Storm 》Clifford A.U

004;

COOKING HAD BEEN one of the few things that I loved for as long as I could remember. When Papa was at work and Mama had to make dinner, Darya and I would stay in the kitchen, just watching her. She didn't believe in having someone else look after us (besides our grandmother) like a nanny, per say, because she felt as if they were impersonal and left the children with a sort of detachment from their parents. For that reason, she took Darya and I absolutely everywhere, and that included the kitchen.

Darya would bore easily and occupy herself by making various shapes and patterns out of the mounds of pepper she would pour out on the granite counter top. I, on the other hand, would lean forward on my tiptoe's, peering into the pots my mother tossed ingredient after ingredient in. I would trail after her like a lost puppy, helping her in any way that six year old me could. I wouldn't do much of anything else but sit and stare and hope that one day I could do that; make something that people genuinely enjoyed, that they sought to eat on a daily basis, like in a restaurant or something.

Eventually, when I got older, she let me help her more often, even going so far as to letting me make whole meals by myself. Nothing compared to the sheer satisfaction that transpired from making other people happy, especially with something as simple as a well cooked meal.

Although years had gone by, my affinity for cooking had only grown stronger, rather than fading out like the other brief passions Darya and I had developed over the course of our lives like singing or ballet, things of that sort. I stayed with cooking, and Darya stood with psychology and learning as a whole; a thirst for knowledge.

However, despite my love for culinary arts, I couldn't bring myself to force happiness now. My shift at work was over, and I had no other choice but to go home and cook dinner for my parents. Mama couldn't bring herself to get off of the couch and Papa couldn't cook to save his life. That being said; it was up to me to make dinner, to make Pelmeni -one of the many Russian dishes Mama loved instead of what I would have preferred to make- because "No, Alina, pizza strips no good enough for meal." Pizza strips, I had decided, were on the list of American foods that I would make her love. That list didn't seem to go anywhere, though, since she ate Russian food as often as she could, and didn't very much like settling for anything else.

While I cram filling into the thin dough, my phone buzzes against my thigh and I drop everything that I am doing to retrieve the call, hoping that it is Darya on the other end. I wipe my hands on a cloth and unlock my phone, heart falling when the messenger is Michael and not my sister.

MICHAEL CLIFFORD: have you packed a bag yet?

It was the first message I had gotten from him since earlier today, when I refused to do the very thing he just asked for.

ALINA VELIKNOVA: no, i told you i wasn't going to do that

MICHAEL CLIFFORD: how do you expect to find darya if you're just sitting around

I pause, inhaling deeply before I write him back.

ALINA VELIKNOVA: if i were to agree, where would we go?

MICHAEL CLIFFORD: wesleyan university

MICHAEL CLIFFORD: have your bag ready by 11 pm tomorrow and bring the journal with you

MICHAEL CLIFFORD: or don't ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Mama calls from the other room and both startled by her yell and frustrated by Michael, I drop my phone onto the ground. Quickly, I pick it up and turn my body halfway to face her.

"Alina," She breathes, trying but failing to smile from the doorway of the kitchen. She had gotten herself off of the couch and for her, that was a tremendous effort in itself. "Darya on television again, they say they have the breaking news."

"Has the detective-" I stop speaking before I even finish my question, as she is already retreating to the living room, turning away from me, blocking out my voice, and focusing all of her attention on the broadcast.

I already knew that the detective hadn't called with any new information because if he had, he would have called me, too. That meant he wasn't aware of this "breaking news" just yet or if he was, he chose not to share it. Either way, he was doing a shitty job of finding my sister.

"Today marks a month since Darya Veliknova, nineteen, has disappeared off of the streets of Montpelier. Minutes ago, Ian Accola, a fellow student at Wesleyan University, has told us that Veliknova's disappearance was no accident and that perhaps, another student at their school is responsible."

Mama sits perched at the edge of the couch, one hand pressed against her chest as she listens intently. I step further into the room, eyebrow rising. Is this why Michael wanted to visit the university? Did he already know this, or did he just think that there would be clues up there since it was the last place that she was seen?

"We have reason to believe that someone around Darya was the culprit, although their motive is unclear. Up until this point, we all thought that she was well liked around campus, but now, that doesn't seem to be the case. Ian, can you repeat what you told us earlier?" The reporter says, voice unattached and void of all emotion as she waves a microphone around the boy's face.

"Yeah, sure." Ian says, clearing his throat. He digs his hands into his raincoat, leaning forward so that his mouth is closer to the microphone. "Everyone knew Darya around here. And I guess she seemed like a nice girl but there was something going on there; there always is. More than what you can see on the surface, you know? She wasn't as nice and innocent as she liked people to think, and everybody here knows that. I'm just the only one willing to say anything. She did something to piss someone off, and they finally did something about it." Ian; tall and redheaded with freckles scattered along his cheeks, seemed very confident in his choice of words, lacking any and all sense of apprehension.

"Why do he tell the lie? Does he not like her?" My mother hisses, pursing her lips as she mutes the news channel; now brushing Darya off and saying that they'll come back to the story as they begin talking about a robbery at a local pizza shop.

"It's not that he didn't like her, Mama. He didn't even know her. He's just trying to get attention by making things up." I nod, trying to assure her. Part of me wanted to believe what I was saying, but the other part of me had to remind myself that the Darya I grew up with, the Darya that I knew, was a completely different Darya than the one who attended Wesleyan University and coexisted with the rest of the other students. That the other Darya would forever be foreign to me, and the only snippet I had of that side of her was in the pages of her journal. Was in going to the campus itself and maybe even talking to this boy who enjoyed broadcasting his accusations.

I pause, swallowing hard. "Mama, I'm going to be gone for the next few days. I have something to take care of."