Nadia's Story

Nadia Penkovskiy takes a drag off her cigarette as she watches a pair of Indian kids chase each other around in the distance, their high-pitched squeals drifting through the balmy wind rustling errant papers and newsprint. She peeks through the rear-view mirror and grips the steering wheel tightly, one eye surveying the surrounding tenements, on the lookout for anything suspicious in case she’d have to burn rubber and make a hasty retreat.

It never pays to be lax on this side of town.

She bundles herself in her Army surplus jacket, the piece in her front pocket brushing against her stomach. It’s a reminder of how quickly luck can change on these harsh city streets. Any moment some banger or hood rat can walk up on her and blast her into the next life or even worse, and Nadia wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

A dime’s worth of difference between Moscow and here she thinks. Only in Moscow they don’t spray idle threats in graffiti. They just show up at your home and shoot you dead.

Nadia’s seen her share of **** and pain growing up, on the nightly news and otherwise. The daily tally of **** and destruction is one of the reasons her parents encouraged her to join the foreign exchange program to begin with, in the hopes she’d get a visa and eventually immigrate to the States. The dreams they’ve harbored for their daughter were bigger than working in a factory, clerking for a corrupt government minister, or God forbid, becoming some mobster’s moll.

But ever since her mother called her at three AM in the morning a year to the day to let her know that her father was dead, the numbness has become especially acute. It’s hard for Nadia to enjoy anything anymore. Not school. Not life.

The only thrill she gets is from breaking into cars with her no-good friends or setting up deals in seedy corners like these. But the joy is often fleeting, like a dream. The nightmares that have her waking up in a sweat stay forever.

She glances at the watch on her free hand. Her connect should have contacted her an hour ago. She tenses. Something is not right about this. The redhead cranks up the car and waits several more minutes. If that bastard doesn’t show she’s splitting. He can handle his own product from now on.

Nadia spies a figure walking toward her, his down jacket and doo rag helping him blending in with the rest of the hardcore scammers and hustlers who work the corner for their little bit of cheese. If it weren’t for the distinctive snake tattoo on his forearms, she’d guess he were one of them.

“I’ve been waiting for you for an hour, Eli.” Her voice is curt. “Where the hell you’ve been?”

“Around.” The tall sandy-haired gangsta shifts around nervously. “You got those bricks I asked for?”

“Been here this whole time.” She pats a wad of twenties and hundreds in the passenger seat. “You got those…what do you Americans call it?”

“Dime bags.”

“Whatever.” Nadia grips the steering wheel even harder. “Lift up your shirt.”

“The fuck?”

“I said lift up your shirt.” She commands him. “I need to know if you’re wearing a wire.”

“C’mon!” Eli cries out. “Don’t you know me better than anyone?”

“Just because we’re partners does not make us friends.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Nadia.” Eli complies. “See? Not a thing.”

The exchange student gazes at his taut stomach. For a moment her thoughts drift to the various parties where they’ve sneaked off and fooled around. The taste of his semen, the rough way he rides her still excites her. But screwing him wouldn’t preclude her lover from saving his own hide if the situation warrants it.

She doesn’t budge.

“I don’t know.” Her voice wavers. “B-Roll, Archie, Vicks, Minuteman. They’re all in the hole now. One by one they’ve been carted off, and you and I are the only ones left standing. I find that very odd.”

“I had nothing to do with any of that, Nadia!” Eli begs her. “You got to trust me!”
The Russian sighs.

“Okay.” She hands the bills over. “Here’s your cheese. It’s been a good ride, love. But I’m out. Possibly for good.”

“No one ever gets out for good.”

Suddenly a swarm of state police and SBI cops swarm the beat up Dodge Rambler, rifles cocked and at the ready.

“Freeze!” The officers scream. “Step out of the vehicle with your hands on your head and lie flat on the ground. Now!”

Nadia glares at Eli.

“You fuckin’ rat.” She bares her teeth. “I trusted you.”

“You said it yourself. Just because we’re partners does not make us friends.”

“Did they offer you immunity?” She yells as her rights are read and she’s hauled off for questioning. “Did you promise to show them where the bodies were buried?”

No response.

The next several hours are tense as she sits cuffed to a molded plastic chair, refusing to open her mouth even to ask if she can go pee. Detectives grill her for hours about her business running crack on the lower South Side, her connections to certain street gangs and her relationship with one Eli Shaw. She balls her fists at the mention of his name.

She gives them her name and Social Security Number instead.

The door swings open as a man in a three-breasted suit walks in, his bald face grim.

“Cut her loose.” He jabs a finger in her direction.

“What are you talking about?” One of the younger officers blurts out. “We haven’t even broken her yet!”

“D.A.’s declined to prosecute. Not enough evidence.”

“Not enough evidence? She handed bills to our informant, Marty. Fuckin’ twenties and hundreds. Where in your hoity-toity law book does it say that’s not a transaction?”

“Probable cause and reasonable doubt are two different things, officers.” The middle-aged fellow narrows his eyes at them. “Of course, if you two had gone to law school, you’d know that.”

The gentleman walks away amidst shouts of profanity and calls for him to fornicate with himself.

“Elitist prick.” The older, seasoned cop curses under his breath. “Fucker’s had it out for us since day one.”

He un-cuffs Nadia and escorts her to the lobby. She quickly hails a taxi, instructing the driver to take her as far away from that side of town as humanly possible.

Thank God my host family doesn’t know about this.

She wakes up the following morning, her bobbed hair tangled in a rat’s nest. She drags herself into the shower and washes off, grateful that her name isn’t splashed on the newspapers for all to see. It remains to be seen how long that’ll last, though.

Tired and exhausted doesn’t begin to describe her ordeal.

She slips into a pair of white cotton panties and flits through the clothes in her closet, crossing them off one by one. She settles on a white blouse that accentuates her curves just so, simple yet tantalizing. It never fails to attract the boys—and quite a few girls as well. Crawling into a black tube skirt that stops just over the knee, she grabs her book bag and runs toward the bus, hoping to catch it before its scheduled six o’clock arrival.

The rest of the day is spent struggling to keep up. Every paper that ends up on her desk either has an F or a D on it. At this rate it’ll be a miracle if she even graduates at all. The plane ride back to the motherland will not be a pleasant one if she keeps up this current path.

As sixth period closes, she stays behind as the gaggle of students file out, glancing anxiously at her teacher packing up to leave.

“Mr. John Doe?”

Her sing-song voice startles him.

“Nadia! School’s out. Don’t you have somewhere to be?

“No.” She shakes her head. “Actually I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“I’ve been meaning…to get around to you eventually.” The teacher bites his tongue before saying too much.

“These grades.” Nadia waves the quizzes in front of her. “They’re horrible. If my host family finds out, they’ll send me back to Russia! My mother will be furious!”

Tears streak down her cheeks as she sobs, staining her desk as she lays down her head.

“Please don’t cry.” Mr. Doe consoles her. “There’s nothing I hate more than a beautiful woman crying.”

“What will I do? All the extra credit in the world won’t help me!”

“Not…exactly.” Her instructor’s voice is hopeful.

“Are you serious?” Nadia looks up at him. “Is there something I can do to turn this around?”

“Yes, but I have to know that you’re really hungry for change.”

“What is it?” She begs him. “Tell me! I’ll do anything! Please!”

“Anything?”

Anything!”

“Okay.” Mr. Doe rubs his chin. “What I’m about to propose is going to shock you, but bear with me.”

“Just spit it out already!”

“I’ll let you pass, but only on condition that you sleep with me.”

Nadia shrugs.

“I figured it’d be something like that.”

“That’s a pretty cynical thing to say…”

“I’m a cynical girl.”

“You haven’t even heard the rest of my proposal yet.”

“Well, I figured it was either that, or you’d make me wash your car or clean your house for a week or something like that. And you don’t look to me like the type who hires a maid service.”

“Wow. You are cynical.”

“You forget I’m Russian.”

Mr. Doe sighs.

“Remind me never to call on you in history class.”

“Okay what’s the deal? Do I suck you off or is this one of those kinky things like you see on the nightly news?”

“The blow job you just referred to is known around here affectionately as a ‘C’. straight-up screwing is a B. Anal bags you an A, and if you’re really impressive, I’ll give you an A+. What’ll it be?”

Nadia mulls it over. On the one hand, a simple C would at least allow her to squeak by enough not to fail the course. Not exactly the kind of work ethic that would make her parents proud. Conversely, if she went all the way, she’d graduate with her academic reputation intact.

If the police don’t get to her first.

“An A it is.”

“You’re really okay with that?”

“Sure. Nothing I haven’t handled before.”

“Very well.” Mr. Doe’s voice is upbeat. “Step aside and strip. Leave the clothes by the door.”