Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

“Hey, Anna! Sit with me,” he says. He takes his overflowing bag and sets it on the floor. I sit down. He hands me the new cigarette, and passes his lighter over too once I sit.

“Oh my god, thank you. It’s like you read my mind.”

August giggles. “Your mind isn’t hard to read, Anna. It’s usually one of three things. Speaking of, whatever happened to Mr. Short, Dark, and Handsome?” He tips his cigarette into the ashtray, knocks the ash off in a way where half of it ends up on our antique wooden table, then brings it back up to his lips to take another drag. “Haven’t seen him around lately.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably got back together with that ex he’s always obsessing about,” I say, then place my hand over August’s mouth. “Do not say I told you so!” but it’s too late, he says it at the same time as I do.

“Fine, fine, you were right,” I admit. August pinches my cheek. “I’m not cut out to be the other woman.”

“At least we won’t have to go to anymore metal shows,” he says, lightheartedly. “I didn’t want to tell you when you were fucking, but his music is awful.”

“Oh, I know,” I laugh. “I could tell from your face.”

“Could you?” he says. “I thought I was doing such a good job hiding it.”

“Not everyone can be Bob Dylan, August.”

“Sure, but can’t they at least be Bob Seger?”

“Who’s Bob Seger?”

August drops his head and shakes it. “Oh boy. Why do I even bother playing you music? You still don’t know the difference between indie folk and progressive rock.” He stands up, puts his cigarette out, and shoves the Drum baggie into his pocket. “Hey, can you keep an eye on my bike for a while?” he asks.

“Which one? That one?”

“Yeah, I sold the other ones,” August says with a hint of a smile. “I’m leaving town for a bit. I can leave you the lock for it too, if you want to use it.”

“Sure!” I agree. We are almost the same height so his bike would fit me perfectly, and it’s much faster than the old Trek hybrid I’d been borrowing from my parents’ house. I could go all kinds of places with August’s bike. “Where are you headed?”

“Gonna hop a train with my friend Rod. We’ll head south and see where we end up.”

“Oh, that’s so cool,” I say. “Rod… the one with all the face tattoos?”

“Yeah,” August says. “I haven’t done the train thing in a while, and I’m feeling antsy. This fucking weather, man.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. Although, I really like this weather. I’m a weirdo, I guess.”

“You want to come with?” he asks, then lifts his polka-dot road bike onto his shoulder as if it weighs nothing

“Train-hopping?” I ask, dumbfounded. At times, I’ve fantasized about going myself, jumping on a train as it starts moving, feeling the wind dancing around the steel car, and hearing nothing but a roar for six, seven hours. Going anywhere and nowhere, with no one to answer to. But I don’t think I have the courage for that level of misbehaving, the kind that involves leaving everything behind. Or any kind of misbehaving, when it comes down to it.

“I don’t think so, but thanks,” I tell August, breaking eye contact. I pick my snacks up from the table and open the door for him so he can get out easier carrying the bike on his shoulder. “Maybe another time. When will you be back, you think?”

“I don’t know. Couple weeks? I would rather not plan it too much.” I fight an urge to hug him goodbye. All of our late-night wine drinking spent talking about our failed romantic dramas had really brought us closer the last few months, and I’m sad to see him go. But I don’t want to come off as cheesy, so I settle for a more casual goodbye.

“Well, have fun, I’ll miss you,” I say.

“Aw, I’ll miss you too, Anna,” he says, then comes over and gives me a one-handed hug anyway. He smells like sweat and patchouli and platonic friendship. Relationships at nineteen are strange; sometimes they feel like train wrecks, the way you can bond so easily and so intensely. How someone you met only a few months ago now feels impossibly necessary to your daily existence. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just luck or if this is how life is for normal people; or, worst of all, if this is a fleeting occurrence that only lasts as long as young adulthood lasts. In any case I return the hug and then carry my snacks back to my room before August can see my eyes are tearing up. I blink them away and light another cigarette, and after a few drags, I’ve calmed myself down enough to turn on my computer.

I don’t like change. It’s only a trip, I know, but something about it makes my heart beat faster and my stomach turn. Of course, it doesn’t help that minutes ago I had possibly the biggest argument with my parents I’ve ever had. That the more I think about my future—two and a half more years of college, followed by working at some office nine-to-five, then marrying a Russian Jew my family would approve of and having kids—the more I feel like jumping off the Locust Street Bridge.

So maybe this will explain why I did what I did next, because this is the mindset I am in when I find another message from Zoya. The second message from her is on Facebook and sounds more urgent. I read it three times in a row to make sure I understand correctly. But even after the third time through, plus an internet browser’s translation, I’m still not so sure that I do.

“ Dear Anastasia Pavlova ,” it says. “ I didn’t want to tell you this way, but I have no choice now. I am your sister on your dad’s side. I would really like to speak with you, if you are able. Please write back as soon as possible .”

Because I read Zoya’s second message in an entirely different mood than her first, I do not ignore it this time. I do not delete it. Had I been anyone else, I would never have done what I was about to do, and nothing that transpired would have ever happened. My life would be normal—at least as normal as it could ever be for someone who does not want a normal life.

But I can only be myself; the girl who once asked so many questions my teachers had to limit me to three a day. The girl who, at age eight, begged the Russian hairdresser to cut off all her hair to see what it would look like (it looked very, very bad). The girl who turned into a woman who eventually learned it was easier not to ask questions.

Maybe that girl never died; she only went away into hiding. Until now. Like Howard Zinn has said, “Dissent is the highest form of patriotism.”

Of course I was going to answer her.

And so, without thinking any more about it, I write, “Do you speak English?”

Outside on Bremen Street, I swivel around, my fists up, ready to use one of the many Krav Maga defensive moves I’d learned in Israel over the years, but then I see whose hand is on my shoulder and stop cold.

“Oh my God,” I say, dropping my hands. “Emily.”

My old best friend squeezes me with all her might, then releases her grip and looks me up and down. “Masha! I can’t believe it’s you. I thought I was seeing things.” She looks at my hand and frowns. “Are you smoking again?”

I shake my head. I hadn’t even realized I was holding Rose’s cigarette. “This isn’t mine.”

Emily continues to watch me, then glances back at the door. She gestures behind her. “Want to go inside and talk? It’s freezing. Is that a leather coat you’re wearing? What are you doing out here?”

“Actually, I can’t, I really have to…”

“Nonsense, woman,” she says, taking Rose’s cigarette, stealing a drag, then throwing it on the ground. “I’m sure you have five minutes for an old friend, right?” Then before I can protest, she is pushing me inside and buying me a drink. The bar is even more crowded now; bodies are stacked right on top of each other like sardines bathing in patchouli. A three-piece band is on stage; a stand-up bass, a gypsy guitar, and a banjo, all sticking out from the heads of plaid shirts and frayed jeans.