Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,33
started my senior year of high school, I got an invitation to apply for this special scholarship program at Middlebury. It was for children of low-income single parents, and it covered one hundred percent of tuition, room, and board, in addition to providing an allowance for books and miscellaneous expenses. Naturally, I applied—and somehow got in.”
“Why somehow?” Nikolai asks. “Weren’t you a good student?”
I have no choice but to meet his penetrating stare. “I was, but there were students in my circumstances who were far more qualified and didn’t get it.” Like my friend Tanisha, who’d gotten a perfect score on her SATs and graduated as our class valedictorian. I told her about the scholarship, and she applied to the program as well, only to be instantly rejected. To this day, I wonder why they chose me and not her; if it was a matter of surviving adversity, Tanisha had a “better” story, with her partially disabled mother raising not one but three children on her own, one of them—Tanisha’s younger brother—with special needs.
“Maybe they saw something in you,” Nikolai says, his eyes tracing over every inch of my face. “Something that intrigued them.”
I shrug, trying to ignore the heat coursing under my skin. “Could be. More likely, though, it was just dumb luck.” It had to have been, because a couple of months later, Tanisha got acceptance letters from every school she’d applied to, including Harvard, which she ended up attending thanks to a generous financial aid package. Not as generous as the scholarship I got—she graduated with seventy thousand dollars in student loans—but good enough that I stopped feeling guilty about taking the spot that should’ve been hers.
Being a nice person, she’s never acted anything but happy for me, but I know how much the scholarship committee’s rejection devastated her.
“I don’t think it was dumb luck,” Nikolai says softly. “I think you’re underestimating your appeal.”
Oh God. My heart rate jacks up, my face burning impossibly hotter as Alina stiffens, her gaze bouncing between me and her brother. There’s no mistaking his meaning, no waving it off as a casual compliment about my scholastic abilities, and she knows it as well as I do.
Still, I try. Pretending like it’s all a joke, I grin widely. “That’s very nice of you to say. What about you two? Where did you go to school?”
There. Change of topic. I’m proud of myself until I realize that if, for some reason, either of the siblings didn’t go to college, my question could offend them.
Thankfully, Alina doesn’t bat an eye. “I went to Columbia, and Kolya finished Princeton.” She’s composed again, her manner friendly and polite. “Our father wanted us to attend college in America; he thought it provided the best opportunities.”
“Is that why you speak English so well?” I ask, and she nods.
“That, and we both attended boarding school here as well.”
“Oh, that explains the lack of accent. I’ve been wondering how you both managed not to have it.”
“We also had American tutors back in Russia,” Nikolai says, a mocking half-smile playing on his lips. Clearly, he knows I’m trying to diffuse the tension, and he finds my efforts amusing. “Don’t forget that, Alinchik.”
His sister stiffens again for some reason, and I busy myself with clearing the rest of my plate. I have no idea what landmine I’ve stepped on, but I know better than to proceed with this topic. As I’m finishing up my food, I glance over at Slava and find him done as well.
“Would you like some more?” I ask, smiling as I gesture at his empty plate.
He blinks up at me, and Alina says something in Russian, presumably translating my question.
He shakes his head, and I smile at him again before looking over the other adults at the table. To my relief, they appear to have finished also, with Nikolai just sitting back, watching me, and Alina gracefully patting her lips with a napkin. Miraculously, her red lipstick leaves no traces on the white cloth—though I probably shouldn’t be surprised, given that the bright color survived the entire meal without smearing or fading.
One of these days, I’m going to ask her to share her beauty secrets with me. I have a feeling Nikolai’s sister knows more about makeup and clothes than ten YouTube influencers combined.
I’m about to excuse myself and Slava so we can resume our lessons when Pavel and Lyudmila walk in. He’s carrying a tray with pretty little cups, a jar of honey, and a glass teapot