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The room is filled with so many details I can’t settle my eyes on one spot. It’s overwhelming to me, but for everyone else here, it’s not even worth a spare glance. They’re accustomed to this luxury.
It hits me how out of place I am here surrounded by wealth and status—two things I am very unfamiliar with.
My dad was a shitty father, but he paid his child support, so Mom and I weren’t poor by any means. But this? This is on a completely different level.
By some miracle, I manage to find my way to the headmaster’s office. A stern-looking secretary sits outside his door, and she nods her head at a leather sofa.
Before taking a seat, I unbutton my coat and lay it over my bookbag. When I sit, the buttery leather hits the back of my knees as I sink into the cushions. Pictures of each graduating class line the walls in wooden frames going back to the class of 1994, each student wearing a uniform identical to mine. Another portrait is hung prominently outside the door, this one of a younger Grigor Kurochkin shaking the hand of an older man, who I presume is the headmaster.
It appears to be a photograph from the opening of the school, but Mr. Kurochkin isn’t smiling in celebration. Even from decades away, his hostile gaze is terrifying.
“You may head in now.”
The secretary waves me in, and I gather my bag and coat into my arms. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to, but I knock softly on the door before opening it.
“Yes, come in.”
Inside the office sits an older man at an oak desk, and he has glasses sitting on the end of his nose as he pours over a stack of papers. Without glancing up, he waves me in, and I shut the door behind me before taking a seat.
A long moment of silence passes until he looks up. “You must be the Baker girl.” His tone is stern, but his English is clear. I only detect a hint of a Russian accent.
“Yeah, I’m Willow Baker.”
He sets his papers down on the desk and folds his hands, and he studies me over the rim of his glasses. “I’m Headmaster Popov. I was just looking at your file, and it seems your transcripts still have not arrived.”
“Oh. Uh, will that be a problem?” I ask.
“Normally, we don’t accept transfer students without them. However, given your father is a Harvard alumnus, I don’t have any concerns about your grades.”
If I wasn’t nervous before, I sure am now. My grades suck, and as I revealed to my father at the Ambassadors’ Dinner, he also knows my grades suck. But my father hasn’t relayed that to the headmaster, which could cause problems.
What happens to me when the school reviews my transcripts? Will I get kicked out?
“You’ll find a couple other students here like yourself who are the children of foreign diplomats,” he says. “I have no doubt you will adjust well, even if your stay with us is brief.”
“Yep, I’ll be gone as fast as I can.”
He doesn’t crack a smile but rather continues to stare at me over his glasses. I shrink back into my seat.
“Anyway, you can gather your textbooks and course schedule from Mrs. Albrecht out front. She can direct you to your classroom.” He glances down at his stack of papers once again.
“Actually, I have a quick question,” I say. “Are the courses taught in Russian? Because I don’t speak any Russian. Will that be a problem?”
“This is an English-immersion school. Students and staff are expected to converse exclusively in English when present on school grounds.”
“Oh, thank God.”
He quirks his eyebrow at me, and I feel exposed beneath his stern gaze.
“I’ll, um, see myself out.”
“Yes. Do that.”
I’m eager to escape the tension of his office, so when I exit, I let out a relieved sigh.
Mrs. Albrecht slams a large stack of textbooks on top of her desk, making me jump. “Take these. Go to Löwin Hall, upstairs on the third floor. West wing.”
“Great, thank you.”
