Hot Little Hands Read Free

My father has already finished his soup and is reaching for the kugel, but I push my own bowl away. I get up and go to the fridge, holding the door open with my hand and sticking my head right deep inside where the air is cool and quiet. I close my eyes.
    “What are you looking for, Anyishka?” my mother wants to know. From where I am, her voice sounds far away. The fridge is full of jars and bowls of leftovers from other dinners, all covered neatly in aluminum foil.
    “Why don’t we throw some of this food away?” I click my tongue in irritation. “Don’t we have any apples? Or cheese?”
    “What? You’re not hungry? My food’s not good enough for you?”
    “All those years going without,” I hear my father say. I know without looking that he’s slowly shaking his head. “Cordial instead of orange juice.”
    “And newspaper instead of toilet paper,” my mother joins in.
    “Uch, don’t remind me,” he says.
    “Is that true?” I ask, standing up straight.
    “You don’t remember?” my mother asks. “For years our backsides were black from the ink. We left fingerprints on everything we touched.”
    “Wait one second,” I say. “Let me get my notebook.”
    —
    My father refuses to get a cordless phone. He says they’re too expensive and that by the end of the 1990s, everyone who has a cordless phone will have brain tumors or ear cancer. So when Yulia calls after dinner, I have to pull the cord from the kitchen out into the hallway, past the bathroom, around the door frame where my mother marks my height in pencil once a month, and into my room.
    “What are you doing?” she asks.
    “Homework.” I push the door shut and lean back against it, sliding down to the floor.
    “Maths?”
    “Jewish History.”
    “Can you believe that Bradley guy?”
    “I know,” I say. “Those Japs were silent for the rest of the lesson.”
    “And I thought Maya was his girlfriend.”
    “Really? Are you sure?”
    “Why?” she asks. “Do you like him or something?”
    “Who? Bradley? No. Why, do you?”
    “No.” We sit in silence for a moment.
    “What’s that noise?” I ask her.
    “My mum’s crying.”
    “Is your dad drinking?”
    “No, she’s watching
90210
. They’re closing down the Peach Pit. She loves that crap.”
    “Hey, Yuli?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Are you planning to write a testimonial?”
    “No, I’m doing the ESL questions, then I’ll study for maths. And then I’m going to sleep to dream about Rachel Levine’s face when she got told to shut up.”
    “It’s Rachel Hoch,” I say. “Rachel Hoch and Maya Levine.”
    “Who cares? Both their faces went pale. You could see it happening, even under the fake tan.”
    —
    In school the next day, I feel so nervous I think I might be sick. After lunchtime, I go to the toilets, cover the seat with paper, and sit down. I take out my notes and read through them. A group of girls come in and stand by the sinks. Under the cubicle door, I can see their Airwalks and Clarks crowding around the mirror.
    “I’m starving,” one of them says.
    “I know. This diet sucks.”
    “Apples and cheese were okay. But I could
not
do chicken for breakfast.”
    “We should go to McDonald’s for nuggets after school.”
    “Totally!”
    “I can’t, I’m going shopping for my brother’s barmi.”
    “Why don’t you wear the dress you wore to my brother’s barmi?”
    “I can’t. It’s, like, too small and so Russian. Anyway, how do we even know the diet works?”
    “Have you ever been to Israel? Those soldiers are, like, hot.”
    When the bell rings, I come out of the stall and wash my hands. One of the girls smiles at me in the mirror. It’s the one from Bradley’s kitchen.
    “Hey,” she says.
    “Hi.”
    “You haven’t come around again.”
    “No.”
    All the other girls are staring at me in the mirror now, too.
    “I wouldn’t take it personally,” she says. “I mean, I love my brother, but he has pretty boring taste in girls. Maybe when