Zommunist Invasion by Picott, Camille (ebook reader ink TXT) 📗

he would lay down his life to keep her safe. It gave Stephenson a sense of comfort to know that at least Cassie was okay.

“Stephenson. Get up. It’s time to go practice.”

Nonna’s voice filled the empty cabin. Stephenson latched onto it, glad to have something to distract him from a world that currently did not have Amanda in it.

“Yes, Nonna.” He sat up in the bunk, hunching to keep from whacking his head.

Changing into the clothes he’d worn yesterday—it wasn’t like they had a lot of extra clothes in the Cecchino house, and besides, all the other boys were bigger than Stephenson—he paused as he automatically reached for his sneakers.

He hated the shoes. They were ugly Nike knock-offs his mom had picked up for him at Payless Shoe Source. They were white and blue with red laces. So stark and ugly. Nothing like the Converse that sat in the dark recesses in the shadows beneath the bunk.

Screw it. He grabbed the Converse. He wanted to wear them almost as much as he wanted Amanda to come home. If he couldn’t have Amanda, he would wear the shoes.

The thought of what she might say or do if she saw him in the shoes only solidified his resolve. Truth be told, the idea of his friend seeing him in those shoes was almost as uncomfortable as the thought of being seen naked.

It was so uncomfortable that he became convinced he had to wear them. Like his fear of being seen in them would magically make Amanda appear on the steps of the cabin.

Resolute, he strode out into the main room. He braced himself for a comment from Nonna.

She was at the kitchen table lathering slices of bread with jam. “Breakfast.” She didn’t look up as he approached. “We’ll eat while we walk.”

There were two handkerchiefs on the table. Wrapping two slices of bread in the a blue cloth square, she handed them to Stephenson.

It wasn’t until she rounded the table and headed for the front door that she noticed the shoes. Her steps slowed as she caught sight of the hot-pink footwear.

“About time,” was all she said.

He trailed her to the front door. “Where did you get them?”

“They belonged to my daughter-in-law. She only wore them a few times before she died. They were too nice to send to the Goodwill.”

“And . . .” Stephenson dug deep. Honestly, if he wasn’t worried sick about Amanda, he wouldn’t have found the courage. “What about the other stuff?”

Nonna’s mouth softened around the edges. “Also Christy’s. Lena’s mother was very fashionable.”

Something moved in her dark eyes. It struck Stephenson that Nonna had out-lived so many people that she loved. Her husband. Her son. Her daughter-in-law. She had to be worried sick about Leo, Anton, Lena, and Dal.

“Nonna, how are you doing?”

The sliver of emotion he saw was immediately tamped down. The old woman who looked out at him was an impenetrable fortress.

“I already told you.” She turned on her heel, heading for the weapons rack. This time, instead of only grabbing the handgun with the silencer, she also picked up a Soviet machine gun. “We do not shed tears on possibility in this house. Get a machine gun. It’s time for you to learn how to use one.”

“Right.” Stephenson attempted to rally, turning his attention to the guns. The machine gun felt like a yoke as he lowered it around his neck, but he didn’t complain. A heavy machine gun was a welcome distraction right now.

He and Nonna began the long hike to their shooting glade. Stephenson ate the bread as he walked.

The silence between him and Nonna was oppressive. He kept filling it with thoughts of bad things happening to Amanda.

“What kind of jam is this?” he asked in an attempt to distract both of them.

“Sour cherry.”

“It’s really good. I’ve never heard of sour cherries.” He may have even enjoyed it if his insides weren’t tied up with worry.

“We had them in the village where I grew up. It’s a family recipe. I brought some cherry pits with me when I immigrated to America with my husband.”

“How old were you when you immigrated?”

“It’s not proper to ask a lady her age, Stephenson.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“It was a very long time ago.” Nonna’s voice was gruff as she hiked along in front of him. “A few years after the war ended. I was only seventeen.”

“That’s how old I am.”

Nonna didn’t say anything. Stephenson tried to imagine being married and moving to another country. He couldn’t get past the horrified vision of being married.

His eyes skimmed over the top of his pink shoes. Yep, he most definitely wasn’t marriage material.

At least, not to a girl.

This train of thought sent a ripple of unease through him. He dealt with it by trying to cram an entire piece of bread into his mouth. The result was messy and sticky. He did his best to clean himself up with the shirt sleeve. Thank God he wasn’t wearing the pretty tank top. It would have been a shame to stain it with sour cherry jam.

“Nonna?”

“Yes?”

“How did you know I’d like the shoes?” He blurted out the words and braced himself for the answer.

Nonna was silent for a while. She walked for so long that he thought maybe she hadn’t heard him. Just as he opened his mouth to ask a second time, she answered.

“My brother was like you.”

Like you. The words echoed in Stephenson’s head. My brother was like you.

Hearing her say the words aloud was like a gong reverberating through his body.

Nonna knew. She knew he was . . . different. Somehow, after knowing him for barely a week, she had ferreted out his deepest, darkest secret. This knowledge made Stephenson want to both weep in relief and bury his head in a hole.

Of course she’d known. He was an idiot. Why else would she have given him the clothes and suggest he wear them?

“What happened to your brother?”

“He died in the war.”

“World War II?”

“Yes.”

“How old was he?”

“Eighteen.”

“What was his