Page 10 of Scarred King

“I was at work,” I say uneasily and pray for the professor to walk in.

“Work?” her eyes widen. “When did you start to work? Why haven’t you told me? Where do you work?” Her questions unsettle me and I press my hands to my head and smooth my hair down.

“Well?” she insists.

“I have a small problem with my tuition. I need to find a job to be able to pay for it.”

“What?” she doesn’t hide her shock. “Did you speak with Professor Sawyer? Maybe he can…”

“No!” I raise my voice and the students sitting around us stare at me curiously. “No,” I lower my voice. “He doesn’t know, and don’t you dare say a word.”

“Of course…” she sounds insulted. “I didn’t mean to…”

The professor takes her place behind the podium and Johanna gets quiet.

Throughout the class I escape my thoughts and dive into the world of quantum mechanics, a coherent world, where I don’t have any ethical questions.

When the professor tells us that class is over, Johanna offers to share her packed lunch. We sit on the soft green grass, eating a sandwich, while she looks at me quietly.

“It’s no big deal.” I try my best to avoid this conversation with her right now.

She puts her sandwich down and pulls her hair into a ponytail. “Ok, yet I still want to hear it,” she insists.

“It turns out my father gambled all our money away and now my parents can’t pay my tuition.” I take another bite from my sandwich.

“I can’t believe it,” she says sadly and strokes my hair. The touch of her small hand on my hair makes me shudder and I shake my head. “Oh, I forgot,” she says with an innocent smile. “You don’t like anyone touching your hair.”

“Yeah, I don’t like the way it feels.” I pull my hair tight to my head and wrap up the remains of my sandwich.

“Why won’t you speak to Professor Sawyer? There are scholarships, he could help you.”

“I’ve missed the scholarship application date,” I say in frustration, “and there’s no way I’ll give him any reason to regret he chose me for this project.”

“Ok, then tell me about the job you found,” she tries to sound cheerful.

“I’m not really sure I've got one. I went there to try it out.” There is no way I will expose her innocent soul to the filthy world I encountered last night.

“Elena,” she rubs her forehead, “how much money do you need to finish your degree?”

“Thirty thousand dollars,” I answer and bite my bottom lip.

“How will you be able to make this amount of money so quickly?” she asks alarmed. “Why don’t you take a year off and save in the meantime?”

“No way.” I stand up angrily. “I’m not leaving anything. Especially not school. I’ll work it out.” I pick up my backpack and walk off to the tuition office.

After an exhausting half-hour with the secretary, I realize two things: first, the secretary is a Bolshevik, Second, I only have a few months to get the money for the first payment, otherwise they’ll wish me good luck and farewell without a blink of an eye.

My day continues, class after class goes by and the familiar formulas manage to cheer me up. I’m sure that only a few young people know what they want to be when they grow up, and only individuals of virtue know this clearly and excel all the way to achieving their goals. I’m blessed to be one of them, and nothing will take me off my path.

The last class ends. I go to the noticeboard to try my luck again. Nothing new… the same job offers that might be enough for someone who needs a little extra income. My eyes unwillingly skip to the flayer Carly pinned on the board yesterday. Now I read it.

Wanted. Presentable-looking waitress for work in an exclusive bar. High service awareness. Must have experience.

Such an innocent ad. Only one word in it captures reality: “Wanted.” All the rest is misleading. The bottom half of the page is cut into strips printed with a phone number. Two of them have been torn off. I don’t know if this annoys me or scares me. The possibility of some innocent female students falling for this ad, and on the other hand the chance that someone else might get the only job I can get for now.

But why am I so shocked? There must be dozens of these clubs around here. The girls who go there choose to sell their bodies. I didn’t see anyone threatening or forcing them. So why should it bother me? Why do I need to feel dirty because of the choices they make? I’m just meant to be a waitress, and it turns out that I’m not bad at it.

I raise my head and scan the campus's buildings. This place has really become my home over the past year. I want to stay here. I have to stay here. The imaginary whiteboard creeps into my head again and I realize that right now this damned job is my best option. The question is, is it still an option?

---