Kvjatka

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Like I said before, my mom is granola. She's very in touch with the elements and existence and such. A lot of it comes from her Romani upbringing. She lived in Lithuania until she was 16 when her parents sent her to live with her Tjotka (aunt) in Oregon. Mom refers to her as čovaxany, meaning witch. Apparently only three months after moving in with Tjotka, my mother ran off to Portland where she met my father. She was hitchhiking, my dad stopped for her, and the rest is history. Literally it's history, they got divorced right after I was born. So at 19 years old with a brand spankin' new baby, my mom moved us to Salem.

My first language was Lithuanian with a sprinkling of the Roma language my mom had spoken back home. Not long after starting school I lost most of it. Mom always shook her head when I couldn't understand what she was saying, "Jūsų protėviai verkia," she would mutter, which means "Your ancestors are crying." Coming home from school that day, I knew the ancestors would probably be crying a lot more than usual.

"There you are, miro kvatka! Home at last." mom said, grinning. She always called me her kvatka (flower) when she was in a particularly good mood. That was going to end.

"Mama, I have something to tell you---"

"That man came back again today. He tried to sell me some lamp. He said it was an heirloom but I think I saw it at Big Lots a couple of months ago." She owned an antique furniture shop in town.

"I have to tell you something, Mama."

"Oh, I'm sorry kvatka, you go ahead, I'll shut my big mouth now."

"You remember me talking about the Dean, right? The one that hates my guts?"

"Mr. Subingalvis?" It was a pet name we had come up with for him. Mr. Asshole.

"Yeah, well he kind of expelled me today."

"What?"

"He ex---"

"I heard you. Oj Gavriel, so tu rosrerdžan?" her face looked as though the smile that had been there moments ago had never existed.

"English, Mama. Please."

"You can't get expelled! You can't do that!"

"It's not that big of a deal. I can just go to Hancock, it's closer!" I offered.

"No. No, Gavriel. This is a very big deal. I can't talk to you about this right now. I have to call your father, just go to your room or something." She wasn't used to disciplining me, this was a very foreign situation for her.

#

I fell onto my bed, disconcerted by how on edge I felt. My parents rarely spoke. Commiseration between the two of them meant something serious. Although the whole situation was rather concerning, it wasn't enough to stop me from taking a stress nap until 9pm. What better way to avoid uncomfortable feelings than to render yourself unconscious?

I made my way to the kitchen, hoping to quell some of the tension with my mom. We were extremely close and I despised myself for upsetting her, "Nine o'clock quesadillas. Will you be partaking?" I asked innocently.

"I spoke with your father. He's making some calls, so it's not a sure thing, but we decided you need to go somewhere with more structure."

"I'll take that as a no."

"This is no joke Gav, you can't just blow off school. The world doesn't work that way."

"So where am I going?"

"Willoughby."

"Is that the one on like 40th and Ashbury?"

"Willoughby Academy. It's in Maryland." she trailed off. I started laughing hysterically. There was no way that a place called Willoughby Academy existed in reality.

"Uh huh and then you'll tell me that it's all girls and they wear uniforms! That is rich," I replied. She didn't say anything. My laughing faded instantly, "You're not serious. Tell me you aren't serious."

"Your father knows the headmaster---"

"They have a headmaster?! This has to be a joke. You're sending me somewhere with a fucking headmaster? This is like everything you hate. Everything we hate." I exclaimed.

"It's not as bad as it sounds. Your father says it's small, you know, intimate---"

"Well that's just grand! Good thing it's 'intimate,' that way I can really get to know my Disney Channel Original Movie costars." I scoffed.

"You know what, I don't have to argue with you about this. The decision has already been made. This tantrum isn't going to change my mind. Your father is booking you a flight for Sunday morning. Someone from the school is going to pick you up at the airport."

"Jūs esate pamišęs!" I exclaimed. I immediately regretted it, nothing says immature like a teenager that screams "You're crazy!" at her mother.

"We're done here. It's done." she said blankly.