Chernobyl - A Short Story

        April 26, 1986. Everyone was on-edge. It was just one of those days. Mama and Papa were fighting, but it wasn't a real fight; it was one of those fights you have with people because you feel tense. Like, you can tell something is about to happen, so you take it out on the people around you.

        "Iyana!" My mother, Elena Ivanov, yelled at me. I peeked my head into the kitchen, where both her and my father, Alexander, were standing in a stiff manner. Mama and Papa were both born in Russia, but they moved to Ukraine once they were married. At the time, Mama worked as a part-time schoolteacher, and Papa worked for the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant.  

        I take after my mother when it comes to my looks: I have her long, black hair, pale skin, sharp nose, and tall stature. But when it comes to my eyes, I have my Papa's dark green eyes.

        "Why don't you go outside? Go see if Grey is busy." Mama used that tone that told you her suggestion was not a suggestion and more of a demand. Grey Petrov is my friend. My best friend, to be exact. Honestly, I don't know why or how we're still friends, we've known each other since we were babies. Almost 13 whole years of bickering like siblings. Grey and I were born on the same day, in the same hospital, only 3 hours apart. So, I suppose it makes sense as to how we're best friends. Not to mention the fact that both my Papa and Grey's Papa worked at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant together. Also, I technically gave him his name: Grey isn't his real name, it's actually Greyson, but when we were 4, I told him Greyson was a "loser name" and started calling him Grey. Now everyone does it. Sometimes, I wish it were still just me who calls him Grey. 

        Now, Grey. Where to start with him? He's taller than me, which is a hard thing to be, since I'm a 5'7 12-year-old female. He's around 5'9. His ironic grey eyes sparkle with mischief and smarts. His hair is dirty-blonde, like his Papa's. All-in-all, everyone is pretty much in love with him.

        I was wandering around after I was brutally kicked out, wondering if I should really go to Grey's house, or not. In the end, I ended up knocking on his obnoxiously bright red door. His mother answered.

        "Hello, Mrs. Petrov. Is Grey here?" Mrs. Petrov was a hippie. She always had essence burning in her house, which made it smell like smoke and spearmint at all times. She also had those rainbow door beads dangling in every doorway. Not to mention how obsessed she was with blouses and peace-signs. Mrs. Petrov was the type of person who would act as though the Cold War was an opinion, and not a fact. 

        "Oh! Hello, Iyana! Grey will be happy to see you. He's up in his room." I nod. Grey is almost always in his room. 

       "I'll make you two some cookies!" Mrs. Petrov said, with a bright smile. If it were anyone else, I would have gladly accepted. But Mrs. Petrov's cooking was terrible.

        "Oh, no, Mrs. Petrov, I'm afraid I will politely have to decline your generous offer. I already ate," I gave her a strained smile.

        "Oh... I see," her glowing smile faltered for half a second before appearing again, more prominent than ever, "Well, then. Run along!" I gratefully ran past her, waving at Mr. Petrov, who was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, as I rushed by.

        Grey's room was always clean. How? I don't know. He is literally the sloppiest person I know, second to only myself. Either a fairy always came and cleaned at night, or his mother was kind enough to clean his room as long as he choked down her cooking.

        I walked through the neon door beads and into his room. He jumped at the sudden noise and glanced up from his book to stare at me. I stared back. It became a staring contest, of sorts. Eventually, he broke away.