Chapter 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 hanging over 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 a really good starter position. And it would all be mine simply 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 really fit.
Not the way it was supposed to, at least. So when this opportunity dropped in my lap, it felt more like divine fate stepping 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’ll need me 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.
This is a door finally opening. A new chapter unfolding.
I breathe in, deep and steady, before dragging my suitcase to the corner of the room over by my door. There isn’t much inside, but it holds the few pieces of me that I’m bringing with me into this new beginning.
I glance back at my room where my phone charger is still plugged into the outlet. A half-finished water bottle sits on my nightstand, and my friends’ group chat is pinging in the background with Friday night plans.
But none of it feels quite real anymore. Not compared to what’s coming next.
This chance—this wild, ridiculous, life-changing chance—might actually be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
All I have to do now is grab it and hold on for dear life.
My friends insist on seeing me off at the airport in a rather touching farewell.
I didn’t expect them to make such a big deal out of it, but as soon as we convene just before the security checkpoint, I realize they were never going to let me get on a plane without some kind of fanfare.
There are balloons—silver and pink, one already deflated from being slammed in a car door when we were arguing about leaving Declan’s car at the traveler drop-off—and a sad little card with all of their heartfelt messages scribbled inside.
Alia cries before we even hug.
It’s all so damn touching, it wrecks me a little more than I thought it would.
Alia lets me go, eyes a little glassy. “You'd better text us every day. Or at least send us pictures so we know you're not dead. And you'd better tell me about all the hot Russian guys you meet over there so I can live vicariously through your steamy, Slavic sexcapades.”
“I will,” I promise, laughing through my own unshed tears.
Nina’s lower lip is already trembling when she practically folds me into a bear hug and holds me tight like she can’t decide if she wants to cling to me forever or go with me or break my back so I miss my flight.
“Don’t forget about us, okay?”
I squeeze her back, just as hard. “Would never dream of it.”
Declan’s the last to hug me. He doesn’t say much. He just pulls me into a hug that’s tighter than I expect, his arms locking around me, anchoring me to this moment—to this place.
His chin rests against my hair for a beat longer than I’m ready for, and when he pulls back, there’s a strange look in his eyes. It’s not exactly sadness but something close to it. This weirdly feels like our final goodbye.
“Make sure to let us know when you land,” he says, giving me a crooked, wary smile.
I force myself to swallow back my feelings and smile. “Of course.”
I’m going to miss all of them. More than they probably will ever know.
But this is something I have to do. Not just for my current self but hopefully, to set up my future.
There’s no shame in working a dead-end job for the rest of my life to make ends meet, but what if something else is out there waiting for me instead?
They hug me one last time before waving me off as I enter the line to get through security. I clutch my passport like a lifeline as I reach my gate and settle in for the long thirty minutes I have before boarding.
My stomach churns—nerves, mostly, though the slice of pizza I snagged from one of the cafes before clearing TSA probably isn’t helping.
I sink into a seat furthest from the boarding door and pull my backpack into my lap, hands fumbling for the manila envelope Miss Dori gave me during our final meeting.
The information packet for the family I’m going to be staying with for the next six months
I flip it open and run my fingers along the pages. Everything’s neatly typed and color-coded.
The Sorokin Family.
One daughter: Yulia, age eleven.
One father: Sergei, listed as a “private international businessman”.
Whatever that means…
There’s a photo of Yulia paperclipped to the top of her profile.
She’s cute—big blue eyes, flushed red cheeks, light brown hair that looks almost dirty blonde, and a shy smile that makes her look younger than her age.
There’s a subtle nervousness in her expression that I recognize almost immediately.
She looks like a kid who’s been through a lot.
I’d seen that same look in my own eyes too many times to count during my own childhood.
Flipping the page to the next one, there’s no photo of her father. Just a brief note that reads, Mr. Sorokin has elected not to provide a photograph at this time due to privacy concerns. You will be picked up at the Moscow airport by a member of his household staff.
I don’t know why, but that detail sticks in my brain strangely.