3
IVY
The week after my meeting with Miss Dori and the other alumni feels like I’ve been living in some kind of surreal, fever-drenched dream.
I keep looking at the stacks of folded clothes piled high on my bed and the brand-new suitcase sitting open at the foot of it and asking myself,am I really doing this?Am I seriously about to get on a plane to Russia?
God, Russia… I still can’t believe it.
Every time I shove another oversized sweater or pair of thermal leggings into the suitcase, my body freezes because… what the hell am I doing? Leaving the country to teach a child I’ve never met in a household that probably has more staff than I have family members. Isn’t that insane?
What the hell is my life right now?
I don’t even have an English degree or any credits to my name for early education. Technically, I’m not even done with college yet, and with my half-finished associate’s program still hangingover my head, on paper, I make the worst candidate for this opportunity.
But none of that matters in Miss Dori’s eyes. And honestly, I stopped caring about my inadequacies once I saw the contract. The second Miss Dori slid it across the table during our one-on-one meeting, I swear I felt time slow down. The number at the bottom of that first page nearly made my vision double.
It was more than I could’ve hoped for. More than what most of my friends would be making right out of college in areallygood starter position. And it would all beminesimply because I’m willing to board a plane and fly to a different country to teach English.
A paycheck that size would be enough to pull me out from under the crushing weight of my student loans before they even had the chance to fully sink their teeth into me. Not to mention pay for a few months’ rent when I’m inevitably kicked out of student housing by the time I come back.
I’d be financially free.
At least for a little while. After that… who knows what I’m going to do?
That’s been the hardest part to admit—the not knowing. I’ve spent so long trying to stay on the right, sensible track since leaving home at the ripe age of seventeen. College, a part-time job to keep a roof over my head and save a little.
But none of it ever reallyfit.
Not the way it was supposed to, at least. So when this opportunity dropped in my lap, it felt more like divine fatestepping in and shaking me by the shoulders than a situation I’d regret pushing myself into out of desperation.
And maybe, just maybe, this six-month contract will turn into something more. Something I can spin into experience for the future, or hell, even a full-time gig if I impress the family enough. Maybe they’ll love me. Maybe they’llneedme to stay and continue their child’s education until they’re grown and leaving the nest to fly on their own.
The fantasy is a little ridiculous, I know. But is it really that crazy to hope? To imagine being wanted somewhere, even needed, in a place that feels like it was plucked straight out of some snow-covered storybook and presented specifically for me?
There’s still a sliver of doubt that hangs over me as I zip my suitcase shut and sit on it to get it to close all the way. I’ve never even babysat kids before, much less taught a foreign child how to speak my native language. What if I mess it up? What if I completely humiliate myself and get sent back to the States before my first week is over?
But then I remember the way those alumni lit up when they spoke during the meet-and-greet. Late-night strolls along the Red Square. Host families who invited them to elaborate holiday feasts, welcomed them into their homes like royalty.
One girl even said she got invited to a wedding that she said was like something out of a Russian Mafia movie. All big glitz and glam with the security at the front wanding everyone down before they could enter the church.
All had such different experiences that sounded straight out of those cheesy, feel-good coming-of-age movies that I loved to binge whenever I felt down in the dumps.
Collectively, there was one thing they all shared—that the opportunity changed them. It opened up a part of them they didn’t even realize had been shut tight, and for the first time in a very long time, I began to feel that spark too simply by osmosis.
That aching, burning kind of wanting when you know there’s more to life than the tiny box you’ve been stuck living in all your life.
So I signed. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just my name, looped in messy cursive, sealing the deal.
I’m going to Russia.
Even thinking back on it now sends a rush of adrenaline racing through my chest. Excitement and fear crash into each other in waves that leave my palms sweaty and my legs slightly trembling as I rise up from my suitcase and grab the handle to set it upright.
Miss Dori didn’t even need time to match me with a host family. She said she’d already had one in mind the moment we hung up from our first phone call.
“They’ll adore you,”she promised with a wink.
Let’s hope she’s right because in forty-eight hours, I’ll be stepping off a plane in a country I’ve never been to, in a language I don’t speak, into the home of people I’ve never met. And for some reason, it feels less like running away and more like stepping toward something.
