Chapter 1
One Month Earlier
Helena
“This is your life now, Helena.”
I shouldn’t refer to myself as Helena. It’s not going to be my name anymore. As soon as I can convince myself to step out of this rust bucket of a car, I’m going to become Sofia Petrov. Helena Russev no longer exists. I can’t even say with any honesty that I’m going to miss her. She was a backstabbing bitch who didn’t care who she hurt or what she had to do to get what she wanted.
Someday, I fear I’m going to merge completely with the characters I create for myself. After that, I suppose I won’t remember my true self at all. Hell, maybe that’s already happened. My whole life, I’ve had to change myself to be the woman I was expected to be.
The version of me that was once Helena would be ashamed to meet Sofia. She wouldn’t give her a second glance if they passed each other in the street. Helena was on the verge of marrying Nikolai, a Russian mafia boss. She was constantly miserableand bored. She lived in the lap of luxury, but it was only going to get her so far. She was so easily distracted that nothing felt real after a while.
I can’t pretend like I don’t miss the private jets, Louboutin’s, and couture gowns made specifically for me by the best designers in the world. I just have to get over it, somehow. Looking at me now, you would never know what sort of life I lived only a year ago.
Because now I’m parked out front of Creekview Middle School.
The building has seen better days. I imagine that schools receive little funding in a place like this. Some of the red brick has faded, and there are unmanned metal detector stations outside the front doors. At the very least, my beat-up car fits in. Every other car in the nearly empty lot appears to need a tune-up and a new coat of paint. Students crowd around the building”s perimeter, standing in small groups on the dead grass, waiting for the morning bell to ring and let them in.
I can’t remember if I was ever like them. What must it be like to feel so carefree? To spend as much time as you like doing whatever you wanted? Doing homework half-assed and making plans for whatever party or hang-out was planned for the weekend. I suppose it would be like a small kind of bliss.
And it’s exactly the sort of slow life that I’m after now.
I pull down the visor and flip open the small mirror to examine my reflection.
I refuse to cry again.
If I don”t get a grip on myself quickly, my under eyes will be permanently swollen. I don”t have time to waste by missing a range rover. I can”t afford to be late on my first day. I have to make an effort to make a good first impression.
Sighing, I press the pad of my ring finger into the puffy skin of my undereye. At least, my new, shorter hair complements my angular face nicely. I”m still getting used to the honey blonde. I never expected to have to give up my signature black waves, but this is supposed to be a fresh start. New clothes, new hair, new surroundings... new me.
Whether you like it or not, this is your life.
If I keep saying it over and over to myself, it will start to feel real sooner or later.
I’ve kept my makeup neutral, nothing that will make me stick out. For a touch of drama, I’ve allowed myself a pencil skirt that clings to my curves. I got the skirt and a few other pieces for my new business-casual wardrobe from the department store in town—pieces like the flowy, powder-blue shirt that I’ve neatly tucked into the stretchy fabric of my skirt.
The town itself is only slightly more modern than this school, for the most part. The houses are all quaint with white picket fences. I haven’t felt brave enough to scope out the nightlife scene here yet or any of the restaurants. All in good time.
There’s no point in rushing.
I touch up my lip gloss again before I shut the visor and rake my fingers through my hair to push some volume back into it. When my fingers brush over the jagged collection of scars hidden by my hairline, I pause. They serve as a constant reminder of what happened to me and why I”m still here... like a phantom pain that won”t go away no matter how hard I try.The doctors tried to tell me how much work it would take to repair my skull after I awoke from my coma... However, I did not want to hear it. I still don”t. I want to put it all behind me.
I yank my hands from my hair. With a deep breath to steady myself, I shove the door of my car open with a rusty squeak.
The bright sunlight warms my skin as I pull my cello case from the car. Then, I grab my large work bag and pull it over my shoulder.
“Here goes… well, everything,” I whisper to myself as I head for the metal detectors. Just as I suspected, they aren’t even turned on. I have to hope the cops in this town are slightly better equipped to handle things should something go wrong. I walk up the three steps that lead into the building and cast one last glance over my shoulder.
He can”t find me here. I”m as safe as I possibly can be. My grip on my cello case tightens as I walk back into the main building, pushing the door open in front of me with my hip.
To my surprise, the principal is standing at the door in an ill-fitting suit. He greets me, a smile hidden beneath his full black mustache.
“Ms. Petrov!” The principal says with a happy chime. The dove gray color of his suit flatters his dark, golden skin well. His brown hair has been shaved close to his scalp, but he missed a spot just beneath his chin when he must have shaved this morning. These are things I would never dare remark upon out loud but that I can’t help but notice. It’s my nature to be observant. It goes hand in hand with the constant paranoia. “How lovely to meet you. It’s great to have you on board!”
“Hello,” I say softly, trying to hide as much of my Russian accent as possible—yet another remnant of my life that needs to fade as quickly as possible so that I can become Sofia Petrov. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“I was hoping you would make it here nice and early so that I could introduce myself. I’m Principal Alexander Martinez. We spoke on the phone before. The students should be starting to file in shortly, and I wanted to make sure that I personally gave you a tour of the place.” He extends his hand to take my cello case, and I gladly hand it over. He makes a broad motion for me to follow him but I”m still not sure where I”m going. I try to keep up with him at a reasonable pace. At least the inside of the school is much nicer than the outside.
“So, I can’t say just how pleased we are to have a real musician joining us here! I tried to look up some of your symphony performances online, but I had some trouble locating you. I’m not great at all that tech stuff, though I’m sure you can point me in the right direction,” Principal Martinez rambles on. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort of fellow. If he wasn’t so sweet, I wouldn’t feel so bad lying to him.
“Oh, I’m grateful for the opportunity. Really, it’s an honor to be here and share my love of music with the kids,” I answer plainly. No extra details, just like I’m supposed to.
“Is that a hint of an accent I’m picking up on?” Martinez asks with a smile.
“You have a good ear, sir. It is my grandfather’s accent. He comes from Russia, and he had a hand in raising me. I suppose it stuck more than I am aware of.” I try to make it sound like it’s a painful subject. Even just alluding to the fact I have Russian ties is more than I am comfortable with. Again, with the paranoia. Better safe than sorry.
“Ah, can’t say that Russia is high on my bucket list! I haven’t traveled much though, so what do I know?” The principal says with a gentle scoff as we turn into the music room. “Here we are! The music room.” Principal Martinez places my cello case on the ground with a soft thunk against the old, flat carpet. A cloud of dust wafts up, but he pretends not to notice. “I know it’s not like the fancy places I’m sure you’re accustomed to working in, but we like to keep things… modest, here.”
He looks around the room, both hands on his hips. It”s designed in the shape of a half-circle, with four sets of risers spaced about two feet apart. Heavy brown drapes are pushed open against the back wall, concealing large, bulkywindows. The carpet was probably once a nice shade of red that went well with the off-white walls, but it”s now faded, and the paint appears yellow and sad. I”m sure I”ll be allowed to spruce up the place and make it feel more like my own.
Black music stands are folded together and pushed up against the far wall beside what I’m guessing is my desk. Said desk is a small, orange, wooden mess with no more than three drawers on one side, and nothing but spindly legs on the other. There is a closet door off to the side where I’m supposed to keep my personal belongings. I place my work bag on the floor beside the desk and turn in a small circle to properly take in the room. It might not be much now, but it has potential.
I clasp my hands in front of my body and tuck my elbows into my sides, imagining what a fresh coat of paint might do. I feel hopeful, as if the place is full of possibilities... until I remember I”m broke.
The bell rings and Principal Martinez jolts and glances at his watch. “Shoot! Fifteen minutes until the buses start to arrive. I meant to show you around the rest of the school, but it will have to wait.” He speaks quickly as he walks back toward the door to the classroom. “Ms. Olivia is across the hall. She’s not too much older than yourself. I think the pair of you will get along famously! She’ll be happy to help you with anything you might need or answer any other questions you might have.” Principal Martinez pauses at the door and reconsiders his exit. He jogs quickly across the room and grabs my hands and shakes them vigorously. “I’m just so happy to finally have the chance to extend our Arts program! Thank you, again. Adios!”
He rushes off in short, shuffled steps back out the door and disappears out of view.
Suddenly, I feel small.
Not just because of the size of the room. I feel insignificant in comparison to the person I used to be. At the very least, I have something to do to keep myself busy. And this isn”t my first time impersonating someone else. I take a seat at my desk. On top of it is a blue folder with the school”s logo embossed in gold. I open it to reveal the onboarding paperwork and my schedule. My own time at school feels so very far away. In just a few moments, I will have to set my new personality in stone and start introducing myself. Already, my nerves and anxiety are starting to give way to excitement. Everybody is so nice… maybe I can be nice here, too.
On that positive note, I push back from my desk and move for my cello. I have always had an affinity for music, ever since I was young. No matter what was happening in my life, music was my way to escape from it all. One of the only things that helped me get out of my recent depression was the cello. It produces such dark, chilling sounds, and it soothes me more than any other instrument I”ve tried.
I open one of the few folded chairs from beside the music stands. I”ll need to get a good sense of the acoustics to determine whether I need to quickly rearrange things for my students. I can”t say I”d ever given much thought to becoming a teacher before now.
I came into my love of music at such a young age; it feels like a natural extension of my soul. My mother taught me how to play. I suppose, in some way, it makes me feel connected to her. That being said, I don’t think she would approve of my choices, as she never thought I was good enough. She said I had the “wrong fingers” for it. Perhaps it’s nothing more than spite that fuels my desire to play.
I’ve never wanted to be a mother, even though I always thought it would happen. I still don’t know whether or not I would be any good at it—hopefully better than the one that I had, at least. It’s a low bar. I just want to be happy again, and music makes me happy. If I can show just one kid the joy of music too… Well, that just might be enough.
My skirt is stretchy, but not as much as I would like. When the cheap nylon doesn”t move the way I want it to, it”s even more irritating. I have to hike it up past my knees to properly fit my cello between my legs as I begin to tune the instrument. To my delight and despite its simplicity, the sound reverberates beautifully through the space. As I position my fingers over the strings, I rotate away from the door. My callouses will take some time to return. And I can hardly wait.
I can do this. Yeah, this might just work.