I apologize for saying your mother was a dirty red. It was Joe McCarthy's fault, he made everyone think Russians were all communists and I was only eight years old and believed him. Now I understand that just because your family fled Moscow in 1910 didn't mean they were commies.

But this is the thing. You didn't have to sit sobbing at the picnic table under the big elm tree for five hours because I hurt your feelings so much. I mean, dramatic or what? I had to listen to you wail while everyone in the bungalow colony gave me dirty looks and I felt a hollowness in my stomach and had to slink around like I had trashed a kitten. After a while I hid out in our bungalow but then mama grabbed my hand and dragged me to where you were still sniffling and poked me.

"Apologize," and I said "I'm sorry," and you looked up all tearstained and blotched with grief, and our mothers took us away.

Honestly, this all happened because your name was Lana and I thought you were stuck up and wanted to get back at you a little, but I had no idea, not one single solitary idea, that you would become hysterical for five hours. So yes, I'm sorry, oh my god, so sorry, I should have just told you to stick your head in gravy.