Suburban Youth (ch.2 finale)
“So, you see, Ivan, it’s a fairly simple game,” Arthur said, explaining the Hetalia Boulevard War Game to the new comer. The boy readjusted the beige scarf tied tight against his neck; so tight, that Arthur couldn’t see the contours of the boy’s neck. He thought the boy daft, since it was close to 79 degrees and even the thought of trousers was enough to make him sweat. He was silenced before he could get the question out.
“Ee-van,” Ivan corrected. Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed, a little irritated that the Russian boy wouldn’t let the slight pronunciation difference go. It wasn’t like he harped on Alfred or Matthew for pronouncing aluminium incorrectly. Simply by being in America, he knew that things were said differently here. Ivan would be wise to learn this lesson as quickly as possible.
“Anyway, you will represent the USSR. And your sisters may represent it as well, if they would like to play?” He turned to the girls, who had been standing on the cement portion of the backyard, and smiled without exposing his metal-encrusted teeth. Try to be welcoming, he thought. They’re kids just like yourself. Ekaterina nodded.
“Katya, she, would play Ukraine then, yes?” Ivan asked; Arthur nodded. Since they had the Baltic States, it wouldn’t hurt, he supposed. “And Natasha…she too small, but if she were…bigger, yes, she would play Belorussia.”
“How does that work, exactly?” Elizaveta asked, perking an eyebrow.
“Oh…well, umm…” while Ivan searched for the words he didn’t know, Ekaterina spoke for him.
“Ivan and I are half siblings,” her voice was smoother with English, someone who knew the language and had been studying it for far longer than Ivan had, though still pleasantly accented. “We share the same father, but his mother is Russian, mine is Ukrainian, and Natasha,” she raked her fingers through her sister’s hair, “is our step-sister with family in Belarus. Ivan it’s Belarus not Belorussia in English.”
“I see,” Arthur replied dry as a California summer.
“Three orders of Nerf guns, comin’ up!” Alfred said, returning with his brother, baring his usual overly happy grin. Any hostility he seemed to have towards the Russian siblings had dissipated, though knowing his cousin, that was probably far from the truth. Alfred wasn’t one to just let go of grudges, no matter how poorly the foundation they were based upon.
“Who’s ready to do this?” Matthew asked with a grin, handing the weapons to Ivan and Natasha. The little girl refused the gun by crossing her arms, shaking her head and pouting like a child much younger than she looked. Matthew was taken aback by her aggression and attitude. He was about to say something about it, when Ekaterina’s hand touched his arm.
“I am sorry for my sister’s behavior,” she said, “but she is just a child and has not learned English beyond simple greetings. You can understand, of course?”
For a moment, Matthew forgot all of what he was going to say simply stared at the short-haired girl. There was nothing remarkably pretty about her appearance. She was a bit pale, maybe too thin for her height, plain dressed and even plainer spoken.
“O-of course,” he thought he said. What came out was the screech of an animal caught in an electric fence. His whole body tensed and sweat ran down his back. His ears didn’t tingle, neither did his face; his whole body, scalp to baby toenail was the same color of a Coke can and prickled like he’d been tazered.
And she laughed. Oh, God, she laughed! (And so did everyone else) But hers was a subdued sort of laugh, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. Subtle, not guffawing like his little brother and his cronies.
“Thank you,” she said. She turned to her sister and whispered something in hurried Russian. The little girl dashed inside.
“Where’s she going?” Matthew asked.
“Inside. The younger girls are playing in the guest bedroom.”
“Oh. Well…um,” his mind had suddenly fled its usual residence in his skull to a place far, far away from here and now. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying desperately to find the words to the question he wanted to ask her. “Since Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union, you can be on my team…if…you, uh, um…want.”
She chuckled again, but this time he didn’t feel like jumping off a cliff.
“Oi! Williams Number One with the Crush!” Gilbert’s crash voice knocked him back to reality quite painfully. “Pay attention! We’ve only got a few hours of sunlight left.”
Matthew shot back a twelve year old version of a swear (he couldn’t bring himself to actually say the words). Katya slung her Nerf gun over her torso and followed Matthew behind the upturned picnic table.
“Finally, God!” Gilbert said exasperated. “Hey, Frenchie, how you holding up?” Francis responded with a string of French words, only assumed to be angry swears. “Excellent,” Gilbert charged his Nerf gun. “Let’s play boys!”
Awkward
(ôk'wərd) adj.
//Chapter 3//
“Ee-van,” Ivan corrected. Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed, a little irritated that the Russian boy wouldn’t let the slight pronunciation difference go. It wasn’t like he harped on Alfred or Matthew for pronouncing aluminium incorrectly. Simply by being in America, he knew that things were said differently here. Ivan would be wise to learn this lesson as quickly as possible.
“Anyway, you will represent the USSR. And your sisters may represent it as well, if they would like to play?” He turned to the girls, who had been standing on the cement portion of the backyard, and smiled without exposing his metal-encrusted teeth. Try to be welcoming, he thought. They’re kids just like yourself. Ekaterina nodded.
“Katya, she, would play Ukraine then, yes?” Ivan asked; Arthur nodded. Since they had the Baltic States, it wouldn’t hurt, he supposed. “And Natasha…she too small, but if she were…bigger, yes, she would play Belorussia.”
“How does that work, exactly?” Elizaveta asked, perking an eyebrow.
“Oh…well, umm…” while Ivan searched for the words he didn’t know, Ekaterina spoke for him.
“Ivan and I are half siblings,” her voice was smoother with English, someone who knew the language and had been studying it for far longer than Ivan had, though still pleasantly accented. “We share the same father, but his mother is Russian, mine is Ukrainian, and Natasha,” she raked her fingers through her sister’s hair, “is our step-sister with family in Belarus. Ivan it’s Belarus not Belorussia in English.”
“I see,” Arthur replied dry as a California summer.
“Three orders of Nerf guns, comin’ up!” Alfred said, returning with his brother, baring his usual overly happy grin. Any hostility he seemed to have towards the Russian siblings had dissipated, though knowing his cousin, that was probably far from the truth. Alfred wasn’t one to just let go of grudges, no matter how poorly the foundation they were based upon.
“Who’s ready to do this?” Matthew asked with a grin, handing the weapons to Ivan and Natasha. The little girl refused the gun by crossing her arms, shaking her head and pouting like a child much younger than she looked. Matthew was taken aback by her aggression and attitude. He was about to say something about it, when Ekaterina’s hand touched his arm.
“I am sorry for my sister’s behavior,” she said, “but she is just a child and has not learned English beyond simple greetings. You can understand, of course?”
For a moment, Matthew forgot all of what he was going to say simply stared at the short-haired girl. There was nothing remarkably pretty about her appearance. She was a bit pale, maybe too thin for her height, plain dressed and even plainer spoken.
“O-of course,” he thought he said. What came out was the screech of an animal caught in an electric fence. His whole body tensed and sweat ran down his back. His ears didn’t tingle, neither did his face; his whole body, scalp to baby toenail was the same color of a Coke can and prickled like he’d been tazered.
And she laughed. Oh, God, she laughed! (And so did everyone else) But hers was a subdued sort of laugh, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. Subtle, not guffawing like his little brother and his cronies.
“Thank you,” she said. She turned to her sister and whispered something in hurried Russian. The little girl dashed inside.
“Where’s she going?” Matthew asked.
“Inside. The younger girls are playing in the guest bedroom.”
“Oh. Well…um,” his mind had suddenly fled its usual residence in his skull to a place far, far away from here and now. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying desperately to find the words to the question he wanted to ask her. “Since Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union, you can be on my team…if…you, uh, um…want.”
She chuckled again, but this time he didn’t feel like jumping off a cliff.
“Oi! Williams Number One with the Crush!” Gilbert’s crash voice knocked him back to reality quite painfully. “Pay attention! We’ve only got a few hours of sunlight left.”
Matthew shot back a twelve year old version of a swear (he couldn’t bring himself to actually say the words). Katya slung her Nerf gun over her torso and followed Matthew behind the upturned picnic table.
“Finally, God!” Gilbert said exasperated. “Hey, Frenchie, how you holding up?” Francis responded with a string of French words, only assumed to be angry swears. “Excellent,” Gilbert charged his Nerf gun. “Let’s play boys!”
Awkward
(ôk'wərd) adj.
- Not graceful; ungainly.
- Not dexterous; clumsy.
- Marked by or causing embarrassment or discomfort: an awkward remark; an awkward silence.
- Requiring great tact, ingenuity, skill, and discretion: An awkward situation arose during the peace talks.
- Difficult to handle or manage: an awkward bundle to carry.
//Chapter 3//