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“If you’re worried about me skipping, don’t. Ivan’s dropping me off, right? I’m sure he’ll report back if I try to flee the country instead.”
He gives me a weary look as though he thinks that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.
I take a sip of my coffee before standing up. Slinging my bookbag over my shoulder, I grab my apple and my winter coat and head for the front door.
“Have a good day at school!” Galina calls after me.
Ivan is already waiting for me on the curb when I come down the front walkway, and he opens the door for me to settle inside the town car.
“Where is Mr. Baker?” he asks.
“He’s not coming. It’s just me today.”
Ivan doesn’t ask any other questions. He climbs into the driver’s seat and we take off through town, and I try to memorize the route. The street signs are in German on this side of the river, as far as I’ve noticed, so they’re easier to read than Russian Cyrillic.
“Hey, Ivan?”
“Yes, miss?”
I lean forward to talk to him, resting my elbow on the front passenger seat. “What’s the deal with the German stuff? I thought this country used to be part of the Soviet Union?”
“Yes,” he explains in his thick accent. “That is correct. But before World War II, this land was part of East Prussia and heavily influenced by German language and culture. It wasn’t until after the war this region came under Soviet control. Many German people were pushed out or punished for speaking their native tongue, but their influence is still all around us.”
“Oh, I guess that makes sense.”
The school is a twenty-minute drive away on the outskirts of town, so there’s no way I’ll be able to walk home. When we turn into the grounds, I catch a glimpse of the school, and my jaw drops.
The President’s Academy is literally a nineteenth-century German castle, which sits at the top of a forested hill overlooking the Baltic Sea. Pointed spires reach up to touch the clouds, and a red flag with the school crest flies from the tallest tower.
A grassy lawn sits outside the front entrance, and students are playing soccer or chatting on the ground beneath shady trees—like it isn’t freezing right now. All of them are wearing the same uniform as me beneath their coats, but the girls are carrying luxury handbags.
One look at the place is all it takes to realize this school is for the wealthy.
The town car rolls up to the front entrance, and when Ivan parks, he pulls out a small business card. It’s in Russian, so I can’t read it except for the numerical characters.
“Here is my phone number,” he says, passing it to me. “Text me when you are ready to be picked up after school.”
“Okay, thanks.” I slip it into my bag.
Ivan gives me a gentle smile in the rearview mirror. “Enjoy your first day, Miss Willow.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and climb out of the car, and nearby students glance in my direction. Keeping my head down, I shove my hands into my pockets and ignore the staring.
A couple of girls stand outside the front entrance, leaning against the stone façade and typing away on their phones.
“Excuse me?” I say. “Can you tell me where the headmaster’s office is?”
They both give me a once over, their cold eyes passing judgment on me before they scoff. One of the girls begins speaking to me in Russian, but despite the language barrier, her tone is clear: You’re not welcome here.
“You know what? Forget I asked, bitch.” It’s not like she can understand what I’m saying.
Eager to get away from them, I push open the heavy oak door into the castle before letting it close behind me with an ominous thud.
I’m fuming. If my dad sent me to a Russian-speaking school as a sick joke, I’m going to murder him. This is bullshit, and it confirms my father actually despises me.
I turn and take in my surroundings, but the grandiosity of the hall makes me stop.
Hushed conversations echo in the domed ceiling three stories above my head. The floor is made of marble, and a staircase ahead leads up to a balcony on the second level. Fresco paintings cover the walls and ceiling, and a gilded chandelier casts the room in a soft glow mixed with sunlight from the windows.
