressed it to your niece) simply because you can't resist it, I'm sorry, there's nothing juicy here. But may I say that I immensely enjoyed those divine cinnamon-nutmeg-hazelnut-chocolate cookies you offered me, and remind you that, as I am an ever-hungry teenage boy, that you make hundreds of them for me?

And if it's Nadya reading this, pass the message on to her, would you?

Since I am a junior and you are going to be a sophomore, I am going to give you a veteran's view on the teachers I had last year, A-Z

Mr. Blanks

Subject/s: Science

Secret: If you're finished with the lab, COPY THE CONCLUSION down and memorize it. You will need it for the tests. He won't tell you you'll need them, but trust me, you will. His study guides are lame, and he only puts one out of the ten things on there on the actual test

Definitely Don't Do It: Lip. The man cannot stand cheekiness. I had to learn that the hard way. I know how inclined you are to exercise you steroid-addled candor, but trust me, it's not worth it.

Ms. Carey

Subject/s: Art, Drama, Music/Choir

Secrets: She SAYS she loves Georgia O’Keefe and Shakespeare, but she's truly a sucker for Monet, Titian, really new contemporary artists (the more obscure the better), and the Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals.

Definitely Don't Do It: If you drift off during class or diss her eccentric taste in clothes, you will find yourself eaten alive by her notorious lectures, which have been known to go on for years. Really When I got one, I was convinced I had gotten gray and grown a long beard like Jesus. If it weren't for the bell and her need to get home to watch 'Masterpiece Theatre', I probably would have convinced myself I WAS, in fact, Jesus.

Mrs. Meyer

Subjects: English, History

Secret: Don't write what you THINK teachers want to read. She's big on honesty, freedom of expression, and all that jazz. You can even swear.

Also, in history, she'll give you 'recommended reading' for extra credit. She gives a lot more points than she says she will, just to see who's serious.

Definitely Don't Do It: Sucking up. You will get nailed down in such a humiliating manner, you won't know what hit you.

Mr. Stone

Subjects: English, Math, Health/P.E.

Secret: If you need help on the work(he's not easy on his students), ASK HIM. If you don't, you'll get lost in the maze of scared confusion. He is really good at helping, actually getting even the most difficult concept to make sense, and will tutor before school, after, lunch, whatever.

Definitely Don't Do It: It doesn't matter if you haven't had breakfast. It doesn't matter if you think your stomach will implode upon itself. If you eat in front of him, do you know what he DOES? He takes YOUR food, eats it, and says, 'That is how it feels to have someone eat in front of you.'

Also, if you cut corners in the mile, no matter how sly you are about it, you get 30 surprise-and-attack push-ups. No exceptions.

Good luck!

I love you.

Yours,

R

RETURN ADDRESS:

Raphael Rentz

3025 Central Blvd.

Center Falls, RI 02863

                                                                                                                                       August 30, 1992, Monday

Dear Raphael,

I win.

I will not even try protecting your poor little ego. You were halfway to your house, but I sprinted, caught up to you, and jumped you (Mind. Out. Of. Gutter. NOW). You fell over and I laughed, screaming, 'I WIN, I WIN!' You growled at this. Then you kissed me, and when you were done, I said, 'I still win.' Then a cantankerous old man shoved open his window and yelled 'You fellas get off my lawn!'

To which you replied, 'Surely you jest! Good sir, it is a fair day, and I have a fair lady with me! Have you never been a young lover before?' sounding like freaking Lancelot du Lac, probably just to get him pissed(it probably did).

We fled before he could answer your smart-ass reply.

You do remember, right? You should, as it was only, oh, yesterday.

So. I win.

It's not very cool that I only have one class with you, since I apparently got every question right on the Music Aptitude test the counselor gave me when we had a 'date'(shudder) set up, thus bumping me up a letter.

Since you gave me that handy little guide (thank you, by the way) I have enclosed a colored pencil sketch of you with cherry-red lips, respectively. From memory, of course, we've gone to the 7-11 on so many various escapades, the cashiers there know us on a first-name basis.

It's our first day of school in approximately 6 hours. Good luck to you, too.

Love,

N