“I must’ve gotten the wrong apartment,” I mumbled, embarrassed.
Though, if this really is the right place, and there’s another apartment numbered 707 somewhere in this building, I’ve already lost any desire to work here. The mere thought of running into YAD—short for Yarovy D.O., as the students call him (and not just for his initials)—while taking out the trash made me cringe. I could just imagine him, in his usual snarky tone, saying something like, “Ah, Miss Andriyanova. Conducting an independent journalistic investigation by digging through other people’s garbage? Think old man Stepan Pavlovich is secretly in cahoots with a terrorist organization? Don’t forget, you’ve got a lecture on Tuesday, and I expect that ten-page report.”
“And who exactly were you looking for, if I may ask?” the professor inquired while I painted these vivid pictures of my doomed future in my head.
“Not who, but what—a job,” I grumbled. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Not a cleaning job, by any chance?” Yarovy suddenly dropped his amused tone. “I’m sorry, Andriyanova, but I don’t hire students.”
So, I wasn’t mistaken after all. Damn it, why did that make me feel so ashamed? I came here looking for work, not to sell vacuums door-to-door.
“No worries,” I replied with a forced smile, turning toward the elevator before my ears could turn completely red. “See you later.”
I bolted into the elevator the second the doors opened, still feeling the piercing gaze of those green eyes on my back. With a shaky hand, I pressed the button for the first floor and only then let out a breath, pressing my palms to my face. Oh. My. God. How am I supposed to show up to Media Management classes now?! Last year was bad enough. I got flak for everything! Especially when I was late coming from work. I’d have to stand in the classroom doorway for five minutes under the stare of thirty pairs of eyes while Yarovy got his kicks mocking me. “What’s this, Andriyanova? Overslept because you were prepping for today’s seminar? Well, come on, hand over your notes. Such dedication deserves a reward.” And that’s nothing. Our classmate Vasya Honchar paid the price for munching on donuts during class—YAD nicknamed him “Hamster” and even went out of his way to get a pack of rodent food. Now he only calls Vasya up to the front while waving a box of “Hamster Chow” over his head. I can’t even imagine what’s in store for me.
Taking a deep breath, I forced my thoughts in a different direction. I’ve got enough problems as it is without adding a vindictive professor to the list. Besides, there’s still one last job opening at the hotel, so—onward!
***
Looking up at the massive building near the city center, with huge golden letters spelling “Halo” on the facade, my spirits sank again. Places like this don’t hire students without a recommendation letter and a stack of references. But I figured I might as well try.
I barely made it inside. The grim security guard at the entrance refused to let me in for the longest time, muttering into his walkie-talkie before finally nodding toward a door labeled “Human Resources” and giving me a suspicious once-over. If everyone here is this skeptical, there’s no way this is going to work out. But the moment I stepped into the large, brightly lit office, a girl a little older than me rushed over with a hopeful look on her face and asked:
“Are you here about the housekeeper position?”