The chill of Sokovia seeped through the thin walls of our apartment, a familiar winter bite. I burrowed deeper under the three threadbare blankets, seeking a futile warmth. Anastasia woke me moments later.
“It’s graduation day,” she mumbled, her Sokovian accent a rich echo of our mother’s.
“Like I care,” I retorted. Anastasia and I were half American, our father a native of the States. English was our default language, a deliberate act of remembering where we came from.
There was always a subtle difference between us, even in our speech. Her accent was more deeply rooted in Sokovia than mine, a consequence of her closeness to our mother. I'd unconsciously picked up my father’s inflections, a quiet mimicry of his voice.
I looked up into Anastasia’s hazel eyes, flecked with brown like mother’s. They held the same peaceful serenity. A smile touched my lips. She was bundled in a fuzzy red sweater, a black coat, gloves, and a scarlet scarf – a testament to the brutal cold.
I slid off the mattress and reached under the bed, where our clothes were haphazardly piled. Why bother with a closet when there was ample space beneath? I pulled out my black sweater and coat, layering them over my sleepwear. Black was my uniform, a stark contrast to Anastasia’s penchant for vibrant patterns.
•••
“Anastasia Angeloff!” Principal Olga’s voice boomed, summoning my sister to the stage. Anastasia stood proudly, accepting her diploma and the microphone. Ten seconds to speak, then back to her seat.
“Ib boli skvelé roky. Ďakujem ti,” Anastasia said, her voice clear. *These were great years. Thank you.* Classic. Her feet bounced with excitement as she clutched her diploma, beaming at me as my name was called.
I rose, anxiety tightening my chest. I walked toward the tribune, debating whether to acknowledge every senior and their families in the audience. Olga handed me my diploma and raised an eyebrow, a silent question: *Do you want the mic?* I nodded, glancing at Anastasia, who gave me a thumbs up.
I cleared my throat and smiled, a practiced facade.
“To boli najhoršie roky, ak môj život. Nasávaj mi zadek.”
*These were the worst years of my life. Suck my ass.*
A wave of shock rippled through the crowd. Heads turned, conversations erupted, then died down as they focused on me.
“Miss Angeloff!” Olga yelled, but I ignored her, walking out of the auditorium. I gave Anastasia a sly wink and she smirked back. My final act as a high school graduate. I had never been more proud.
•••
Hours passed, and Anastasia remained unreachable. Was she drowning her sorrows at the bar? Out with friends? The possibilities were endless.
My phone buzzed. It was Anastasia. “I found a job,” she slurred, her voice thick with drink. She was drunk, and had been fired yesterday. “Who are you with?”
“Oksana and Werner,” she replied, the sound of shattering glass echoing in the background. “Are you coming home tonight or staying with them?”
“Actually,” she continued, her words almost incomprehensible through the music and slurred speech, “I’m going to work. Well, pshh, I’m actually going to run some tests to see if I’m capable of working there with Werner.”
“Werner who?”
“Von Strucker,” she replied before hanging up.
I sighed, a cold dread settling in my chest. That would be the last time I heard from my sister.