Read Online Hot Little Hands by Abigail Ulman - Free Book Online

pick me up from the clinic tomorrow. I’m not allowed to leave by myself. I guess I was wondering—”
    He looks like he doesn’t want to do it. But then he says he’ll do it.
    “Thank you,” I say. “You’re the only person I know who wouldn’t judge me, or try to sleep with me, or tell me to keep the baby.”
    “Jesus,” he says. “I can’t wait to meet your friends.”
    And I can’t help it: The future reference makes me happy. “Do you want to go get a coffee or something?” I ask him.
    “No,” he says. “I’m going back to bed.”
    —
    It’s a Sunday morning and Valencia Street is quiet. There are a few couples walking together, with rolled-up newspapers under their arms or with babies in prams, but the road is empty and the sidewalks are mostly vacant. I realize I can walk slower and look around a lot more when I’m not expecting to bump into someone I know. I walk the two blocks to Amnesia, and the next four to the Common Room. Then I cross the street, cut over to Shotwell, and let myself into my apartment.
    I go to my room, take out my phone card, and call the number on the back. I punch in my PIN and dial the number of my sister’s flat in London. It rings, and I wait for her to pick up. It is late in the day where she is. I am excited to speak to her. I am excited to tell her that I’m happy she has found love.

Y esterday was my thirteenth birthday. When I woke up, my grandmother was still asleep in her bed across the room. My dad was awake. I could hear him in the shower, whistling. I was caught between two feelings: I wanted to curl over and fall back asleep, and I wanted to climb out of bed and see what the world looked like now that I was a teenager.
    I turned onto my side, covered my ear with the blanket, and thought about Dimitri. I tried to picture his face in my mind. This is the weird thing—I can clearly imagine anyone’s face, except if it’s a boy who has a crush on me. Once somebody has saved me a seat in English class, or teased me in a way that means he likes me, I can’t keep his image in my head for a second. I can remember pieces of him—the color of his eyes, or a shirt he wore—but I can’t create a whole picture from those parts.
    Dimitri is cute. He has straight hair the color of Licorice (my cat), and green eyes that look their best when he smiles. He’s one of three boys who have definitely shown interest in me this term—the others are Anatoly and Vlad—but I like him best because he’s mysterious but not too mysterious. He definitely compliments me (like, about my hairstyles or the things I say in class) but he doesn’t fall all over himself like some sappy, desperate idiot (Vlad).
    I had just started to conjure Dimitri’s face in my mind, especially the way he looked last week when I told him I wasn’t sure I had time for a boyfriend, when I realized that my dad was whistling the tune to “Happy Birthday.” My feet hit the floorboards and I ran to the bathroom without putting socks on, even though it’s January and has been snowing for almost a month.
    “Papa,” I called through the door. “Do I get a present this year?”
    “I’m no surprise-ruiner. You’ll have to wait till your mother’s up.”
    “But what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
    “Go back to sleep?”
    “Ugh! Impossible.”
    Lately I’ve been quarrelsome with my parents. I try to be good but it’s hard when they sometimes treat me like an adult, and sometimes treat me like a child, just based on whatever happens to suit them at the time.
    I decided to do handstands in the hallway, kicking my feet up and seeing how long I could hold myself upside down before flinging over into a bridge. Then I kicked my feet up again. I was half doing it to stay warm and half doing it in the hope that the sound of my feet thumping on the floor might wake my mother.
    “Kira, stop with the noise,” my father said on his way out of the bathroom.
    “Is that the birthday girl?” my