The Faces of Strangers by Pia Padukone Page B

his waist as she tugged his belt off, whispering, “Relax. I’m just easing any restriction.” Then she reached down and lifted his legs a few inches off the ground. Paavo had been awed by Sabine, how she’d taken charge without waiting for an adult or further instructions and by her serene, methodical manner. How had she known that the fear of walking back into the conference room pained him more than his ankle where he’d turned it on the bathroom doorjamb? “Don’t worry, your pride can be healed,” she’d whispered. Paavo would repeat the mantra to himself over and over in the years to come. Barbara and the EMT had found them there—Paavo lying back and Sabine elevating his legs as she encouraged him to take deep lungfuls of air. The EMT had commended Sabine in a thick German accent—raising Paavo’s legs above his heart had been exactly the right thing to do. “From verr did you learn zis? Das ist perfekt tek-neek.” By that time, of course, the blood had rushed back into Paavo’s system, and he sat up and promised a very stricken Barbara that he was fine—he just had low blood sugar and needed to eat something, that he would be able to continue on with orientation. It was just too bad that Sabine lived four whole countries away. It felt good to have an ally for once.
    But Nico could be an ally, too. Paavo’s heart leaped a little, thinking of his presence here. He wasn’t sure whether or not they might get along, but at least he had a travel companion to get to and from school. He didn’t have to be alone anymore; there was strength in numbers. And Nico was a wrestler. It was as though the Hallström program had provided him with his very own bodyguard.
    Paavo sat straight up in bed, gripping the edge of his blanket with his stubby fingers, the nails bitten down past their keratinous whites. The bluish haze of night was still settled over the world outside the window, blurring the outlines of the houses and cars across the road. He could hear motion from the kitchen just below his room. Leo and Vera were up, communing, combining, collaborating. Paavo could hear the grinder’s powerful blade come to a shuddering halt and Vera’s breathless curses. It was kasha for breakfast today; the fatty fragrance of melted butter and hot rough-cut buckwheat seeped into his room. He should rouse Nico in case he wasn’t already awake. After all, they couldn’t be late on their first day.
    Not that Paavo was particularly looking forward to it. He washed his face in the hall bathroom. His face looked wan and pulled. He had no idea whether the gang would be waiting for him with the start of the school year; he’d hardly given them a chance to bully him over the summer. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a jumper and headed downstairs.
    Nico was already sitting alone at the table, mixing a bowl of groats rather aggressively with a spoon, as if it would somehow magically transform into ice cream or chicken noodle soup like that fable that Babu used to tell Paavo as a child. Paavo watched from the doorway as Nico sliced off three more pats of butter and dissolved them over the steaming buckwheat.
    â€œUnfortunately, that’s not going to help,” Paavo said, smiling. “Butter just makes them soggier. They take some getting used to.” Nico turned toward him, his eyes still droopy with sleep.
    â€œThey’re not so bad,” Nico said. “It’s kind of like oatmeal.” He spooned some into his mouth, swished it around with his tongue and took a long chug of coffee before swallowing the whole thing down.
    â€œTry this,” Paavo said, opening a shelf over the sink. He handed Nico a bar wrapped in red-and-orange plastic.
    â€œKamatahvel,” Nico read. “Chocolate?”
    â€œKind of,” Paavo said. “It’s a candy bar. Mama and Papa ate it when the Soviets were in power and chocolate wasn’t