Suburban Youth
Chapter Three: Uno
The sun had cannon-balled into the horizon, splashing the evening sky a deep lilac, fit for a Renoir painting-which Francis found upon himself to remind everyone every two minutes. He did this until Arthur, the bitter British second cousin of the Williams twins (thrice removed), reminded him of a rather unpleasant ankle-to-face, therefore shutting the blonde up for the rest of the night. Christmas light lightning bugs began to flicker on and off, humming between blades of grass. Once the picnic tables had been moved to their original location, the energy of the children seemed to plummet to levels more respectable for retarded snails. Some sat on the grass, watching the stars sprinkle into the sky, waiting for the explosions of color and sound, the birthday candles of America’s birthday-and the awesome cherry to the awesome sundae of the Williams twins’ awesome twelfth birthday.
The night’s glass-water scene was only broken a few times by the roaring laughter of Hetalia Boulevard’s parents, now circling a fire they’d fixed, since The Game was over and the humidity descended to tolerable level. Most children wanted to sit around the fire, but since the fathers were drinking heavy quantities of beer (American lager to Mr. Williams’ delight and disdain to pretty much everyone else), they agreed those younger than legal drinking age shouldn’t be allowed in circumference. Though they made room for Sadiq, Herakles and G.
Russian immigrants and newest additions to Hetalia Boulevard, Mr. and Mrs. Braginski were complete opposites. First of all, Mr. Braginski took to American lager nicely and considered the Budweiser at almost the same grade as Russian vodka where his wife sipped it daintily as one sips liquor. The man towered over his wife, even when sitting. His face (red now) was all smiles, laughter and broken English, slipping into Russian more often as he clicked open cans of beer. His wife spoke only when spoken to and sounded like the winters of Russia had embedded themselves to her vocal chords. Despite their oddness, they were in the company of adults and therefore socially accepted.
“Alfred, for the last time, I don’t know when the fireworks are going to start,” Matthew Williams, the oldest twin (by two unholy minutes), said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He threw a red six into the growing pile of Uno cards.
“It feels like it’s been forever,” Alfred said, cracking a yawn. Arthur smirked as he threw in a yellow six.
“Why? Is it getting close to the hero’s bedtime?” Arthur asked. “Your move, Gilbert.”
“Pfft,” Alfred replied, brushing Arthur’s comment as one brushes off an irritating gnat. “Heroes don’t need bedtimes.”
“Heroes under fourteen do,” Gilbert said nonchalantly. He tossed a yellow reverse card.
“Don’t you have a bedtime, Gil?” Elizaveta asked with a wicked grin. Gilbert flushed an Uno card red, answering her question far better than any spoken word could have.
“Are you serious?” Roderich asked chuckling. “How old are you?” After Arthur placed a yellow five in the mix, he added a yellow nine.
“Fourteen and two months,” Gilbert grumbled. He shot a glare to Elizaveta across the circle. The rest of the neighborhood children snickered at the white-haired-due-to-over-bleaching teenager.
"And you listen to her?” Jakob asked, wild grin and another swig of orange soda. “I haven’t had a bedtime since I was seven.”
“Have you ever been slapped by an angry German woman?” Gilbert retorted. Jakob had no reply other than a laugh.
“Like this afternoon?” Ludwig cut in, his face stoic and strangely placid, considering Feliciano was draped rather unceremoniously over his shoulders. He’d given up trying to get the eleven year old off him for some time now. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself for those gifts.” Ludwig added his card to the mix. He was being completely serious, but his point was taken as fodder for guffawing.
“And this coming from the one who gave a politeness book,” Antonio said, taking a bite of his third piece of cake with his fifth scoop of ice cream. The vanilla ice cream melted to a goop and dribbled off his fork into the grass. Antonio added a wild card, and declared the color to be green after looking over his cards, though regretting it as Tino’s face lit up. Tino’s puppy barked lightly as it stuck its fluffy head over Tino’s shins.
Ludwig’s cheeks pinked and he mumbled something about the importance of etiquette in proper settings and how most Americans didn’t know anything about politeness anymore. This of course, resulted in Alfred most accidently squirting the Indiana resident with grape soda upon opening it.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I get you there?” Alfred asked.
“Ve, Ludwig, you smell nice now,” Feliciano piped, burying his nose in Ludwig’s now tuft hair.
Ludwig muttered something under his breath (“God, why me?”) as Tino added his card. The Finnish boy was now down to two cards. The other children noted this, and began checking their cards again for some way to keep the child from winning…again.
“Where’re th’Russ’n kids?” Berwald grumbled. Though the darkness had softened his otherwise terrifying features and the other children were keener to answer his questions, they had no answer for this inquiry.
“They lef’ fer s’da ’bout ten min’t’s ago.” He added a blue four, causing Tino’s face to fall. “Doesn’ take tha’ long t’find s’da.” Berwald wondered how his best friend had managed to win three rounds of Uno when he was so obvious with which card he possessed.
Nine-year-old Raivis bit his lower lip, shaking, despite the evening’s lingering heat and Tino’s dog’s adorable yelps (they really couldn’t be called “barks”) and jumps.
“Probably got lost. Al and Matt’s house is, like, huge,” Feliks said, dropping a blue eight and clicking his tongue. “Your turn, Tor.”
“Maybe someone should go check on them,” Toris said, tossing in his card. “Al, doesn’t your dad keep his shotgun downstairs?”
“Oh, snap, Toris, you’re right!” Al cried. He stood, dropping his cards for all to see. A wave of individuals leaned over to catch a glance at the self-proclaimed Uno champion’s deck. “Hang on, Russian kids! I’ll save you!” He was set to dash heroically to the house. Matthew grabbed the end of his shirt and tugged, slamming his brother into the ground.
“Dad moved it to the attic, dummy,” Matthew said with a huff. Alfred’s sudden panicked demeanor relaxed and he readjusted his position, quickly gathering his cards, wondering why they had moved face-up for everyone to see.
“You Americans and your peculiar gun mandates,” Arthur said flippantly.
“How many times do I have t’tell you, Artie?” Alfred asked, flicking a grass blade at the boy. “Small. Words.” He pinched his index finger and thumb together, indicating how large said words should be. Arthur then told his vocabulary-challenged second cousin (thankfully thrice removed) to go away to someplace very, very hot and quickly added to tell Francis’ mother hello while he was there. Francis attempted to reclaim his mother’s honor, but was swiftly silenced with a fistful of weeds to the teeth and mouth.
“Who cares ’bout them anyway?”Ten-year-old Eduard spoke, rearing the fleeting conversation back to its original catalyst. He’d been consoling his trembling younger brother, promising him that no Soviets were coming to take him away from the family and force him to the kolkhoz. Eduard’s words didn’t seem to be making much of a difference for the terrified nine-year-old. “If you ask me, it’s-”
“Eduard,” Toris said in warning. “All that stuff happened a long time ago. You two have to stop taking Nana’s stories so seriously.”
“They did the same thing to your family, Tor,” Eduard said. Bedtime stories might as well have been memories by the look in Eduard’s cement-grey eyes. His glasses (thick, even at his age), glinted in the distant fire and Toris could have sworn he saw the boy’s eyes glistening with angry tears.
“Hang on. Your family?” Alfred asked. The Baltic Bros and Toris turned to the speaker, each with their own flavor of stun on their faces. Toris appeared more violent, while Eduard and Raivis had the curious look of persons about to break into shoulder shaking sobs.
Alfred pointed between Toris and the Baltic Bros. “I thought you guys were related.”
“They are,” Feliks said, rolling his eyes.
“We are,” Toris said at the same time. “I’ve told you at least three times, Al. They’re my nephews. Don’t you ever listen?”
“Alfred only listens to himself,” Arthur said with a grin. It was his turn again, so he added a blue three.
“I listen to you guys!” Alfred retorted, slapping his pretentious older cousin (thrice removed, thank God; he didn’t want to be any more closely related to this elitist), on the shoulder with his deck of cards, once again displaying his rather horrid card selection.
“No you don’t,” Matthew spat, Yukon ice in his voice.
The jovial and light air came to a train-crashing-in-a-wall halt. There was no widespread shock among Hetalia Boulevard’s children as Arthur would have expected to procure in lieu of such a downturn of events. Rather, there was an air of I can’t believe it actually took this long or It’s nine o’clock; you owe me five bucks.
“When do I only listen to myself, Matt?” Alfred asked with equal malice. The twins glared at each other, sparks splintering off their gaze. Though they were born on the same day, the boys couldn’t have been any different. Said differences now magnified and spotlighted. Matthew’s chin tucked in a bit and he glared over his glasses, now halfway down the bridge of his nose. Despite his tone, his face was bleach-cleaned of emotion.
Alfred was a shaken soda can waiting to be opened. His breathing rapid, nostrils flaring. He clenched the grass to keep the obviousness of his hands trembling to a minimum. To see how angry he was progressively becoming, all one had to do was look at the twitching tuft of hair (that would never sit properly) to the right of his part.
“All the time, Al!” Matthew’s voice cracked again. “You didn’t listen to me last-”
“I was so right about last year and you know it.” Alfred stood and poked his brother’s shoulder. Matthew stood and shoved his brother back.
“Last year, eh? I was-” Alfred shoved him.
“There you go with the freaking ‘eh’ again! You’re not in Canada anymore, Matt!” His brother recovered and shoved back.
“Maybe I should go back, since you liked having me up there so much!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have-”
Matthew lunged at his younger brother, glasses popping off his face with a snap as Alfred hit back. In their scuffle, they destroyed the pile of Uno cards.
Gilbert and Elizaveta were up and at the brothers’ side instantly, trying to pry the children apart, though separating a Williams twin fight was next to splitting atoms.
“Ah, rosbif,” Francis said, waving his hand in Arthur’s direction, scoffing. “Look what you started.”
“I started this?” Arthur asked, popping an enlarged eyebrow indignantly. Francis and the other neighborhood children nodded in unison.
What little pigment Ludwig had drained from his cheeks quicker than Bounty picks up a spill. He’d been unable to come East last summer, so, as with Arthur, this was the first time he’d seen such display between two twins he’d believed were fiercely loyal and loving to each other, albeit normal sibling scuffles. This was not normal sibling scuffling though.
Alfred dived around Matthew’s waist, bringing both of them careening to the ground, now grappling: rolling and grunting and punching and groaning whenever they could get in a blow. Matthew held his own, and quite well, considering his glasses were a good twenty feet from him, and he was more or less blind. Antonio saved his plate of treats from a stray sneaker and mud fleck. Vash threatened to kill either twin after the fight if they got any closer to his cake.
“Well, perhaps if someone would bloody explain what the hell happened last year-”
“Arthur-”Jakob said, saving his orange soda. “-we don’t talk about 1999.”
“Well, why the bloody hell not?” Arthur looked back to the twins, standing again, thanks to Gilbert and Elizaveta’s intervention. They slapped each other’s faces. The fourteen-year-olds grunted as they attempted pulling the magnets apart. “And more to the point, you just let them fight like this?”
“It’s like putting vinegar in baking soda,” Kristopher, the Norwegian boy with the funny barrette and hat, said nonchalantly. “You just have to wait till it’s done.”
With a final pull and muffled oof, Elizaveta and Gilbert popped the brothers off each other. The teenagers dragged the boys in opposite directions, Elizaveta clutching Matthew at the waist, Gilbert pulling at Alfred’s underarms.
Elizaveta turned Matthew to face her and kept a grasp on his wrists so he couldn’t get away to attack his brother again. She spoke to him in attempts to calm him down, brushing his hair from his forehead, checking for cuts and major bruises (there’d be minor bruises regardless). His face was blotchy and eyes bleary. She replaced his glasses, patted the blonde on the crown of his head and gave him a matronly smile in reassurance.
Gilbert did the same to Alfred as Elizaveta had done to Matthew, sans all the girly head patting and smiles of course. When Gilbert had determined Alfred to be in decent physical shape (despite the finger-shaped bruises on his arms), he tousled his hair and told him he was ok. Alfred pushed Gilbert away.
The youngest twin readjusted his deck of cards and the center pile. He glanced around the circle of children and shot a look to his brother, who’d been placed at the other end and if Lovino moved a bit to his left, out of Alfred’s eyesight. Matthew caught the look but did not falter.
“Come on guys,” Matthew said quietly. “Whose turn was it?”
Arthur filed through his cards, unable to find a green or seven in his deck and thus turned to Matthew.
“Yours,” the Briton said.
The kind of quiet of a crowd watching someone dismantle a bomb took over the children. Any sound surely would have caused the entire backyard to explode.
“H-hey, Matt. D’you have a green or seven?” Alfred asked, peaking over his cards at his brother. Matthew looked into the pile of Uno cards and then into his own hand. After rearranging the card’s order, Matthew threw in a green four.
“Yeah. But you don’t.” The two smirked at each other.
The circle breathed again.
The back door slid shut with a soft slam and Ekaterina trotted across the cement to the grassy area by the spindly cherry tree where the other children gathered.
“Gawd, Kattie, what took you so long?” Feliks asked, clicking his tongue. Ekaterina popped her head to the side, confused.
“Kattie?” she asked, eyebrows creasing like she’d smelt something odd. With her accent, the new nickname sounded as if it were three distinct syllables, key-at-ee.
“Yeah, Kattie. Your name’s Katherine. I’m lazy. You’re cool. Kattie.” A smug grin tugged on the corners of his mouth. “Come on, join the game. We, like, need something to lighten the total bummer Birthday Boys decided to drop on us.”
Matthew and Alfred huffed.
“Oh no, did something happen?” Ekaterina asked, instantly concerned.
“Nothing special. Sit next to me. Berwald scoot over,” Feliks said, pushing the large fourteen-year-old away. No one noticed the pink that now sprinkled over Matthew’s cheeks. The game continued while Feliks and Toris gave Ekaterina details of like, the greatest card game ever.
“Lithuania, you say, Comrade?” Mr. Braginski boomed from the adult’s fire circle. “What part are you from? I have friends in the country.”
On the Under-Twenty-One front, Feliks carpet bombed Ekaterina with questions. “Where’s your brother?” “What took so long?” “Why does he wear that scarf?” “How’s your English so good while your brother’s sucks?” “Pfft, Tor, your fa-a-ace.”
To which, Ekaterina answered in order. “He’s still inside getting drinks.” “He’s interested in American electronics and I had to translate.” “It’s a long story.” “I had a private tutor, but Dad got…how you say, in money trouble and couldn’t afford for Ivan to learn. But I translate and teach him when I can.”
“You’re nice,” Matthew piped, despite his vocal chords taking temporary leave from his throat.
“Aw, what a sweet sister,” Elizaveta said drowning out Matthew’s words. Ekaterina’s cheeks pinked with the compliment and she smiled softly, bringing her knees to her chest. She noticed…what was his name, Matthew? She noticed him push his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a rather flustered way. “I wish I had younger siblings,” Elizaveta continued. “I’d love to teach them stuff. You know, show ’em all the good places to catch garter snakes, the Tree Fort-Roderich, when was the last time we went out there?”
Roderich shrugged and threw in a green reverse card.
“Oh, you dick. Sorry kiddies,” Gilbert said and recovered. He counted his cards once more, three cards, all yellow. “Lud, it’s your turn.” He inhaled a handful of Fritos “If I was an older bro, I’d leave ’em to their own devices,” he flashed his teeth in a smile to Elizaveta, who’s motherly demeanor was decreasing as Gilbert’s arrogance increased. He barked a laugh. “Oh sure, I’d be there if they got hurt or whatever, but best to leave ’em to learn on their own.”
“That’s because you’re a horrible little boy who takes joy in other people’s pain, you rotten son of a-”
It sounded like an animal blended alive with screws and nails. The pitches and volumes oscillated like ocean waves. Despite the clamor, there were three distinct voices and if one listened carefully, they could make out lyrics: It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears. It’s a world of hope and a world of fears.
The children in the circle slowly turned to the sound’s source. Perhaps if they moved slowly enough, they could avoid the inevitable (seeing their fathers acting like frat boys on a home football game weekend).
Sure enough, at the Over-Twenty-One circle, there was Mr. Williams: be speckled and arms draped over Mr. Weillschmidt and Mr. Vargas. For what reason they were belting out this disturbing rendition of a childhood favorite, Hetalia Boulevard’s children did not know, though one could assume it had something to do with Mr. Lorinaitis’ comment that his family had once lived in the same ancient Lithuanian town as Mr. Braginski’s aforementioned unnamed friend.
Mr. Williams was a man of the South. He was simple-spoken with a Mississippi lilt. Despite the tuft of hair that stuck straight up on the back of his head, his country idioms and overall carefree nature, Mr. Williams was not an idiot when sober. But Mr. Williams was not sober now. He was drunk. He was so drunk he hadn’t realized he’d spilt half the contents of his fifth (sixth? Seventh?) beer with his exaggerated hand movements. Nor had he realized the dam keeping his drawling to a lilt had been destroyed and his accent had descended rather quickly to that of full-fledged rural Mississippi trash. He might as well buy a white wife beater and trucker hat with the Confederate flag.
“Kill me,” Matthew deadpanned, sinking into a ball.
“Da-a-d!” Alfred whined, absolutely aghast at his father’s behavior. He’d only seen his dad completely wasted once prior to this event. “Stop being country!”
Mr. Williams moved in slow motion, swimming through the goop of five-to-seven Budweisers.
“Al! Hey, Alfr’d, izzat you, boy? D’ya wanna join us?”
“No!”
“Alfred Franklin Williams, yeh git heuh ri’now, young man!” Mr. Williams pointed to a grass patch near his log-for-chair. Another quarter liquid split in the same spot.
“O-oh kay, honey,” Mrs. Williams said with an embarrassed, though sober, laugh, plucking the Budweiser can from her husband’s loosened grip. “That’s enough beer for tonight.”
"Aw, sweet pea, jus’ one mo’ sip?” Mr. Williams drawled, reaching for his drink and his wife. Mrs. Williams retracted to her chair. She crossed her arms and shot him a look that would have shut up the most sober and cognizant individual.
“The fireworks are probably going to start soon, ja,” Mr. Carlson, the Danish widower, said to the children’s circle. Like the Russian New Comers, he was a first generation American and therefore spoke English through a heavy accent filter. Unlike the Russian New Comers, though, he had been on Hetalia Boulevard for ten years. He nursed an orange soda. “Jakob, why don’t you get your sister and the other girls upstairs?”
Jakob obliged and dashed into the house to retrieve the girls under ten. Of course, not without verbal assault from Vash, warning him of unspeakable punishments if he harmed his darling sister Ava during the retrieval.
Once Jakob entered the house, Ivan exited, carrying a tray of various sodas, his beige scarf kissing the cement.
“Jesus Christ, Ivan, what took you so bloody long?” Arthur shouted.
“Ee-van,” Ivan retorted, readjusting the tray on his stomach.
“Ah-thu, yeh too young t’be talkin’ lak dat,” Mr. Williams chided.
Ivan was halfway across the cement when Mr. Braginski noticed his son and asked a string of Russian questions. Ivan stopped and listened intently, answering them in quick Russian, smiles and nods. Meanwhile, the sodas began to sweat and drip water onto his red-white striped t-shirt.
The back door slid open again and the missing boy and three small sisters piled next to the tree with the other children. Natasha pointed to her brother, as if saying, “no, leave me here with my brother,” but was swept over Jakob’s shoulder so quickly she hadn’t time to protest in the grunts-for-English she knew.
Mr. Braginski had apparently asked his son for a can of soda (since no one around the fire spoke a word of Russian, they could only assume that’s what he’d asked when the gangly blonde trotted to the group). There were two problems with Mr. Braginski’s request, however.
First problem, Mr. Braginski had not taken into account that his son was a bit more overeager tonight because of the situation. A new country, neighborhood and children to meet and be friends with were usually conducive of a good number of frazzled nerves. This overlook might have been expected, because Ivan had always been an eager-to-please child and he appeared quite normal to his parents.
What shouldn’t have been overlooked was problem number two: adrenaline coupled with a body that’d grown four and three quarter inches in sixth months usually created an explosive chemical reaction known in the medical field as bumbling clumsiness (the only ailment known to man without a Latin-based name).
Ivan’s trot to his father came to a grinding halt when the toe of his shoe caught the heel of Mrs. Fernandez-Carriendo. Gravity then took its toll and pulled the five-foot-three-inched boy careening to the ground face-first.
This was not a problem.
Sodas flew from the tray and landed with solid thumps around and one hit a stray rock and opened with a hiss and geyser, sprinkling several mothers with sticky grape soda.
This too, was not a problem.
Ivan’s fall had caused the top right corner of the tray to shift a log of fire. Several embers, large as thimbles, flew into the air and arched back to the earth and landed on the puddle of alcohol caused by Mr. Williams’, Mr. Vargas’ and Mr. Weillschmidt’s karaoke nightmare. On impact, the embers caused a small explosion, hurling the twelve year old, and the adults in opposite directions.
This was a problem.
Mrs. Williams cursed her family and their uncanny ability to set at least one thing on fire every year during a celebration. Among her curses were oohs, ahhs, screams and scrambles-to-safety from children and adult male alike. As the fire spread from the puddle to other parts of the backyard, no one noticed the plume of sparks breaking overheard in a fantastic display of lights, sounds and patriotism.
Explosion
(ĭk-splō'zhən) n.
1. A release of mechanical, chemical, or nuclear energy in a sudden and often violent manner with the generation of high temperature and usually with the release of gases
2. A violent bursting as a result of internal pressure.
3. The loud, sharp sound made as a result of either of these actions.
4. A sudden, often vehement outburst: an explosion of rage.
5. A sudden, great increase: a population explosion; the explosion of illegal drug use .