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The do-you-know-who-I-am? attitude is so outrageous it makes me laugh out loud. “Who do you think you are acting like a snotty cunt?”
I’ve dealt with snobs like Johanna before. I know what the girls at my old school used to say about me, and I’ve had a lot of practice holding my own in a verbal spar.
I just didn’t think I’d have to brush off those skills so soon.
Johanna glances at her friend, then looks back at me. “You’re new here, so you don’t know how this works. We run this school, and our parents run this country. Don’t mess with us. Now, I’m going to give you one chance to apologize for your ignorance.”
“Oh, well that explains everything,” I say. “You want me to get on my knees and apologize?”
She smirks. “That’s more like it.”
I push my chair back from the table, the sound of the legs scraping against the floor echoing in the silent hall. Keeping my gaze locked on Johanna’s, I walk slowly toward the middle of the room as all eyes are on me.
They’re waiting to see what I do next. They probably expect me to give in to Johanna.
When I reach her, I step forward to shield Prisha behind me.
“Well?” Johanna says. “I’m waiting.”
I stoop low, and Johanna lets out a derisive snort above me.
“That’s more like it,” she says. “On your knees in filth like the peasant you are.”
I laugh. “Oh, I’m not sorry about calling you a cunt in front of the entire school. And I’m definitely not sorry about this.”
I scoop up a handful of curry into my hands before straightening up, staring her dead in the eyes. Her face contorts into confusion, and I shove my hand forward into her chest, digging the food into her white, starched shirt. It makes a squelching sound when I smear it.
“Yeah, that will definitely stain. Your poor maid has her work cut out for her.”
The room lets out a collective gasp. Johanna’s mouth is hanging open as she stares down at her shirt, and after a moment of stunned silence, she begins to screech like a banshee.
“Look what you did! You filthy—”
She switches to a different language, which sounds more like German than Russian, so the curses she’s hurling at me sound extra harsh.
Her friend beside her takes a step back, afraid she’ll be next. I grab a napkin off the closest table and start wiping the excess food off my hand as Johanna screams foreign obscenities in my face.
Behind her, Aleksandr and his friend are watching the scene unfold. His friend looks mortified, but Aleksandr is grinning.
But when he grins, it gives his face a villainous quality that renews my fury.
“These are your friends, right?” I ask him. “Why don’t you keep them in line?”
He lets out a wicked chuckle. “They have their own free will. I’m not a dictator.”
I drop the used napkin to the floor. “But aren’t you the son of a dictator? Like father, like son, so they say.”
Any trace of his smile is wiped from his face, and all the air is sucked from the room. The tension shifts.
Before, I was confident standing up to Johanna. But now, with him, I realize I’ve crossed a line.
Not only crossed it, but blew right through it with dynamite.
Within moments, Aleksandr’s hand is grabbing my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks. He pushes me backward until I slam against the wall, and the impact of the stone on my skull makes me cry out.
His face is only inches from mine, and the icy fire glaring back at me in his eyes keeps me spellbound.
I’m afraid of him.
