Mei Oui

Phi Sigma Kappa, University Avenue, Cornell University: January, 1995

There were girls swarming in and out of the house, but only one who stood there, hands on hips, as if she'd been waiting for them to arrive.

"Where have you been, you son of a bitch?" she demanded.

Vasya was taken aback but stood his ground. He'd never seen this girl before. Maybe she'd just had too much to drink and thought he was someone else. "Excuse me?" he said, blinking.

She shook her head and pointed to Kolya. "Not you. Him. I just asked you a question." Marching right up to him, her face inches from his, she increased her volume and intensity. She was furious, but not drunk. "You owe me a lot of money, you asshole."

"So good to see you too, solnyshko. Have you been busy?"

The girl slapped him, hard, all business and no mercy. "Nikolay Grigorevich, you're not gonna smooth this one out until I get my money. Now, where is it?"

He reached up to soothe his stinging cheek. "Well. I'll have you know I skipped a lecture and drove to the city this week, through a blizzard, to pay you back, and some other people too. It's in the car. Are you at least going to let me get it?"

Her eyes narrowed. "It better all be there. With interest."

"I cheat many people but I never cheat you. Go get it. Glove compartment, it's unlocked."

Vasya glanced from the retreating figure of the girl, to Kolya, then back again. "Who was that, and what was her problem?"

"Shh. She's a bit of a hothead. She'll be fine," said Kolya, still rubbing at the bright red handprint on his cheek. "Just a business associate, you know."

"Do all your associates greet you this way?"

"Usually, just her," Kolya said, and Vasya couldn't help but wonder if this girl had been the one who gave him the shiner on the other cheek, or even the arm brace. "She's one of a kind, that one."

She returned a moment later, a sly smile on her face. "Nice. Looks like someone's paying her tuition for another term." She also held up the plastic bag with Vasya's clothes. "You been batting for the other team again? Some poor guy leave his clothes in that sty you call a dorm room?"

"Nah. Those are his, and we're strictly platonic." Kolya grinned. "This is Vasya, by the way. He doesn't say much but he's got a heck of a smile."

"Looks more like you kidnapped the Jets' last draft pick. Seriously."

"Wouldn't put it past the big guy, you know, he's big and strong enough. But he's more of a lover than a fighter..."

Vasya was too dumbstruck to say anything, and wasn't quite able to follow their rapid-fire banter, but in the warm glow of the sodium vapor lamp, he was able to observe the girl up close. She wore a puffer jacket over a Ramones t-shirt and flannel button-down, along with artfully ripped jeans and a pair of well-worn oxblood Doc Martens. The kind of outfit that looked random but had in fact been carefully selected. Huge, dark almond eyes shone beneath a fringe of raven hair with a scarlet knit cap jammed on top. He'd seen people from all over the world living and working side by side on just a few blocks in Brooklyn, and he couldn't say he'd ever seen one quite as striking as this girl.

She is lovely.

He must have zoned out again, because when he blinked, she was waving one hand in front of his face. "Hey, big fella. You still in there?"

"He sometimes does that, goes off to his own little world. Vasya's like that saying, what is it in English, 'still waters run deep?' He's smarter than me, if you can believe that," Kolya said.

"I've met carrots smarter than you, asshole." Turning to Vasya and ignoring Kolya's pout, she said, "I can't believe you hang out with this loser. Are you his bodyguard or something?"

Finding his voice at last, Vasya said, "No. Just a friend. We're both from the old country, you know."

"Huh. With that accent, I'd have guessed Puerto Rican." She winked. "That's a joke. It's okay to laugh."

He did, nervously. Was she making fun of him, the way Kolya liked to? "Ukrainian, technically. Kolya's from Belarus. We're not actual Russians. But we live now in…"

"…South Side of Brooklyn," she finished. " Your accent. I'm a little farther away, Bed-Stuy. But I'd be shocked if you hadn't spent some time in Brighton Beach, maybe even grew up there? That place is, like, Moscow Lite. Never learned much Russian but a few of my regulars come from down there."

"Regulars?" Vasya asked, shocked at the accuracy of her observation. He was morbidly curious as to what line of work she was in that she associated with Kolya as well as some of Brooklyn's Russian community, since she clearly wasn't Russian herself.

"Yeah. C'mon, let's get the hell out of this cold..." She gestured for them to follow her, and they did, gratefully leaving the cold behind.

"If you two don't mind, I'm gonna go fetch us some drinks. One of the only reasons I come to this place, they have free Jello shooters and tournament beer pong," Kolya said, practically shouting over the driving bass. He left them alone in the entryway of the house, which was mostly deserted. He was already gravitating toward the center of the action.

"Isn't that just like him," the girl said, shaking her head. "Always the life of the party. Can't stand being ignored."

"Hmm?" Vasya grunted. He had been trying not to stare at her, and also to puzzle out in his mind what "Jello shooters" and "beer pong" might be. So many things about American pop culture still flew right over his head.

She elbowed him playfully. "Kolya. Your buddy. You sure don't say much, do you? How'd you wind up knowing that knucklehead, anyway?"

"Oh, that. It's a long story, but we met here. On campus." He didn't want to bore her with it, figuring most of the Russian cultural connections would go right over her head…but he also strangely wanted to impress this mystery girl. "Did you say you were from Bed-Stuy before?" Kolya had drilled that rule into his head: if you want a lady to open up to you, ask her about herself.

"Not a native, but, yeah, I guess it's as close to roots as I've got," she admitted, shrugging, giving no hint as to what her true place of origin might be. "What about you? Pretty far from Ukraine to Brooklyn. Let me guess…emigrated here after the Iron Bloc fell, right? Settled in Brighton Beach with your folks?"

He couldn't help but smile. "Before. My father, he wanted the opportunities he could only get here. Guess you could say he saw the writing on the wall. Plus, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, so here I am."

"You in engineering? Lot of Russian guys in that department… no, I would have run into you at some point; I'm over there all the time. Don't tell me…architecture?"

"How'd you know?"

"You're not a self-centered prick like Kolya, you know, psych major. Bite me. You're not in any of the sciences because I would have seen you, or even taught you. And you're sensitive and smart, well-dressed…again, unlike Kolya, that fucker thinks he's the white boy Snoop Doggy Dogg. News flash, he isn't. So yeah, lucky guess?"

Vasya felt the flush in his cheeks, a curious rush of pride, embarrassment, and bashfulness.

Somewhere in the interior of the house, a group whooped and chanted in unison. A loud crash followed, then a brief moment of silence, then drunken laughter.

"That's why I never go to these parties anymore. I'm getting way too old for this shit, and they're all the same," she said. "Bunch of fucking drunks with too much money and not enough common sense. I only came tonight because I needed my money and I knew he couldn't resist."

She still hadn't told him how she knew Kolya. Before he could stop himself, Vasya asked her, "Are you two dating? Or, I mean, were you?" He regretted the words as soon as they'd left his mouth.

To his great surprise, though, she laughed. She had a throaty laugh, like drops of water on velvet. "Not exactly. I gave him some ink a while back, and I must have been desperate and lonely enough to hang out at the time. One thing turned to another, and…" She sighed, as if it somehow pained her to know him, then laughed again. "Like you said, it's kind of a long story. Isn't it always with him?"

"Ink? Like, for fountain pens?"

"Nah. Ink, as in tats. That dragon sleeve he's got on his left forearm? That's all mine, big fella," she said, beaming with pride.

Vasya had always been fascinated with his friend's sizable collection of tattoos; being nervous around needles himself, it had never occurred to him to ask Kolya about their origin. "You're quite an artist," he told her. No matter what else Kolya's tattoos were…strange, almost dreamlike, elaborate and colorful…they had been drawn by a skilled hand.

"My dad says it should be just a hobby," the girl said, stepping aside as a couple both holding red plastic cups drunkenly made their way toward the front door. "I don't know. There's a lot of money there if you build a clientele. I mean, I have my regulars. Gonna open my own shop once I save up enough."