𝙫𝙚𝙞𝙡 | 𝘞. 𝘈𝘹𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦

Ⅰ

It was a weird, languorous spring, the season that witnessed Gorbachev ascending to leadership, and Linda found herself perplexed about her purpose in Russia.

Petersburg proved to be a distressing experience. By the stroke of nine in the morning, the fake, dewy essence that furtively infiltrated the city overnight evaporated like the remnants of a sweet dream. Mirage-like, the streets took on a gray hue within the confines of their granite canyons. Under the relentless sun, the thoroughfares radiated heat, causing the car rooftops to sizzle and glitter, while the arid, tindery dust blew into her eyes and descended down her throat.

Gorbachev's name reverberated ceaselessly over the radio waves and permeated the halls of Linda's high school, Lyceum 239, getting stuck in her mind. Each mention of the Soviet leader etched a lasting imprint upon her consciousness until his presence became an inescapable specter haunting the corridors of her thoughts. Each corner of the school echoed with the fervent discussions about politics, and the figure of Gorbachev loomed large overheads. The airwaves, like a persistent mantra, carried the resonance of political "thaw", and the more she heard, the more she found herself trapped in this nonsense.

Nonsense fueled by those damn deceitful agitating press like Правда written, unbeknownst for whom, in the rhythm of endless propagandist weeks. There were times when it was hard to discern whether the text was keeping up with the times or was just anti-Soviet.

Lyceum 239 was that poser school over on Kirochnaya Street. Each reputable-esque family heard of it. And if not they've probably seen the ads anyway. They advertised in about thousands of magazines, always showing some nerds, so-called mажо́р, in snug-fitting blazers and giant glasses straight out of the 1960s, with smiles on their lips and hunched over chemistry textbooks. As if all you ever did in 239 was meditate over chemistry all the time. Other ads had those cheesy titles: "We believe that by challenging our students every day, we can help them develop the skills and values they need to ensure their future is as bright as they are" What a bunk, she would think. Truth is, they didn't develop any more skills there than at any other school. And as for bright students, she didn't know anyone there who fit the bill, maybe two guys, if that many, and they probably came to Lyceum 239 that way.

In that springtime, an unbearable malaise gripped Linda, for her thoughts were consumed by the upcoming high school graduation and the realization of her foolishness in buying all those uncomfortable, extravagant dresses that now dangled listlessly in her closet. The prospect of acceptance into UCLA fizzled into insignificance outside the opulent façades of marble and plate-glass lining Nevsky Avenue.

It was supposed to be the time of her life.

She was supposed to be the envy of myriad high school girls, just like her, scattered across Russia all eager to liberate themselves from the shackles of this communist regime, to stroll around West Hollywood, immersing themselves in the distasteful opulence of Western consumerism. And when her picture came out in the magazine, alongside the few lucky ones who got into American universities-in a white shirt and skimpy navy skirt along with knee-high socks, accompanied by their high school principal while all of them brandished pathetic diplomas, merely tools for Soviet propaganda-everybody would think she must have been having a real whirl.

Look what can happen within these borders, they would say. A young lady stuck in USSR for half her life receives an opportunity to study in the US, only to find herself steering Los Angeles as if it were her personal chariot.

Yet, Linda wasn't steering anything, not even her own existence. The only person excited by her arrival in LA was her half-brother from her father's side. Focused on forming his music band, he convinced Linda that this project was a ticket to prosperity. A pipe dream, she would laugh to herself. He once told her that she was a mistress of self-reinvention. Even though she wasn't really sure what it meant at the time, as the years passed by she has come to understand it. While most young women might have been thrilled, Linda remained incapable of feeling genuine enthusiasm. A pervasive inertia enveloped her, much like the eye of a tornado, moving languidly amidst the clamor that surrounded her.