Katya
I wasn't sure what would happen in the day ahead of me. I had an idea: I'd get there and everyone would hate me and I'd be alone like I've always been, always will be. That's how it went in Russia, anyway, but who knows? Maybe Boston'll be different.
Oh, by the way, I'm Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova but you can call me anything; Whore, Shithead, Cunt, but I like Katya best, has a certain element to it that I appreciate. If you can't pronounce my name, don't worry, it doesn't matter. Nobody can, thus strengthening my belief that the entire human race is pointless and full of dumb fucks that can't talk. If you can't, well, you're just part of the problem. I was born in Moscow and lived there for... 17 years, I guess.
Anyway, I got to school on time - a miracle, I know. It was a tall white building with trees in the courtyard, filled with teenagers with nothing to do for half an hour before lessons began. Immediately, a girl took my eye. She had long blonde hair, and was wearing a pink and white dress with a pink bow at the collar. Her hair was tied up in a high ponytail, and she wore white knee-high heeled boots. Her makeup was extreme, but seemed to work well with her outfit, and her lashes were enormous. She was pretty. Who am I kidding? She was fucking gorgeous.
"Hello? Anyone in there?" I jumped at the sound of someone behind me. It was a girl with waist length black hair, which she'd let hang loose. Her outfit was simple, consisting of a black band shirt and some black jeans. She laughed at me. "You new?" I nodded. "Yeah, I moved here a few weeks ago," I told her, realising how thick my accent was all too quickly. She tilted her head. "Party! I'm Adore Delano and I'm a fucking Libra!" She shouted. "What's your name?" I hesitated.
"I'm Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova," I said finally, laughing at her confusion.
"Katrina Petra Zamowhatthefuck?" I screamed with laughter.
"You're part of the problem. Just call me Katya,"
The bell rang, startling both Adore and myself. "What lesson do you have first?" She asked me, as we entered the crowd of swatch dogs and Diet Coke heads (a/n: Katya's seen Heathers it could happen shut the fuck up). I checked my timetable. "History, V12" I read aloud, shouting over the noise.
"Me too! C'mon," She was barely audible over these kids screaming. God, I hate people. She dragged me up endless flights of stairs, and then we were outside a classroom, and the noise had died down. "Good luck, Santino hates us,"
"It appears we have a new student," a man said, standing in front of the class. I stood beside him, scanning the room. There she was. The girl from the courtyard. "What's your name?" He asked me. I sighed.
"I'm Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova," I tried to weaken my accent but to no avail. "What the fuck did you just say?" This guy was full of questions.
"Just call me Katya," It was easier that way.
"You could've just said that. Now, Katya, go and sit next to Tracy,"
"It's Trixie," a voice called. My heart raced. I had to sit next to her. Fuck.
"Katya? Sit down," I nodded, and slid into the seat beside her.
"Now, fuckers, we're doing a project on Communism. You're working with whoever's on your left. Get to know your partner, you have half an hour and then I'll tell you what you need to do,"
"Hi! I'm Trixie. You're Ye- Yek- Katya?" She had a strong Wisconsin accent.
"Privet, Trixie! Yeah, I'm Katya,"
"I think that's why he put us together: I'm shit at History and you're from Russia, and Russia's also where communism's from," She giggled. She has a cute laugh, I thought. No, Katya! She's straight, come on, get a grip.
"Probably," I tried to conceal the fact that I was blushing, but not well, obviously, as she noticed. "You've gone all red, you okay?" I cursed myself.
"Yeah, it's just hot in here," Remove the "in here" and replace the "it" with "you're" and I'm technically not lying.
