Page 83 of Pageant

Three weeks later, I receive an email about my first booking. A small runway show in Miami. I’ve never been out of the state before and I envision beautiful, sandy beaches, fruity drinks, and hot sunshine. There’s not much time until I’m eighteen and I graduate, which makes everything much less complicated as I don’t need to choose between my exams and my new job. I float through the rest of the school year feeling like I’m living someone else’s life. Whenever someone asks me what I’m doing after I graduate, I tell them I’m going to try runway modeling. There are lots of raised eyebrows and disbelieving looks. If I hadn’t seen the email, I don’t think I would have believed it myself.

On the very last day of school, I practically skip home, I’m that excited. I’m my own woman. Every hour of every day now belongs to me and what I want. Golden possibilities unfold before me. Seeing the world. Discovering who I am and what I can do. Making enough money so thatBabulyacan buy the good cuts of meat and never worry about affording insulin ever again.

As I burst through the front door, I shout happily forBabulya. “I’m home! Can we drink tea from thepodstakannik? Today is a special—”

I skid to a halt as I see who is seated at the kitchen table.

“Occasion,” I finish in a whisper.

The man occupying one ofBabulya’swooden chairs seems too big and hard to be allowed in this small, slightly shabby, feminine space. Against the backdrop of the faded wildflower wallpaper, he looks twice as mean as he used to, even though he’s smiling at me.

But it’s not a pleasant smile.

“Hello, Lilia. Congratulations on your last day of school.” Dad speaks these words carelessly as his eyes run over me, examining the young woman I’ve turned into since the day he abandoned me.

Babulyahas her back pressed against the sink and her hands are clenching each other so tightly that they’re turning white. She gives me a desperate, frightened look, and I know she’s as bewildered as I am.

How dare Dad push his way in here after leaving me.

“Hello,” I reply coldly, pleased that my voice sounds so steady even though my insides are quaking. “Thank you for the congratulations. You can go now.”

“I want to talk to you, Lilia.”

Anger rushes up and bursts forth from my mouth. “I have nothing to say to you! You’re not welcome in this house. You’re not my father and you haven’t been since the day you abandoned me here.”

Dad’s jaw bunches with fury as he struggles to maintain his temper. “I seeBabushkahas enjoyed poisoning you against me. You always were a spiteful old woman,” he flings at her.

“Babulyahas done nothing but love me and take care of me. Every drop of poison that runs in my veins, you put there yourself when you hit me and screamed at me and called me names.”

He slams his fist on the table, and the remains ofBabulya’slast cup of tea and teapot jump and rattle. “I will discipline my own child as I see fit.”

There are silver threads in his hair, new lines on his face, and a few more pounds at his midsection, but he is the same man he always was. I don’t know why he’s come here today, but it’s not to offer his only child an olive branch or to apologize for how he treated me in the past.

“I’m not your child anymore. I’m eighteen, and I don’t answer to you.”

“Sit down so I can talk to you. Stop acting like a brat.”

I fold my arms. “No. I mean—”

My heart pounds in my chest and I suddenly feel flustered. I was saying no to sitting down and talking, but now I do sound like a brat. I refuse to think of this man as a father, so why is it he can make me feel like a child?

“This isn’t your house. You don’t give orders here. We do, andBabulyaand I want you to get out.”

“Are you going to act this way in front of your husband?” Dad asks.

I give a hollow laugh. “Husband? I’m not getting married.” Not anytime soon, anyway, and any man I fall in love with is going to be on my side when I’m upset, not Dad’s. Above all, he’s going to have nothing whatsoever in common with my father.

“Yes, you are. It’s all arranged.”

I feel like I’ve been deluged in icy cold water. He has to be joking. Marriages aren’t things that are arranged these day. We aren’t living in medieval Russia, and I’m not some privileged daughter of the aristocracy. I’m the dirt-poor and estranged daughter of a mafia asshole.

But as I stare at my father, I remember that he never tells jokes and he’s clearly not joking now.

Babulyasteps forward, shaking with rage and fear. “You are not doing to Lilia what my husband did to my Alyona. I kept my mouth shut like a good wife back then, but I will not be silent—”

“Shut up, old woman,” Dad roars at her, making her flinch. “This is between me and my daughter.”

“You want to know what I think of this arrangement?” I challenge him. “I don’t want it. I’m going to be a runway model. I’ve already booked my first job and it’s all arranged.”

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