Later that day, I was proud to show Genevieve my score: seventy percent! I was expecting my mother to be proud of me, at least a little bit. She might have been, but she didn't dare show it.
"En français, s'il vous plait," she instructed.
Even at home, she was still Mrs. LaFayette.
I let my shoulders loose, and sighed. "Soixante-dix pour cent," madamoiselle."
"Merci beaucoup. Go have fun, don't be out too late! It's cold, and I don't want the door open when it's freezing out."
I kissed her on the cheek, and went for the door. "De rien, au revour! I won't!"

Quickly, I found myself at the malt shoppe. I was late to meet Lana, who'd been standing inside at the door. Same brown eyes, straight brown hair, and handsome face (for a girl). I noticed more than usual, this time: she'd started wearing glasses, round with thin wire frames. That, and her body was... curvier than I remembered. Or maybe it was her dress, which looked on her like a sleek shadow. Her jacket was over at the table, but her copper jewelry was shining at my face from around her neck. The neckline of her dress was boxy, as were the shoulders. It wasn't so much revealing as it was explaining. Didn't need to tell me twice. I blushed, and broke a sweat, tugging at my collar. I was wearing my same-old grey hoodie, and blue jeans.
"Wow," I gushed, "You look gorgeous, Lana. Should I have dressed up?"
She smiled. "No, I have a function to attend after this. My dad wants us all there, he's trying to impress his boss. He's a patent clerk, his job is to manage other people's inventions. He has a client who's got some kind of electric regulator to show off."
I laughed, "Well, I'm plenty impressed, maybe I should come. Electricity, that sounds fascinating. I could learn a thing or two."
She frowned. "Uhh... my dad probably wouldn't like that. He's still worried about you because Drake was your friend. And also your... boyfriend, for... about a week." She sighed, looking frustrated.
Lots of frowning and sighing today, huh? Yeah, the junior vampire. I don't regret being his friend, but I do resent how he treated me these last few months. That, and him puncturing the neckskin of everyone he could get his hands on, then framing me up for the crime. You'd think that would have some kind of romantic connotation, but he was purely hostile about it. If he'd been even a little more temptuous, I might still be seeing him. And then he might never have lashed out at everyone else. For the first time since it happened, I felt heavy with guilt. Not shame for being a loser, like I had before, but remorse for being so involved. Was it... my fault? Did I break the heart of a fragile, dangerous young man? Was I to blame for their hurt?
"He's in juvie," I said. "Visiting hours are over, and I'm not going when it opens up again. Besides, I'm seeing you. Not him. Let's get some food, shall we?"
"Just drinks," she corrected. "I'm saving space for tonight, there's a whole meal planned."
"...right." I started to feel left out. Shouldn't she bring her boyfriend to something like that? Was I not impressive enough to be seen with her? I looked down at my clothes. Comfortable, but a bit shabby. I doubt her father would entertain seeing me there in a dress, but that was all I had for a formal event. Maybe he was right to leave me out... I'd probably cause a scene.
I shook it off. I said to the server, "Two shakes, please-"
"Sodas," she interrupted. "No milk, I'll get gas."
"Good call, I nodded. "Two sodas, please," I called out. "And I'll get a hamburg-"
Then the power shut off, abruptly. The lights went out, the grill stopped working. The raw patties steamed for a bit, then went inert. The next diner was on the other side of town, and we knew it would take longer to get there than to wait it out... if the power wasn't out over there, too. So we waited. And the power never came back on. It was too quiet to chat without being heard to the point of embarrassment. When I tried to ask her to come home with me, she said she didn't want snow or mud on her shoes. They were mary-janes, to be fair. Our date had run out of juice. I gave her a kiss on the lips, when her father picked her up. One arm around her waist, one of hers on my shoulder. She turned red, but gave no complaint when she pressed in a little closer. I didn't mind that her father could see, because I felt I had nothing to hide. Only a smattering of passion, given politely. But maybe I miscalculated, a bit. In trying to prove how much I cared, perhaps I looked... overzealous. Through the windshield of his truck, I saw his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. A vein had popped out on his forehead. He practically skidded out of the parking lot, leaving two erratic tire-treads in the snow. They looked an awful lot like the SS bolts... like someone had jerked the wheel, out of a petty need for control; even when it would risk the drive, straight and true. But that was a criticism for the Nazis, not for a girl's father. Coming from him, it looked like he'd simply been scared he wouldn't make it out of there fast enough.

I headed home, and I hung my wet, muddy shoes up to dry. I had to be careful of mould... the last family to live here had left the place full of it, when we moved in. That, and discarded cake boxes.
"You're home early," my mother called out. "How'd it go?"
I sighed, and frowned. "I love her, and I think she loves me. But I'm not sure that matters."
I'd expected to hear some words back, but instead I just heard clanging from the kitchen. She was cooking up something fiercely herbal, and after smelling those burgers only to be denied by a blackout, I was up for anything. Steam was all over the house, as it always was. I went to my room, and laid down on my sofa-bed. We'd found it at a garage sale, and I had to check it for bedbugs every single week just to be sure. Luckily, not a one. Once they got your place, those bugs, they have it for life. Fumigation was costly, and so was getting new stuff. They weren't common in these parts, but someone could bring them in from abroad if they weren't careful. It was one of the few things everyone agreed on: when it came to foreigners, we'd rather have new people than new bugs. The problem was, for new people, convincing others that they weren't bugs themselves. When it came to that, they were always presumed guilty until proven innocent. That was how I felt, trying to look like I belonged with Lana. Something small, taunting a boot to see if its soles were solid enough. Maybe the real reason he didn't like me was for the same reasons the Nazis wouldn't: I was from somewhere else. But so was everyone here, aside from the Aboriginal Americans. To them, a lot of us must have looked like an infestation; for finding our way into a place where we were welcomed, and then wearing that welcome to shreds. Not that... you would welcome an infestation. Man, maybe my metaphors ARE stupid. Even my family, and we shared blood. I half-belonged to the land, and half-didn't. I half-belonged to the dominant society, and half-didn't. Or maybe I was being generous by even saying 'half'. I should get some new clothes, if I don't want to be taken for a dusty migrant. There's not much for selection, here, not within my price range... and I've never been a fan of the 'Russian Tracksuit' vibe. I feel like it makes me a stereotype.
I might as well say, "Hello, I am from Romania. I will steal your hub-caps, while your back is turned."
He'd say, "While I'm standing right there?"
I'd nod. "Yes, I am very quiet, with a crowbar. I have done things that no man has ever heard, ever again." Huh. That got kinda dark again. Weird. That's probably enough of that type of humor, anyway. It's a bit racy for dinner-talk.
Todd found his way to my end of the hallway, my door still open. He was looking... imbibed. Holding a bottle of red wine.
I got angry. "Todd, you're too young for that. Go take it back to mom, she probably needs it for the soup."
"N-nah," Todd stumbled. "She said I could have some."
"I doubt she meant the whole damn thing!" I got out of the sofa to walk over and snatch it from his hands.
He looked indignant. "You drink. You drank!"
Ah, yeah. Shit. "Not anymore," I argued. "If I'm too young for it, you're DEFINITELY too young."
"Thizz iz bullzshit," he cried, and ran to his room. He slammed the door behind him.
Gen peeked around the corner. "Is everything alright?"
I shrugged, holding the barely-swishing bottle. "Not really."

She sat down at the table, and I sat across from her. The last of the wine went into her glass, not soup. It already had enough, she said. I took a sip for myself, and she slapped my hand.
"Manners," she snapped.
"Sharing is good manners, too," I joked.
She dead-eyed me, and went to dish up some soup for the both of us. It was a venison stew with potatoes, onion, carrots, and basil. That, and some green leafy stems I'd never seen before. I didn't bother to ask. While it cooled, we got to talking about Lana.
"It's like my Danish uncle used to say," she songspoke. "An unpleasant guest is salt, to a sore eye. That's what he thinks you are, so show him you're sweet!"
I palmed my forehead. "Are you telling me we're DANISH, TOO?"
She forked up some cubes of meat to chomp, and shrugged. "I think so."
"I'm not sweet," I rebutted. "Not like that, not like honey. If anything, I'm... well, maybe I am salt. Or spice. I tried showing him I feel strongly about her, and it backfired."
She gritted her teeth. "You might as well have told him you're getting married, without his blessing. What he sees you doing, he's going to imagine is ten times more when he's not around."
"Wh- nobody's saying anything about marriage! I'm still thirteen, here," I protested.
She stared me down, across the table. "Awfully active for thirteen."
I pretended not to hear that part. "I was trying to show him that I really do love her! That I'm not a faker."
She looked mortified. "What you showed him is that as soon as he's not looking, she'll be running away with you to Mexico, pregnant. He probably set the countdown to sixty days the second your lips touched. You should have kept it courteous."
"Wh- maybe we're just going dancing! I can learn some flamenco. He doesn't know."
"EXACTLY, he DOESN'T. That's his whole problem." She forked at her food again.
I groaned with frustration, and ate some stew.
She cleared her throat. "Look, I think he's just not comfortable with your... situation. For one thing, our family's an ethnicity bingo card, dipped in blue ink."
"Heh." I grinned.
"Secondly, Lana's not the only one putting on curves. Not to mention you're already trying to date boys AND girls. Openly."
I swallowed a piece of fat, a little too fast. Down it goes, the whole sorry chunk, underchewed. Like a topic that wasn't talked about, quite enough.
"I, uh... yeah? Maybe? What do you mean I have 'curves'? Are you saying I'm getting fat?"
She looked done with the conversation. "Oh, for crying out loud, Garcia. Or should I say Gracia. You're a girl, even with your..." She dangled her finger in the air. "...y'know. You like dresses and makeup, your hips and legs are wider than your chest, and you're cute as a doll up close. All your harder features come from your father, and even his homely genetics can't shift you manly."
Insulted, I snapped back, "Are you saying I'm not man enough? And that dad is ugly?"
She almost choked on her soup, laughing. "Let's just say it's his heart that got me hot, not his body. And as for you, you got more from my side. You're stuck being beautiful, whether you want to be, or not. Why do you think I keep buying you wax, instead of a razor? And how come you've never argued about it?"
I thought back. "...you raise a good point." I still wasn't used to being called 'beautiful'. I wondered how much pressure an average girl felt, being told that from the day she was born, she'd be facing a countdown until everyone could only see one thing of value for her entire existence: how she appeared to others. Was it fair that I half felt it as a compliment, and half as a burden? What did that say about the way we treated people? Should I be treating Lana the same way for her beauty? I know I call her 'handsome', but that's because her appeal doesn't match the castmold. It doesn't need to. She's still more feminine than I am, she just... doesn't emanate the same way. I like how she is. But I've noticed people treating her differently, because of it. She isn't as popular at school as I imagined she was, not that I care about that kind of thing. She should be, as far as I'm concerned. Why do I feel like everyone has assigned me as 'a thing of beauty', as a way to hold what I am against me? As if I was doing it on purpose just to spite them? Are people so cavorting as to become beautiful for the sole purpose of using it as some kind of weapon? Should we be so unkind to those who don't carry it like one, or whose charms don't match the manual?
She put her elbows on the table, and looked down. "Listen, I used to love someone like you. If I'd seen her more recently, I'd have sworn you were hers. Your type is... energetic, to say the least. Be careful with yourself. Not just what you let others do, but what you let yourself do, too. You might grow up to be a live-wire, and I'm afraid of who's going to get hurt. This is a... a very delicate environment. The world just isn't built yet, to acknowledge what's real. What's natural. They still think it's all wood puppets of Punches and Judies, running around with paddles and iron skillets. All neatly segmented, into their identical unitations. If love was what sealed a modern marriage, Todd wouldn't exist."
Todd, standing around the corner, heard that. His eyes well up, and his poor drunken self starts bawling. "You cann'd SAY that, mawm!" He runs back down the hall, and slams himself into his room again.
She winces. "Ooh... oh, frick. Probably not the best choice of words."
I closed my jaw, and went back to sipping stew. Bowl in my hands, face bowed over. Eyes a bit wider for a few blinks.