The girl was born in Moscow, the Soviet Union, on the day the U.S. President Ronald Reagan demanded "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" Her mother, possibly due to the less than reliable Soviet medicine, survived only twenty-two minutes after her birth. Her father, U.S. Congressman James Kevin Trelane, Democrat from Colorado, and her older brother by four years, James jr., died eleven days later in an explosion the Soviet police declared a 'Chechen separatist' action. Her sole surviving family member, her grandfather's sister, arrived two days later to take the infant back to Colorado.
Marishka had been the name her mother had chosen, in honor of her own mother and in recognition of her Russian ancestry. Mari was all her great aunt would ever call her. They took up residence in the log and field stone house her father had cause to be built the year of his marriage to the beautiful Russian translator, Rayna Motylev, whom he had met while attending a conference at the United Nations. Though entering her seventh decade Malora Trelane Davis, know to Mari as Aunt Hoppie, saw the baby as the child she'd never had. Her husband, Archie Davis, had died more than 40 years ago and they'd never had children.
For her, Mari was a fountain of youth for in this child she found a will to continue that had been flagging as the years worn on. Though Mari never thought of her great aunt as 'mother' nonetheless Aunt Hoppie was all a child could have possibly wanted or needed in a parent. Malora imparted in the girl many 'old' fashion' values and skills, sewing, cooking, 'yes ma'am, 'thank you, sir, many thing her generation later would prove to be sadly lacking. They played together, learned together and lived happily in the Colorado Mountains until just after Christmas of Mari's tenth year.
The house, heated in the long winters by three fireplaces that were cleaned every spring, was not thought to be a fire hazard ... unless a less than reliable chimney sweep was paid for work never completed. The wall of Mari's room, situated above the living room, began to smother while she was enjoying breakfast. By the time she returned to her room, it was engulfed. When she opened the door, burning her hand and leaving a door knob shaped brand, the room sucked in all the new oxygen and created a backdraft. Mari was blown down the stairs with burned over about ten percent of her body. She had been lucky but the trauma haunted her the rest of her life. With the house a total ruin, Aunt Hoppie moved south to Florida and warmed climes. Mari started school that June.
The June sun was unmerciful as soon to be eleven-year old Mari climbed off the bus and trailed along behind the other riders toward the overly white school. She squinted, hitched her backpack higher and made a mental note to ask Aunt Hoppie for some sunglasses when she got home. Only three days in Florida and already she missed the mountains. It was so flat here.
"Hey!" A voice stopped her and she turned. A girl about her own age with sun-bleached brown hair grinned at her. "You new?"
"Yeah ..."
"Thought so! I don't remember seeing you around last year and I know everybody. I'm Rachel."
"Mari," she replied.
"What's your homeroom?" the girl asked.
"Room 9."
"Cool! Me too!" The girl stepped in front of her to stop her. "You don't do drugs, do you?"
"Drugs? What do you mean?"
"My dad's DEA, he runs the Miami field office and I don't wanna have to report you and get you arrested."
She blinked. "I don't do drugs."
"Good! Then we can be friends. Where'ya from?"
"Colorado."
