The prey

"I'm so sorry, dear, but we need someone who can... understand...take...orders?"

This was my sixth rejection. Even though I tried to make them understand, nothing worked. They needed someone who could make their job easier, a local, not a foreign student like me who struggled to understand the language. To some extent, I could understand where they were coming from. Hiring me would only add to their workload.

Sighing, I smiled at the kind woman. "Все в порядке, я понимаю"

Come on, I can speak Russian. You don't have to look at me like I'm some dumb American-

She looked wide-eyed at me for a second but then gave me an apologetic smile. "Have a good day."

My smile faltered. What? That's it? She could've reconsidered. I need this job for god's sake!

I mentally kicked myself for not putting on a better show, for not conjuring up some miracle to sway her decision. Unfortunately, it seemed fate had other plans, and I found myself dealing with the bitter taste of rejection once again. Time to dust off the resume and try, try again. Who knows? Maybe lucky number seven would be the charm.

Well, rejection number six didn't sting any less. Maybe next time, I'd charm them with my proficiency in French or my knack for making a mean batch of pancakes. It was all about finding the right fit, even if it meant enduring a few bumps along the way.

Clutching the bag tighter, I trudged towards the dorm, feeling the icy tendrils of cold seeping through my jeans and freezing me to the core. My teeth chattered as I futilely blew on my hands, hoping to coax some warmth into them, but my efforts were in vain. I cursed under my breath, regretting my blind faith in the weather forecast today.

Note to self: never leave home without an extra layer, or ten, in this hard Russian winter.

After changing into warm clothes, I skipped dinner and lay in my bed. The day's exhaustion had taken a toll on me. From embarrassing myself in the class, spending five hours in the library, hunting down every café and possible part-time job place in the area, I was ready to call it a day.

I didn't have to overthink today to sleep. It came naturally. Subconsciously I reminded myself to get the glasses fixed on my way to university tomorrow.

*******

"Everything's good, dorogya?" Alina asked when I slumped on my seat next to hers.

My mouth twisted at the sight of the breakfast, bowl of soup and bread. "If getting rejected from six places is considered good, then I'm feeling fucking marvellous." I didn't feel like eating anymore. I had lost all hope that I'd find a job anywhere. Only if I showed interest in the Russian language in my high school.

"Told ya'. You can still consider my offer though," I scoffed at her response and narrowed my eyes.

"No thanks. You enjoy your shady part-time, I am fine," I ate the soup in silence, running through my options. Maybe I should try a pet shop next? At least they'd accept me, since I speak animal language sometimes. Or maybe I could become a professional napper? I've got the sleeping part down to an art. How about a Netflix binge-watcher? I was practically a black belt in that.

"Oh, come on, it's not shady, it just offers more. See," she turned towards me with a mischievous grin. "You just have to dress pretty and sway your hips and they'll give you money for that," Alina exaggerated.

Dress pretty and sway my hips? Sure, because I totally have the grace of a swan and not the coordination of a drunk giraffe.

Maybe I could give them a good laugh and charge for entertainment. Watch me trip over my own feet and still somehow spill drinks on myself. I could just see it now.

"You mean a bar dancer? No, I'm good," I sighed, shaking my head. Alina just shrugged and turned to her other friend, chatting away in rapid Russian, leaving me to fend off my own thoughts.

Great, now my brain was spiralling. Maybe I should consider stand-up comedy; my life was a joke anyway. Or I could try mime—how hard can it be to pretend you were stuck in an invisible box? Knowing my luck, I'd probably get stuck in a real one.

And damn this soup!

A girl plopped down next to me with her breakfast and a newspaper, sporting a pair of oversized round glasses and newspaper under her armpit. Suddenly, I was hit with a wave of realization—I needed to get mine fixed too.

I glanced down at my own glasses, which were currently being held together by a few pieces of duct tape. They looked like they'd been through a war.

Note to self: Add 'get glasses fixed' to the never-ending to-do list.

With a sigh, I absentmindedly swirled the spoon in my bowl of soup, my mind drifting into a fog of morning weariness. But then, like a beacon in the sea of newsprint, one word jumped out at me from the Russian newspaper in front of the girl next to me.

Almost sending my spoon flying into the bowl, I lunged for the newspaper, my eyes narrowing in on the mysterious word as if it held the key to unravelling a centuries-old mystery.

Требуются сотрудники

(Employee needed)

The girl shot me a pissed-off look, but I paid no heed to her annoyance. With grit burning in my veins, I grabbed Alina's arm and turned her towards me, her confusion mirrored in her expression as I shoved the paper into her face and pointed anxiously at the word. My heart thudded like a bass drum in a rock concert, the adrenaline coursing through my veins drowning out any sense of embarrassment.

"Translate it for me," I demanded with urgency feeling sweaty in this cold.

"It says, 'Hiring a caretaker. Offers... fuck!" Alina's eyes widened as she abruptly snapped her head toward me. "10,000 dollars!"

My heart skipped a beat, and I felt a rush of excitement coursing through my veins. Ten thousand dollars? My eyebrows shot up so high, that I was in danger of losing them in my hairline.

She quickly pointed to the bottom of the newspaper, her finger trembling with anticipation as if she'd just discovered the treasure map to El Dorado. "The details...Черт возьми, дорогая, переведи на русский,!" Her Russian was taking over her English as she jumped up and down, clearly more excited than me. I half-expected her to break into a celebratory dance routine right then and there, but luckily, she managed to contain her enthusiasm to just fist pumps and high-pitched squeals.

Meanwhile, I sat there, still trying to wrap my head.

Grabbing my phone with shaky hands that felt more like overcooked spaghetti noodles, I dialled in the contact information. If I managed to snag this job, I'd be thanking every deity in existence daily, offering sacrifices of chocolate and coffee to ensure my continued good fortune. As the phone rang, my heart pounded in my chest.

"I'll be back!" I rushed out of the cafeteria to the secluded corner, pacing around with my hand on my waist, my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest. Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up—Anxiousness gnawed at my nerves like a hungry squirrel on a nut.

"Привет?" I swallowed hard.

"Am I talking to Kyle Molotov?" There was a long, awkward pause and I mentally kicked myself for speaking in English instead of Russian. Taking a deep breath, I tried again, my tone dripping with politeness. "Привет, это Кайл Молотов? Hi.. um... Привет, это Серафина. Я увидела объявление в газете и хотела бы узнать, доступна ли эта вакансия." I tried in broken Russian.

(Hello, this is Seraphina. I saw the advertisement in the newspaper and wanted to know if this vacancy is available.)

The man's voice was deep yet polite. "Я отправляю вам адрес, мы можем встретиться здесь и обсудить."

(I'll send you the address, and we can meet here to discuss.)

"Oh, yes yes! I mean да! Да!" I jumped up, almost stumbling and knocking myself into the wall. I fumbled with the phone, nearly dropping it, and then the call cut off. I stared at the phone, my heart racing. A wide grin spread across my lips as I realized what just happened. I probably looked like an overexcited puppy that just found out it was getting a treat.

But who cares as long as I get the job, right?

Oh, damn! I should hurry.

Rushing to my room, I pulled on a warm sweater and a fluffy scarf, struggling to get it over my head. Then came the jacket, but damn these rebellious strands of hair! Sticking out in every direction like a botched science experiment. Who needed enemies when you've got your own hair plotting against you?

Securing them in a messy bun I grabbed my bag and lip gloss before calling a taxi. 

******