VANGUARD(8)

A professor called the students to order and talked about their four weeks in New York. They would live in their designated quarters as part of the Columbia University campus in Morningside Heights, Manhattan. The university tolerated the annual influx of young overachievers; GYL brought recognition … and more than its fair share of exceptional applicants once the year was over.

This four-week period was the “nesting” phase during which the students would get to know one another, work with academic counselors, and establish goals for the year. They met the staff that would travel with them, then one by one, the students introduced themselves to their classmates.

“I’m Sophie Swenda from Chico, California,” she said when called upon. “I’m seventeen years old. I’m interested in developing world issues and crisis management. I plan to pursue a career in international development after I finish college.” She rattled out her many achievements, conferences she’d been invited to, events she’d participated in.

“I speak four languages fluently: English, Spanish, Russian.” Sophie paused, and saw the three Soviet students – two boys and a girl – look at her with sudden interest. “I also speak Orlisian.”

A murmur ran through the room, and something clattered to the floor several rows back. She knew it was unusual – and ironic – for a Westerner to speak the native languages of two faraway countries that hated one another so bitterly.

“I’ve studied Orlisian history from unification through the Soviet occupation and the country’s subsequent liberation. The language is essentially a Latvian dialect but is evolving as the country matures. Orlisia has been an obsession for me since its inception. I was hoping it would be on our tour schedule.”

At the end, the teacher gestured to a lone student at the back of the lecture hall. Sophie caught her breath at the sight on him. He had a head of black curls, and stern green eyes under heavy eyebrows. She wondered what he looked like when he smiled. Lebanese? Israeli? His light complexion suggested otherwise. He rose, his expression guarded.

“My name is Michael Nariovsky-Trent.”

Sophie frowned. What was that accent? It sounded familiar, like something she’d heard before but more…authentic, somehow.

“My family lives here in New York City, but I was born in Europe, where I lived until I was fifteen. I have been accepted to the medical school at Harvard in Cambridge, where I have already completed my undergraduate studies.” Like everyone else, he recited a laundry list of accomplishments, including some foreign honors Sophie had never heard of. He sat down abruptly at the end. The teacher looked as if he expected more, but Michael glared back with a startlingly hostile expression.

“Thank you, Mr. Nariovsky-Trent,” the teacher said, moving into a lecture on the rules that governed GYL. No drinking or drugs. Curfews, dress codes, mature behavior. Intra-student relationships were permitted, but had to be kept reasonably chaste.

The group walked the hallway of the main building to a large, airy cafeteria. Sophie took a tray, feeling awkward. She saw a Brazilian girl, Ana, sitting alone. “May I sit with you?” she asked. The two spent the next half hour making tentative forays into friendship, the conversation drifting to their lives at home. Sophie asked about the ring the other girl wore on a chain around her neck.

“Ah,” Ana said, blushing. “My boyfriend, Raphael, gave it to me. He was scared I wouldn’t come back to him! Like I would ever want anyone other than Raph.”

Sophie nodded. “I have a boyfriend at home too,” she said. “Matt Cain. He’s pre-law at Berkeley. No one here could replace him.”

Ana’s eyes darted over Sophie’s shoulder, and she giggled. “You’re sure of that?” she whispered. “Because that guy, Michael with the complicated last name, keeps looking over here, and he’s not staring at me.”

Sophie peeked back over her shoulder. Michael was definitely staring at her. She returned his intense gaze for a moment. A tall, athletic guy – Carter DeVries, Sophie thought his name was – tapped Michael on the shoulder, and he turned away. Sophie looked back to Ana, then gasped as recognition struck.

Michael’s accent had been Orlisian.





-





“Why didn’t you tell the class?” she asked him a few days later. “You aren’t ashamed of who you are.”

“Of course not. I do not tell people right away because I have so much pride in being Orlisian. My pride will be my downfall.” He paused. “Here in America, people know nothing of my country. The blank looks I receive when I say I was born in Orlisia bother me. Now I tell only the people I feel comfortable with.”