Princess of Passyunk by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff Page B

brother.” Nick grimaced and touched his black eye.
    â€œBut not the parents?”
    Nick shook his head. “Annie thinks if her Mama met me, she’d like me. She says her Mama’s the queen of the family and what she says goes. But her brother is always watching her. The only time we can talk is right after school when Steve is in his study hall. He’s not doing so good in school.” He hid his smirk in an inspection of Baba’s braided rug. “If he wants to graduate he’s got to take this special study hall...and stay out of trouble.”
    â€œThis is how he stays out of trouble?” asked Da.
    â€œVitaly?” Mama’s voice sounded tentative. “Should we talk to this girl’s parents, do you think?”
    â€œNikki is almost a man. I think we should let him find his own way through this.”
    â€œThen you’re not going to make me stop seeing Annie?” asked Nick.
    Da laughed. The sound so surprised Ganady that he almost laughed himself.
    â€œNikolai,” said Da, “I would be the last man in the world to say you should not see a girl because of her people. If I could think of a way to help you, I would.”
    Nick grinned. “Yeah, well, maybe if you had some magic arrows.” He glanced up to catch his younger brother’s eye.
    â€œMagic arrows?” repeated Da.
    â€œIt’s a joke,” Nick said and winked.
    Swallowing a chuckle, Ganny slipped quietly up the stairs.

Eight: Princess Nadia
    Nick no longer went to the dances on Friday nights; he went to mass. The very mass the Guercinos attended, at which he could sit and fill his eyes with the Princess Antonia, and her brother could do nothing.
    Baba, of course, had invited her eldest grandson to shul. His reply had been a rueful shrug.
    â€œI’m not Jewish, Baba,” he’d said, and Baba had merely nodded and continued her meal. But Ganady had seen the hurt in her eyes before she lowered them to her roast chicken.
    Ganady was still miffed at Nikolai for this tactless rebuff, when, on a fine Saturday afternoon one week after the cessation of school, the elder boy suggested the trio go over to Passyunk Square to see if they could cobble together a baseball game. Ganady contemplated declining, but Nick had been in short supply of late, and passing up a game of ball was unthinkable.
    Alas, there was no one about to be cobbled—there were only a couple of old men playing chess on a park bench. Nick did not seem at all disappointed, but merely suggested they play catch for a bit. They did, but Nick was soon bored.
    â€œBatting practice,” he announced, and sent Ganny out to pitch while Yevgeny played catcher.
    Ganady was neither good nor bad at pitching. His pitches were solidly over the plate (Nick’s glove) but not of a speed or location that would ever warm the cockles of a coach’s heart. He was, however, a good first baseman, as Father Cravic at Saint Casimir would agree. He put his pitches where Nick could hit them. As Ganady was also covering all positions in both infield and outfield, he was eventually exhausted.
    â€œMy at bat!” he announced after Nikolai had popped up his thirtieth ball. “ You pitch.”
    Nick caught the thrown ball and flipped it into the air as the winded Ganady trotted up to him. He glanced up and across the street, his dark eyes gleaming, the ball leaping rhythmically from his hand.
    â€œOne last hit,” he said.
    â€œNikki!” Ganady complained, “you’ve had your turn.”
    Behind Nick, Yevgeny rose, as if to underscore Ganady’s protest.
    Nick ignored them both. “He stands in,” he said, doing his own play-by-play. He hefted the bat, balanced the ball on his fingertips. “He waits for the windup, the throw!”
    The ball popped upward, Nick swung, his hands meeting in mid-arc on the grip of the bat. There was a crack of sound and the ball sailed away toward South