Hope, Mihaela and I went to the room up the stairs. In no time, we started to draw all over the walls. She made hearts, and I made cats. We doodled little things, and she could draw.
She kept writing, though, ‘Dragoste’. When I asked her what it meant, she told me:
“It means love.”
“Oh. Why do you keep writing that?”
“It’s my favorite word.”
“So where do you live? Romania? ”
“Australia,” she smiled.
“But you were from Romania?”
“Yes, but we moved when I was about six,” she said. Her accent was hard to decode at times. It didn’t sound like it was all Romanian, and it didn’t sound like it was all Australian. She was so alien like, so out of this world.
“So, may I ask why you moved there, to Australia?”
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “We were destitute in Romania. We had family in Australia, and they offered us a place to live. When we got there, I learned English and became the bridge for a few years. My father got to go to school there, and he learned English quickly. My mom is still learning. Um, I am the best person in our family to speak. My dad found jobs that he never thought he could find, and now we are kind of rich, richer I guess.”
“Oh.”
She shrugged. “I guess, but I do miss my family back home sometimes. But I know it is for the best. It’s just hard because that was my homeland. But where I live now, that has become my home, you know?”
I smiled. “Yeah, I know.”
“So, have you lived in Colorado all your life?”
I nodded. She smiled. She wrote on the wall, ‘Cel Mai Bun Prieten’ .I looked over. “What does that mean?”
“Best friends,” she said smiling. She wrote my name, and then her name. I drew a enormous sloppy heart, and she wrote, ‘Dragoste’ everywhere. We giggled and laughed. “Best friends, right?”
She held out her pinky. I looked at it, nodded, grabbing it with my pinky and said, “For sure.”
We drew all different things. She could draw buildings, airplanes, and clouds. It looked so easy with her.
However, I drew fat trees, and poorly drawn stick figure animals playing in the snow. I wrote my favorite characters names down and tried to draw them out. It looked like a three-year-old had stolen crayons and went crazy. I wrote out some of my favorite poems that I had liked and memorized. My favorite one was by Walt Whitman:
To You
Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me,
Why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?
I had that poem memorize since I was ten years old. Mostly because it was the shortest poem in his book, but I loved it. I had felt that way, wanting to talk to strangers and wondering why people I have had the desire to speak to, I wonder why they wouldn’t talk to me. Maybe they were scared, just like I was. Maybe they had the same problems as me.
We then painted our feet and placed them on the wall. We left our marks together, and no matter where in the world we both were, we will always have that mark in that tiny white room. Not even the earth’s wind could not erase that.
We colored Hope’s paw and pressed it on the walls, which was very messy. The box was becoming warmer and welcoming, instead of just cold and scary.
I grabbed my old MP3 player from the fireplace and some headphones. We both put one speaker in one ear. She was happy when I started the music. We started to listen to Coldplay, The Killers, The Smiths, Death Cab for Cutie, and all the songs that we could. She told me she liked my music, and that made me feel so happy.
She thought I was neat, and she wasn’t trying to kidnap me. She was telling me all this because she thought I was worthy of interest. I wonder if she would have thought the same thing if I wasn’t the only person her age for miles.
“So, what is in like to live in the mountains?”
I sighed. “Terrible. I miss my old town and my family.”
Her eyes looked sad for me. All she could manage to get out was, “Oh.”
I shrugged. I should have lied, or something, not open up to her, but how couldn’t I? It was the first human being I have spoken to that didn’t scare me, that didn’t want to control me. “It’s okay. You didn’t take me away.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. I wouldn’t either. “No, but do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Kevin is my older brother, but that’s it. Mom and Dad didn’t want any more children after me,” I gave a laugh.
“I see,” she said with a weird nod. “Where are your brother and your mom?”
“Um . . . away,” I said staring to the walls.
“Oh, I see.”
“What about you?”
“Only child.”
“Lucky.”
She shook her head, “I did have an older brother. But, um, he died.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
She gave a little smile, “I was only four, and he was thirteen. I didn’t know him that well. It’s okay.”
I didn’t dare ask how he died. I figured she didn’t want to talk about it. All I ended up saying was, “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” she shrugged. “I didn’t know him that well, and it didn’t hurt that much. It did about hurt my parents. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why they wanted to leave, to start somewhere new. It’s fine to start over, but just don’t ever forget what brought you there.”
I nodded and smiled. “That’s pretty wise.”
“Yeah, he died because of a brain tumor, if you were wondering, most people ask anyways. I don’t remember much about him. I didn’t really see him that much; he was always in and out of hospitals. I barely saw him. I think he had the tumor a couple of months after I was born. My mother showed me pictures of him hugging me and holding me as a baby, but it’s like hugging a stranger.”
“I think I understand,” I mumbled. She smiled at me. Maybe that was what she wanted. She wasn’t sad about her brother dying, but I think she wanted someone to try to understand. “Um, does it ever bother you, now?”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t know him, how could I miss him?”
I shrugged.
She looked at me and smiled. “Why are you here with your dad if don’t like being with him? You said you missed your family.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s complicated.”
“Tavi,” she said. I turned around and looked at her. “I know we just met and everything, but you can talk to me no matter what. Can I give you my phone number? I want to keep talking to you. Or maybe my email address?”
I stared at her, with my mouth hanging open. “Wait, you want to be friends with me?”
She laughed. “Of course silly, why wouldn’t I want to be?”
“Well, don’t you think I’m kind of . . . weird?”
“You’re the right weird. You like books right?”
“Right,” I agreed.
“Well, me too,” she smiled. “You like all the same music I do, right?”
“Right,” I agreed once again.
“See.”
“I also like cats,” I said petting Hope.
“I love cats! See, we have so much in common!” she almost screamed. We laughed trying to be quiet.
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