Page 9 of My Stepbrother's Wedding
“Malegonia?” The man cringed. “Worse county in Europe. You should go in Nakonia instead.”
“Oh.” I wished the man would go away. The old woman started speaking to me again, in what I deduced was some type of Slav language, not that I had any idea what a Slav language sounded like.
“She want know if you married,” the man said.
“No, I’m single.”
The old woman raised her eyebrows and made an intrusive hand gesture around my figure.
“She say we find you husband,” the man said.
I startled back. “Excuse me?”
“You have good … how you say …” The man bobbed his head as he searched for the right words. “Make good babies.”
My jaw dropped, too shocked to speak. The old woman stared at me with a wide grin, patting my elbow like we were longtime friends. Her affection filled me with a mix of amusement and discomfort. Mostly discomfort. I crammed my earplugs in and wrapped my arms around my chest, staring out the window until they took the hint. The next forty-five minutes felt longer than the flight from Chicago.This is your fault, Will,I thought. Why did you have to get married in Malegonia, of all places?
Chapter 4
Elizabeth and I tried to wake Dad once we landed in Petrovistan, but he just mumbled something incoherent and went back to sleep. After several failed attempts, we grabbed his arms and yanked him out of the seat. His eyes popped open, and he let out the loudest groan he’d made since passing a kidney stone three years before. He glowered at his surroundings for a moment, sighed, and started down the aisle.
Once he was moving, we lumbered off the plane and boarded an overflowing bus that felt like an oven in the late-July sun. My extra layers made it unbearable. I scrunched the cash around inside my bra, too tired and uncomfortable to care if the other passengers saw me. The ride lasted less than five minutes, yet I was dripping with sweat and gagging from the stench of body odor by the end.
After we tumbled off the bus, we waded into a slow-moving line in front of what appeared to be the main terminal entrance. Everything was a confusing blur. The signs were written in an unfamiliar alphabet, and I couldn’t decipher a single syllable of what the other passengers mumbled to one another. A booth waited at the front of the line, where people slid documents under a glass window. Passport control.
Elizabeth checked her watch every ten seconds, stress marks creasing her drenched forehead.
“Relax,” Dad said. “We have two hours before the next flight.”
“Why check our passports if we’re just in transit?” she said irritably.
A short, round man gave us a curious stare, apparently overhearing the conversation. “You Americans?”
“We are.” Dad nodded.
The man snickered as if he’d just heard a joke. I was wondering about the punch line, when a stern voice called us to the booth. We stepped forward, and Dad slid our passports under the glass. The customs official was the tallest woman I’d ever seen, with short dark hair and an impatient scowl that matched her police uniform. On her upper lip she had a hairy mole almost large enough to require a seat on an airplane. Shelooked at the seal on our passports and threw them against the desk.
“Amerikansi,” she croaked, as if we’d just insulted her mother’s dignity.
I gulped. Elizabeth shrank behind Dad. Dad stared at the woman like a deer in front of an 18-wheeler.
“Where you going?” she asked coldly.
“Malegonia,” Dad said with a tremble in his voice.
The woman’s scowl deepened. “Why you go in Malegonia?”
“Family wedding.”
I’d never seen Dad so intimidated. He clutched his carry-on bag with both hands like it could shield him from the cruel woman. She grunted and paged through our travel documents like they were accessories in a crime. Then she studied us one at a time, frowning and narrowing her eyes.
“Maude,” she said.
I shared a confused glance with Dad and Elizabeth before I realized she was talking to me.
“Yes, I’m Winifred Maude Robespierre,” I said.
“This no valid.” The woman held my passport open to reveal the customs stamp from Chicago had a slight ink smudge. “Get new stamp.”
