Page 31 of Darling

“Oh, cool,” Wendy said. Well, that canceled out Ominotago and Waatese. “Prentis said he thought you—”

But before Wendy could finish, Curly groaned loudly and slouched dramatically in anguish against the bus wall. “Prentis doesn’t know we’re cousins, and neither does Peter. But I fought Peter after we introduced him to Ominotago, and now he thinks she’s my girlfriend. It’s so embarrassing.”

Ominotago grinned. “I’m too cool to be your girlfriend, even if you weren’t my cousin.”

“Truth,” Minsu called, nodding. Charles had stopped crying, but it looked like he’d cried himself right to sleep. Minsu had moved his arm from cradling what was clearly his best friend, to resting it over the top of the seat while Charles’s head lolled on his shoulder. It was cute, but Wendy still had questions.

“Why did fighting Peter make Prentis think Ominotago was your girlfriend? And what about—” Wendy nodded over at Tinkerbelle and Ominotago, who had refocused themselves on their private conversation.

Curly looked just as embarrassed as he had at the dinner table. “Peter gave Ominotago a nickname, but she didn’t like it and asked me to make him quit calling her that. So, I asked him to stop, but like always, he didn’t want to. Instead he bothered me all week until I just snapped and pushed him to the ground to beat some respect into him. He won the fight, of course, since he’s bigger than me, and he also punished me for trying. But he did stop. Now he rarely refers to her directly unless she’s physically in front of him. He calls her ‘Omi’ now, which is annoying because only Tinkerbelle is allowed to call her that and everyone else respects this, except him.

“He doesn’t ever own up to his mistakes or apologize when he’s rude,” Curly continued, bitterly. “He just stops doing whatever he’s doing or pretends he doesn’t remember when he hurts your feelings.”

Christ. “Why do you live with him?” Wendy asked quietly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but…” She shrugged.

Curly looked stricken. His dark eyebrows pinched, and the corners of his mouth twitched up and down like he was trying to force himself to smile but failing. He gazed out the window for a bit and dragged a hand down one of his braids anxiously before answering. “I was … different back before I met him. I was really angry, getting into trouble at school and just doing whatever I wanted all the time. I wore out the people who were taking care of me, and then I wore out my extended family, and only a few of them will talk to me now.” Curly’s eyes flicked over to Ominotago.

“I mean, I’m sure if I went back to them now it would be different,” he continued. “I could do school; I have the patience for it now, and I would do so much better. But I was really, really bad. Just, breaking things and…”

Curly was talking so quietly now that Wendy had to lean close to hear him. She could see Fyodor over Curly’s shoulder, watching them both as he smoked.

“Anyway, I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Curly said firmly. “Slightly was already there and seemed so overburdened with taking care of the littler ones. I couldn’t just leave him there alone, working so hard like that. He was the only one who had real skills, you know? My parents never taught me how to do the things Slightly knows how to do, but he taught Nibs and me quickly, even though we’re older. His birth family was really strict, I think.

“It’s been three years since I moved in, and I’m almost eighteen, so I’ll be free to do what I want soon,” Curly said hopefully. “I’m going to go back to my family and apologize and get all my real paperwork, and I’ll get a job and go back to study. Maybe go to a trade school or something.”

“You could do this now,” Fyodor said lowly. “Nothing to stop you.”

Curly frowned. “The timing isn’t right yet. You don’t know what I did, Fyodor. Just take my word for it.”

Fyodor turned around to face them both, his heavy-lidded eyes serious. With the cigarette in his hand, he gestured at Curly’s pocket and at the prying tool he had on his back. “You make slingshot, you make that. You weld. You could get apprenticeship, easy. Anyone can see. You need to come out from pretty cave you made and choose real world. You are ready.”

“Bro, I don’t think we’re allowed to smoke on the bus,” Charles interrupted, looking over his shoulder at the cloud of smoke surrounding Fyodor.

“You are ready,” Fyodor said firmly, ignoring Charles. “Seventeen? Anywhere else, you are a man.”

Curly seemed very cross suddenly and opened his mouth to argue, but Fyodor kept going.

“You can keep that secret?” He nodded over at Ominotago. “You can keep secret of your freedom. I know this.” Fyodor reached over and squeezed Curly’s shoulder. Then he leaned back and grinned mischievously. “If not, would be easy finding women to take care of you. You make … pretty things.”

Curly’s entire face went pink immediately, his mouth a small o of shocked pleasure. Wendy watched in exhilarated surprise as Fyodor raked his eyes up and down Curly with astonishing heat and Curly covered his blazing cheeks with both hands. Apparently she’d guessed correctly about Fyodor’s flirting habits.

“Leave Curly alone!” Ominotago shouted across the bus, noticing instantly.

Fyodor barked out a peal of laughter, before winking at Ominotago and clicking loudly out of the side of his mouth in dismissal. He refocused his attention on Wendy and continued. “He make … what is it called? The hmm … display on the ceiling and walls in Peter’s house. Very talented.”

Wendy remembered the incredible bottle installation and understood Fyodor’s struggle to come up with a word to describe it. It was probably the best piece of art she’d ever seen in her life. There had to have been thousands of bottles, and it had to have taken Curly months or even years to build.

She also remembered the crates and the intricate placement of household objects by color. Then her gaze tracked back to the embroidery on Curly’s denim jacket.

“You’re incredible, Curly,” she gasped.

“It’s not a big deal,” Curly mumbled, clearly embarrassed by all the attention. “My mom was an artist.”

“You are an artist,” Fyodor replied lowly. He tilted his head back and let the smoke leak out of his mouth, sultry and smooth like a 1930s film star.

“FYODOR,” Ominotago cried, slamming a hand down on the seat sharply.

“Okay,” Fyodor said firmly, putting his cigarette out on the back of the seat in front of him. “I do not stop. She make us run drills,” he remarked to Wendy, rolling his eyes.