“Damn it, I just can’t believe this!” Varya exclaimed, swinging the door open for me. “They really kicked you out! Two days before the semester starts! What a load of crap!”
She stepped aside to let me in, all the while unleashing a torrent of insults about my stepfather with every colorful word in her arsenal. And trust me, her vocabulary is something else. They say you can spot a good journalist from a mile away by their, uh, *extensive* lexicon. A talented one can cuss you out so creatively, you’ll end up thanking them for it. Varya’s the best on our campus, and not just when it comes to profanity. Need material or dirt for a juicy tabloid piece? She’ll have it ready before the professor even finishes reading the assignment.
Small and wiry, she’s like a ghost—slipping into places no one else can. That’s also why she doesn’t have many friends. The fact that Varya’s always the first to know what’s going on, snags passes to every hot event, and leads reporting workshops and field trips? Even the least competitive types couldn’t handle it. The overachievers, meanwhile, couldn’t beat her no matter how hard they tried, so for the past two years, they’ve just been quietly fuming.
I’m lucky I didn’t fall into either camp. I’ve always been too busy with work, side gigs, or hunting for the next one to get caught up in the drama. I’m barely hanging on at college as it is.
“Hey,” I said weakly, managing a faint smile as I dragged my gym bag full of clothes—the only thing I was allowed to take with me—into her apartment. “Thanks for letting me stash my stuff here.”
I felt a wave of relief as I finally dropped the bag on the floor. The thought of lugging it around the city while job-hunting made me shudder. Thank God for Varya. We hit it off back in our first year when I nearly flunked out due to too many absences. True to form, she took charge (mostly of me). Since then, she’s been dragging me through school, while I occasionally tag along to exhibitions or help with the campus weekly. I just don’t have time for much else.
Varya couldn’t take me in herself—she’s already crammed on a tiny couch with her two younger sisters—but she agreed to watch my stuff until I landed some kind of gig. I could easily get my old summer job back at the café, but then I’d have zero time for classes. The real problem, though, was housing. No one’s letting you in without a deposit, and my wallet’s down to the equivalent of ten bucks. Roof over my head or food in my stomach? You can survive a few days without the first, but hunger doesn’t wait for better times.
After saying goodbye to Varya, I headed out to the address listed in the first job posting I found on our city’s website.
***
“Housekeeper needed! Flexible hours, high pay, weekly payouts.” Sounds perfect, right? Almost suspiciously perfect, you might say. And you’d be right. If only you knew what that creepy, balding old man in a red robe—unbuttoned over his hairy chest—proposed to me while leering from head to toe. I barely got out of there in one piece. A few other listings fell through because of “rotating schedules.” That left just two options: a shady cleaning gig at an apartment and a housekeeper position at the Halo Hotel. Here’s hoping for the best!
How did I even end up on the street with just ten bucks to my name, like some stray dog? I’m not entirely sure, though I’ve known for a while that this was how things would end with my mom’s husband. Stan showed up in our apartment three years ago and immediately tried to take over everything. He moved in, forced Mom to get a second job because, apparently, he works so hard he deserves “quality meat products.” Earning money for food? That’s “women’s work,” according to him. He’s supposedly saving up for a “decent house and a new car,” but no one’s ever seen a dime of that money. Still, Mom believes him. Worse, she worships her precious Stan, hanging on his every word as he spins tales about a promotion that’s “just around the corner” (never mind that the only promotion for a mechanic at a bread factory is to senior mechanic or delivery driver). My sarcastic jabs always hit their mark, though. Stan puffs up like a peacock, spitting as he lectures me about how I’m an ungrateful, shameless freeloader who’s eighteen, then nineteen, and now twenty years old, still mooching off them. His words are empty noise. I’ve been paying for my own tuition and clothes since right after high school, when Mom got sick and ended up in the hospital, and we had nothing to eat. And behind all his strutting and shouting about how he “feeds and clothes me,” I see nothing but a pathetic chicken butt that he plops on the couch in front of the TV after every shift.
He’s just an insecure loser with a knack for manipulation, which is why Mom stopped being my mother a long time ago. She’s become a submissive wife, a role that’s taken up so much space in her life that it’s completely pushed me out. Yesterday, I officially turned twenty, and Stan started up again with his “stop leeching off your parents” rant. Instead of birthday gifts, I got an old gym bag to pack my clothes, shoes, and a few personal items. Looking at Mom, standing behind Stan with her eyes lowered, nodding to every word he said, I realized there was no fighting this. I had no choice but to get out of that apartment.
And now here I am, standing in front of an apartment on the seventh floor of a shiny new high-rise, hoping that behind these steel doors isn’t another aging creep, but a shot at a warm, well-fed future. What I didn’t expect, though, was this turn of events...
The door swung open abruptly after my fourth ring, and I heard a stunned voice above me:
“Miss Andriyanova? I don’t recall scheduling any extra Management sessions with you.”
I jolted, looking up. Standing in the doorway was the youngest, most insufferable, and most sarcastic professor at our university, Denis Yarovy. His dark hair, usually slicked back perfectly, was artfully mussed, a few strands falling over his high forehead, making him look more like a cocky senior than a strict academic.
The fact that he was standing there in nothing but pajama pants didn’t help matters. Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against the doorframe, a crooked smirk on his face as he waited for me to pull myself together.