52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 6b/?
anonymous
February 12 2010, 13:49:37 UTC
Amie is invited to the wedding of course, though when she told Mrs. Bonnefoy what she was to wear, the older woman nearly had an aneurism. Amie has never spent summers in Milan or Paris. She can’t tell you the difference between Armani cotton and Wal-Mart cotton other than three grand. She wears no jewelry other than her class ring, which she won’t take off until she replaces it with the sleek Academy ring at Ring Dance, if she decides to go. This, according to Mrs. Bonnefoy, will simply not do.
So they shop. Something New Boutique, just off the main drag of Powers Blvd. Amie wants something simple. Mrs. Bonnefoy wants something that will wow any free male suitor in the building and within a twenty mile radius. So far, they haven’t found anything. They look through the green dresses because it’ll match Amie’s eyes.
“So…” Mrs. Bonnefoy prompts, picking up a piece that’s the color of crusty toothpaste. She has the voice of a horn, sharp and audible for miles. “How is life in the wild blue yonder?” Her voice is something French, something German, maybe Belgian. Amie’s terrible at placing accents. She puts the dress to Amie’s chest. Amie’s heart stops. The thing is dreadful. And breaths again when Mrs. Bonnefoy puts it back on the rack.
“All right, I guess,” Amie says. She readjusts her glasses. “I’ve got a GR in calculus coming up. Not looking forward to it.”
Mrs. Bonnefoy smirks and picks up another dress, this one more the shade of olives. “I thought you liked calculus.”
“Not even Newton liked calculus, Mrs. B, and he invented it.” Mrs. Bonnefoy smirks. She shakes her head and returns the olive drab. Maybe they should move out of the greens. “I mean, it’s ok, but I’d rather be in the chem lab.”
“You take after your mother then.”
“Yeah. She used to make the vinegar and baking soda volcanoes when I was a kid. Dad’s just books all day. Books about old dead people writing about even older, deader people.” Mrs. Bonnefoy laughs. She picks up an ivy green with a sweetheart neckline that folds into a bow and an empire waistline. Looks like it will fit snugly.
“How’s this?”
“I could try it,” Amie says, biting her bottom lip, stomach turning little cartwheels. She’s not used to fancy things and afraid that the delicate material will explode on her. She reaches for the hanger and retreats into the dressing room.
“How’s your father doing, anyway? Is he still mad about you taking your mother’s name?”
Amie is careful when she unbuttons her uniform. She pops off the shirt garters from her socks and hangs the shirt on the door. She steps out of her pants and folds them along the creases. Shoes together in the corner, so she won’t scuff them. She steps into the green.
“He will take that bitterness to him to the grave, Mrs. B.”
“Well, hopefully he will learn to let that go. He still has a son to carry on the name, does he not?” Amie’s younger brother by two years, Matthew, she calls him Mattie, kept the name. He is good with his hands, building things and making music. He graduated early and attends the University of Toronto for twenty-one grand a year and a mechanical engineering degree.
52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 6c/?
anonymous
February 12 2010, 13:52:08 UTC
Amie chuckles. “Yeah, I guess. But he’s not going to pass it on to the next generation. We Kirklands are all the same. Work, work, work.” She zips up the dress on the side and smoothes the material in front. A deep breath. She steps outside.
“Well?” Amie asks, holding her arms out, a nervous grin. “What do you think?”
Mrs. Bonnefoy does not squeal or grin. Her graceful finger taps her cheek and her eyes squint. She walks around Amie, examining the girl as if she were a museum article. She hmms thoughtfully, not the reaction Amie had hoped. “The color’s wrong.” And it’s like letting the air out of a tire, hiss and all; Amie’s shoulders sag. She was hoping they’d find one and that’d be it. Mrs. Bonnefoy shoos her back in the dressing room and tells Amie to change back.
They continue to look for that dress. That dress that will make a blind man see and the lame walk. Mrs. Bonnefoy’s looking for a miracle. Amie’s looking for clothes.
“Are you making friends?” Mrs. Bonnefoy asks, now in the Kool-Aid purple section.
Amie thinks of Luka, Fernandez and Lorinaitis. Luka is in Squad 1, poor thing, and is in her chem class. Luka’s flamboyantly gay, but gets to stay in the military because there’s no verbal admittance. He enjoys freaking out the upperclassmen and doing stupid things like cross dress when they go to Denver, mostly to make Toris uncomfortable. He’s from California, but his family hails Warsaw as home, and will talk your ear off about horses and ponies, but when shit hits the fan, he keeps on truckin’ and you have to admire that sort of fortitude.
Fernandez is in Squad 37, the lucky bastard, and is an international cadet and 26 years old. He’s in her English class and pampers the English language with his silky Madrid accent. He loves food, family and fun, but most of all God and tomatoes-tomates, as he’d say. He smiles a lot, which gets him in trouble during training sessions, but he says its better to keep your sense of humor and get yelled at, then to lose your soul and stay out of trouble.
Lorinaitis is in her squad, slow to speak, but first to listen. He might not tell you what you’d like to hear, but he’ll always tell you what you need. He’s studious, almost to a fault. He’s good with his mind, but not so good with physical, and is always getting hell from the upperclassmen because of it. He’s from the back alleys of Ohio too, but Amie hadn’t met him until Orientation Weekend.
A little light flickers in her chest.
“Yeah, I am. I should tell you about Lu-Fernandez.” Telling Mrs. Catholic about Luka and his exploits is probably not the brightest idea she’s had. “He’s from Spain. Very sweet.”
Mrs. Bonnefoy looks up from the strapless she’s selected and grins. “Oh. You like him?”
“As a friend,” Amie reassures. “As a friend. He’s like…two, three years older than I am.”
“Love knows no age,” Mrs. Bonnefoy replies. She re-racks the dress. She peers at a something more sunset blue than Kool-Aid. “You will find love too, Amie. Trust me. I am French. I know these things. You will find love and when you do, you must hold on to it and never let it go.”
“Thanks, Mrs. B,” Amie says with as genuine a smile as she can procure, trying not to roll her eyes. All she knows of love is messy endings and long trials and having to pick Mom or Dad, and then not picking at all because the good people of Carolyn, Ohio have something better in mind.
52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 7a/?
anonymous
February 12 2010, 14:11:42 UTC
7 They opened at nine. It’s almost four o’clock. They’ve had three costumers. One was looking for directions to the Academy. One needed a bathroom. One contemplated violets for his wife, but was rushed out by a phone call about “an accident, come home now.”
Natalya waters the plants. Katyusha sits behind the register. Ivan tends the sunflowers.
Closing time at five-thirty.
The phone shrieks. Katyusha picks up, but speaks poor English, and throws the receiver to Ivan. She returns to her magazine. Ivan walks through the gardenias.
“Hello? Oh. Hi, Mr. O’Kelly.
Ah, yes, about that. I’ve got most of it. Eighty percent.
Seventy-five percent.
I’ll give it to you by Friday.
Um…Saturday.
You know what, make that Sunday. Yes, Sunday.
At two.
No. Three.
Uh, can we make it four thirty?
I know you’ve extended my dues. I’m very grateful. It’s just that-
…
…
Oh.
Oh, I see.
Yes.
Yes, I understand.
Absolutely, Mr. O’Kelly.
Thank you.
Bye now.”
With a soft ping, Ivan ends the call. He leans his back on the shelf’s side and slides down, pushed down by an invisible hand. He runs his hands through his hair. It needed to be trimmed three weeks ago, now it just needs to be cut. He throws the phone to the side, it clanks against the floorboards and skids to a stop somewhere near the register.
A long time ago, Ivan Mikhailovich Braginski stumbled into America, pockets half full with money and a heart full of hope. He came with a vision, with a plan. He wanted to shake the dirt of St. Petersburg off his shoes and start a business. He sold roses. He was a terrible businessman.
At twenty, he barely spoke enough English to hail a cab. His studio was small, he could walk across the diagonal in three in a half strides. It was dirty, cultures of bacteria growing in the corners, the runners as black as night. His bulletproof windows barred. A single chain turned on and off a flickering incandescent light bulb in the center of the room. His landlord, Popov, provided a mattress and a refrigerator, both bought in 1964. The room smelt of cabbage and beets and rotten socks. To his left, a family of six. To his right, a family of eight. Both loud, obnoxious, meddling Russians. He smoked.
Ivan kept mostly to himself because Brighton reminded him so much of the city he’d just escaped. He lost twenty pounds that winter and finally when the first signs of spring sprang forth, he picked up his things and moved to Colorado. He was just as bad of a businessman there as he was in New York, but the altitude and fresh air were well appreciated. In baggage claim, he realized he didn’t have a job and didn’t have a place to stay, so he went to the bar. He met Mr. O’Kelly there. The stout Bostonian was a loud drunk, but sober enough to see his reflection in Ivan’s emaciated self and offered him a two bedroom apartment. Two fifty a month, no questions asked.
52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 7b/?
anonymous
February 12 2010, 14:12:32 UTC
He learned better English. Got a job. Dated a girl. Lost a girl. He continued to smoke. Made money. Quit his job. Saw a place off of Powers for rent and four hundred a month. Ivan thought of his rose stand on the street corner in New York, and opened a flower shop. He was right next to a formal dress shop, so figured business would come to him.
Management is something one shouldn’t learn on the job. Ivan lost more money his first year in business than he did his entire time in New York. He supposed the word got out that he was a bad money handler and that’s why his work went down. He still smoked. He stated to drink. He lost five pounds he didn’t think he had to give.
He wrote to his sisters, called them, bribed them, guilt tripped them, pleaded them to come to America and help him. Natalya came first. She was just out of high school. Katyusha took longer. She was enrolled in an intensive medical program in France. Engaged. Looking for apartments with said fiancé. She had wanted to be a cardio specialist since she was old enough to say stethoscope. She broke it off with fiancé when she came home early and found fiancé in bed with the neighbor. She ran to America and brought food.
Mr. O’Kelly was lenient with payments, especially when Ivan’s sisters came into town. So long as it gets in, it gets in, he used to say. He had faith in Ivan’s shop, though the Russian seemed to do everything one could possibly do wrong in running a business. He’d managed to set fire to a stack of W2s three days before April 15th.
That was two years ago. Now, Mr. O’Kelly was old and his mother was older and had suffered from a stroke. It was going to cost money to treat her, money Mr. O’Kelly didn’t have until he gave Ivan until Sunday to turn all his dues in, with interest.
Ivan sighs.
“Ivan?” Katyusha prods. “Is everything all right?”
Ivan looks up at his sister and smiles reassuringly. “Yeah.”
An Author's Quick Annotations How's that for abrupt style change? lol
Ah, for international readers. April 15th is tax day! And W2s are official forms that say how much money you made and how much the government took away (payroll taxes, yes?). You kind of need them before taxes are due, so the government can take more money. Ivan setting W2s ablaze three days before tax day? Not the brightest thing our clumsy friend has ever done.
That's all for now! Remember, next installment is back to Jonesy and the realities of being a cadet. I highly encourage you to go to YouTube and search "usafa cadets." ^^
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 7b/?
anonymous
February 12 2010, 17:22:21 UTC
I don't think I've commented on this one but OMG so much love. The characters and the universe you've created for them is so rich and textured and REAL. That's always the biggest compliment I give people because it's such a hard thing for people to achieve and you've done it wonderfully here.
Can't wait for these two to meet and to read more of this fabulous story.
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 7b/?
anonymous
February 13 2010, 16:14:14 UTC
Gorgeous fill anon love the characters to bits!
You should post this up at the Fills List to let people know you've updated it...it makes me sad that it hasn't gotten more comments... :-( (And afraid you might discontinue it which would make me most sad indeed...)
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 7b/?
anonymous
February 14 2010, 13:53:12 UTC
You can a lot of people do (myself included) especially now that there's a Completed Fills List one alongside of it. It's a good way to let people know a fic is out there and updated especially in the earlier parts. I know I only came across this one the first time when the other fill in this posted posted there...so people may not have noticed it as sad as it seems... :-/
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 7b/?
anonymous
February 13 2010, 19:03:30 UTC
This is such an interesting little story, so far! It seems like you really know a lot about the things you're writing about too - it makes for a convincing story. :)
Keep it up, anon! I was sad to see this unfinished, but then I smacked myself in the head once I realized that all of your updates were ... from yesterday, haha. *doesn't pay attention to timestamps, clearly* I'm really looking forward to the next installment!!
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 7b/?
anonymous
February 14 2010, 10:11:34 UTC
Aw thanks! ^//^
I'm going to try to finish this. I used to be a cadet, and was medically discharged rather abruptly and against my will. So...I'm hoping this will be therapeutic in its own way. I'll force myself to finish it. :P
So they shop. Something New Boutique, just off the main drag of Powers Blvd. Amie wants something simple. Mrs. Bonnefoy wants something that will wow any free male suitor in the building and within a twenty mile radius. So far, they haven’t found anything. They look through the green dresses because it’ll match Amie’s eyes.
“So…” Mrs. Bonnefoy prompts, picking up a piece that’s the color of crusty toothpaste. She has the voice of a horn, sharp and audible for miles. “How is life in the wild blue yonder?” Her voice is something French, something German, maybe Belgian. Amie’s terrible at placing accents. She puts the dress to Amie’s chest. Amie’s heart stops. The thing is dreadful. And breaths again when Mrs. Bonnefoy puts it back on the rack.
“All right, I guess,” Amie says. She readjusts her glasses. “I’ve got a GR in calculus coming up. Not looking forward to it.”
Mrs. Bonnefoy smirks and picks up another dress, this one more the shade of olives. “I thought you liked calculus.”
“Not even Newton liked calculus, Mrs. B, and he invented it.” Mrs. Bonnefoy smirks. She shakes her head and returns the olive drab. Maybe they should move out of the greens. “I mean, it’s ok, but I’d rather be in the chem lab.”
“You take after your mother then.”
“Yeah. She used to make the vinegar and baking soda volcanoes when I was a kid. Dad’s just books all day. Books about old dead people writing about even older, deader people.” Mrs. Bonnefoy laughs. She picks up an ivy green with a sweetheart neckline that folds into a bow and an empire waistline. Looks like it will fit snugly.
“How’s this?”
“I could try it,” Amie says, biting her bottom lip, stomach turning little cartwheels. She’s not used to fancy things and afraid that the delicate material will explode on her. She reaches for the hanger and retreats into the dressing room.
“How’s your father doing, anyway? Is he still mad about you taking your mother’s name?”
Amie is careful when she unbuttons her uniform. She pops off the shirt garters from her socks and hangs the shirt on the door. She steps out of her pants and folds them along the creases. Shoes together in the corner, so she won’t scuff them. She steps into the green.
“He will take that bitterness to him to the grave, Mrs. B.”
“Well, hopefully he will learn to let that go. He still has a son to carry on the name, does he not?” Amie’s younger brother by two years, Matthew, she calls him Mattie, kept the name. He is good with his hands, building things and making music. He graduated early and attends the University of Toronto for twenty-one grand a year and a mechanical engineering degree.
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“Well?” Amie asks, holding her arms out, a nervous grin. “What do you think?”
Mrs. Bonnefoy does not squeal or grin. Her graceful finger taps her cheek and her eyes squint. She walks around Amie, examining the girl as if she were a museum article. She hmms thoughtfully, not the reaction Amie had hoped. “The color’s wrong.” And it’s like letting the air out of a tire, hiss and all; Amie’s shoulders sag. She was hoping they’d find one and that’d be it. Mrs. Bonnefoy shoos her back in the dressing room and tells Amie to change back.
They continue to look for that dress. That dress that will make a blind man see and the lame walk. Mrs. Bonnefoy’s looking for a miracle. Amie’s looking for clothes.
“Are you making friends?” Mrs. Bonnefoy asks, now in the Kool-Aid purple section.
Amie thinks of Luka, Fernandez and Lorinaitis. Luka is in Squad 1, poor thing, and is in her chem class. Luka’s flamboyantly gay, but gets to stay in the military because there’s no verbal admittance. He enjoys freaking out the upperclassmen and doing stupid things like cross dress when they go to Denver, mostly to make Toris uncomfortable. He’s from California, but his family hails Warsaw as home, and will talk your ear off about horses and ponies, but when shit hits the fan, he keeps on truckin’ and you have to admire that sort of fortitude.
Fernandez is in Squad 37, the lucky bastard, and is an international cadet and 26 years old. He’s in her English class and pampers the English language with his silky Madrid accent. He loves food, family and fun, but most of all God and tomatoes-tomates, as he’d say. He smiles a lot, which gets him in trouble during training sessions, but he says its better to keep your sense of humor and get yelled at, then to lose your soul and stay out of trouble.
Lorinaitis is in her squad, slow to speak, but first to listen. He might not tell you what you’d like to hear, but he’ll always tell you what you need. He’s studious, almost to a fault. He’s good with his mind, but not so good with physical, and is always getting hell from the upperclassmen because of it. He’s from the back alleys of Ohio too, but Amie hadn’t met him until Orientation Weekend.
A little light flickers in her chest.
“Yeah, I am. I should tell you about Lu-Fernandez.” Telling Mrs. Catholic about Luka and his exploits is probably not the brightest idea she’s had. “He’s from Spain. Very sweet.”
Mrs. Bonnefoy looks up from the strapless she’s selected and grins. “Oh. You like him?”
“As a friend,” Amie reassures. “As a friend. He’s like…two, three years older than I am.”
“Love knows no age,” Mrs. Bonnefoy replies. She re-racks the dress. She peers at a something more sunset blue than Kool-Aid. “You will find love too, Amie. Trust me. I am French. I know these things. You will find love and when you do, you must hold on to it and never let it go.”
“Thanks, Mrs. B,” Amie says with as genuine a smile as she can procure, trying not to roll her eyes. All she knows of love is messy endings and long trials and having to pick Mom or Dad, and then not picking at all because the good people of Carolyn, Ohio have something better in mind.
Mrs. Bonnefoy hands her another dress.
“Try this.”
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They opened at nine. It’s almost four o’clock. They’ve had three costumers. One was looking for directions to the Academy. One needed a bathroom. One contemplated violets for his wife, but was rushed out by a phone call about “an accident, come home now.”
Natalya waters the plants. Katyusha sits behind the register. Ivan tends the sunflowers.
Closing time at five-thirty.
The phone shrieks. Katyusha picks up, but speaks poor English, and throws the receiver to Ivan. She returns to her magazine. Ivan walks through the gardenias.
“Hello? Oh. Hi, Mr. O’Kelly.
Ah, yes, about that. I’ve got most of it. Eighty percent.
Seventy-five percent.
I’ll give it to you by Friday.
Um…Saturday.
You know what, make that Sunday. Yes, Sunday.
At two.
No. Three.
Uh, can we make it four thirty?
I know you’ve extended my dues. I’m very grateful. It’s just that-
…
…
Oh.
Oh, I see.
Yes.
Yes, I understand.
Absolutely, Mr. O’Kelly.
Thank you.
Bye now.”
With a soft ping, Ivan ends the call. He leans his back on the shelf’s side and slides down, pushed down by an invisible hand. He runs his hands through his hair. It needed to be trimmed three weeks ago, now it just needs to be cut. He throws the phone to the side, it clanks against the floorboards and skids to a stop somewhere near the register.
A long time ago, Ivan Mikhailovich Braginski stumbled into America, pockets half full with money and a heart full of hope. He came with a vision, with a plan. He wanted to shake the dirt of St. Petersburg off his shoes and start a business. He sold roses. He was a terrible businessman.
At twenty, he barely spoke enough English to hail a cab. His studio was small, he could walk across the diagonal in three in a half strides. It was dirty, cultures of bacteria growing in the corners, the runners as black as night. His bulletproof windows barred. A single chain turned on and off a flickering incandescent light bulb in the center of the room. His landlord, Popov, provided a mattress and a refrigerator, both bought in 1964. The room smelt of cabbage and beets and rotten socks. To his left, a family of six. To his right, a family of eight. Both loud, obnoxious, meddling Russians. He smoked.
Ivan kept mostly to himself because Brighton reminded him so much of the city he’d just escaped. He lost twenty pounds that winter and finally when the first signs of spring sprang forth, he picked up his things and moved to Colorado. He was just as bad of a businessman there as he was in New York, but the altitude and fresh air were well appreciated. In baggage claim, he realized he didn’t have a job and didn’t have a place to stay, so he went to the bar. He met Mr. O’Kelly there. The stout Bostonian was a loud drunk, but sober enough to see his reflection in Ivan’s emaciated self and offered him a two bedroom apartment. Two fifty a month, no questions asked.
Reply
Management is something one shouldn’t learn on the job. Ivan lost more money his first year in business than he did his entire time in New York. He supposed the word got out that he was a bad money handler and that’s why his work went down. He still smoked. He stated to drink. He lost five pounds he didn’t think he had to give.
He wrote to his sisters, called them, bribed them, guilt tripped them, pleaded them to come to America and help him. Natalya came first. She was just out of high school. Katyusha took longer. She was enrolled in an intensive medical program in France. Engaged. Looking for apartments with said fiancé. She had wanted to be a cardio specialist since she was old enough to say stethoscope. She broke it off with fiancé when she came home early and found fiancé in bed with the neighbor. She ran to America and brought food.
Mr. O’Kelly was lenient with payments, especially when Ivan’s sisters came into town. So long as it gets in, it gets in, he used to say. He had faith in Ivan’s shop, though the Russian seemed to do everything one could possibly do wrong in running a business. He’d managed to set fire to a stack of W2s three days before April 15th.
That was two years ago. Now, Mr. O’Kelly was old and his mother was older and had suffered from a stroke. It was going to cost money to treat her, money Mr. O’Kelly didn’t have until he gave Ivan until Sunday to turn all his dues in, with interest.
Ivan sighs.
“Ivan?” Katyusha prods. “Is everything all right?”
Ivan looks up at his sister and smiles reassuringly. “Yeah.”
An Author's Quick Annotations
How's that for abrupt style change? lol
Ah, for international readers. April 15th is tax day! And W2s are official forms that say how much money you made and how much the government took away (payroll taxes, yes?). You kind of need them before taxes are due, so the government can take more money. Ivan setting W2s ablaze three days before tax day? Not the brightest thing our clumsy friend has ever done.
That's all for now! Remember, next installment is back to Jonesy and the realities of being a cadet. I highly encourage you to go to YouTube and search "usafa cadets." ^^
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Can't wait for these two to meet and to read more of this fabulous story.
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Thank you so much!
Haha, when these two meet, it's gonna be like dynamite baby. ;)
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You should post this up at the Fills List to let people know you've updated it...it makes me sad that it hasn't gotten more comments... :-( (And afraid you might discontinue it which would make me most sad indeed...)
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Oh, wait, what? You're supposed to put updates on there too???
...
This intrigues me.
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Keep it up, anon! I was sad to see this unfinished, but then I smacked myself in the head once I realized that all of your updates were ... from yesterday, haha. *doesn't pay attention to timestamps, clearly* I'm really looking forward to the next installment!!
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I'm going to try to finish this. I used to be a cadet, and was medically discharged rather abruptly and against my will. So...I'm hoping this will be therapeutic in its own way. I'll force myself to finish it. :P
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I'm glad you're enjoying this! ^//^
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I love how you work in so many other characters too and make them fit into this world while still being believable and in character.
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I'm glad you're enjoying it! Next installment will be awesome as we introduce more cannon characters. ^//^
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