Not Your Average Nerd

Chapter Eleven

11

 

            It had been hours since my homecoming, and I was still yet to find something productive to do. Anica and Mama had been in the kitchen, busy fixing dinner. Without even asking, I knew I wasn’t any use to them. Mama moved 50 miles per hour, from mixing to slicing. It was still a wonder how she walked out of the kitchen without a single mark on her hand. My sister was a mini in training. Any time I had stepped near them as they worked, I was scolded for being in the way.

Tată was, well, still on the phone. The reason I was asked to return home for some much-needed family time. His father, my dear bunic, was back home in Bran, not doing his hottest. I watched my dad from behind my book and felt my stomach churn.

“Is he still warm, at least?” His voice was low.

 

Silence. From both ends.

 

“Dad,” I said quietly, placing my book on the cushion beside where I sat. Within a second, my father’s face became a sick shade of grey. “Dad?”

 

It killed me to see my father in such an awful spot. To Alin Adrian Stocia Jr., his father was the greatest celebrity he could ever think of. Sure, it was cheesy, and yes, to some it was probably lame. Hell, maybe even weird. But it was also very sweet. My grandfather worked as a wood cutter, providing for a family of seven and maintained the strongest marriage anyone could ever want. The type of man who worked all day yet still made time to spend with each of his children and bring home a flower or two to his wife.

My dad was the only boy of the family, which really added to the adoration factor. Technically, two boys were born into the Stocia family, but only one survived. A duo, that turned into an uno within minutes.

 

“Call me if anything changes. No, I don’t care what time. Yes, I will keep my phone on. Give everyone a hug for me, Tati.” The phone fell from his hand and slid down to the chair.

“You okay?” My father surprisingly asked me, looking up from his spot. Both eyes, clouded with tears that he refused to let loose.

“Me?”

 

“Come on,” tată said as he stood up.  A small smile finally brought his color and my sanity back. I smiled as he tossed his arm around my shoulders. “You know,” he whispered in English, his accent giving me a smile of my own. “Why don’t we tell mama we need to mourn by ourselves and go for a drink? Or two. I think a nice whiskey and coke sounds like a plan.”

“As tempting as it sounds,” my voice just-as-low as his had been. “I think mama may blow up if we were to tell her we leaving her after she cooked a huge meal.” All the English speaking inside of the Stoica household left a sort of spice on my tongue. Especially between kin and parent. In my head I could see a large radar sprouting from the back of my mother’s head as she turned in circles, sniffing the air, trying to detect who was ‘breaking culture’.