Chapter Text
For the first time in a long time, Zosia felt afraid. No, she had not felt afraid leaving Gdańsk, for a reason which she still did not know. Her mother refused to tell her many things, like where her father went, or what happened to her uncle when he went to prison and stopped writing letters. Though, she could guess what happened there, gory details and all.
She supposed her mother felt uncomfortable revealing the truth because she herself was afraid of the truth.
That was why she had packed Zosia up in her trousers and light pink sweater. Yes, she was afraid of the truth. Her mother had made listening to English tapes a daily occurrence, and this was before Zosia was made aware of the imminent move. She thought it was just for fun. To make her more worldly, like the protagonists of the books she read during those times.
“Be strong. Do not let anyone intimidate you, you are perfect,” her mother urged in Polish and squeezed her shoulders.
Zosia looked around. It was colder than she thought in Albuquerque. Kids of all ages trotted into the school building, something Zosia distinctly remembered as “middle school.” Her mother said some more stuff, stuff she didn’t hear because she was willingly drowning it out to observe, to people watch.
“Zosia! Are you listening?”
“Yes, Mama,” Zosia replied without missing a beat, her gaze snapping back to her mother’s.
Her mother was a picture of worry and pride. Zosia’s own chest swelled with an inkling of bravery, maybe she could do this. Well, she would have to.
“Have a good day. Mamusia will pick you up,” her mother said in a sweet voice before standing to her full height and stalking off.
They didn’t have a car yet, so they’d walked to school. Zosia turned, fingers white as she gripped her backpack before trudging forward. The sea of people was loud, obnoxious, and Zosia felt her stomach turning as she made her way to the office.
The women in there were kind, asking for her name – mispronouncing her last name, as many other people in Albuquerque had – before sending her on her way to a classroom. She passed by various, and they all looked the same. It was confusing, Zosia’s eyes squinting from the doors to the paper in her hand.
The paper read ‘C105’ but all the doors read ‘B,’ Zosia felt a small inkling of despair. This school was too big, too unfamiliar, and who even lived in Albuquerque—
“Need help?”
Zosia nearly falls to the ground when she turns around, her feet tangling together before a pale hand shoots out to grab hers. The girl is silent as she rights Zosia, and then raises her brow.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Do you need help?”
“Yes,” Zosia’s voice comes out quieter than expected, her accent obvious.
She pushes through like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do, clearing her throat and nodding.
“Yes, I need help.”
The girl stares. It doesn’t feel judgmental. Curious, if Zosia had to describe it. It made her cheeks warm, and she held out the paper expectantly. At this point, the hallway had dwindled down to only a few stragglers.
“Sure,” the girl says before taking the paper. “Ah, you’re in the wrong hallway. B is that way.”
She jerks her thumb over her shoulder, glancing around before shrugging as if she didn’t have much to lose. Zosia reckoned she didn’t. She had that energy about her.
“I’ll take you there,” she says before crossing her arms.
The two stare at each other. Zosia eyes her, were the crossed arms a challenge? The more she looked at this American girl, the more she felt intrigued. Maybe even a little hopeful. The blonde shifts on her feet, and Zosia recognizes it for what it is. Shyness.
Zosia snorts internally. If anyone should be shy, it should be her!
“Okay, thank you,” Zosia replies with a small smile.
“No problem,” and the girl pauses, before turning on her heel. “I’m Carol, by the way.”
“Carol what?”
“Carol Sturka. Who’re you?”
“Zosia,” she pauses. “I think my last name is too hard to say.”
“Try me,” Carol presses as they walk the empty halls.
“Wiśniewska.”
“What? What is that, German?”
Zosia’s laughter is immediate.
“No, it is Polish.”
“I tried,” Carol giggled before trying her hand at the pronunciation.
Even if it was horrible, even by Carol’s standards, it still made Zosia’s heart race. Someone was trying to understand her. They pause in front of a classroom, and Carol turns to her.
“Here’s your class,” Carol searches her eyes before nodding resolutely. “See you, Zosia.”
“Goodbye,” she says.
Carol walks off and Zosia watches her do it. Her hair was in a messy ponytail that swayed with every step. She wore a sweater like hers, but in blue, and her sneakers were just the slightest bit smudged. Zosia looked down at her sneakers, finding a gray streak running up the rubber. She smiled to herself.
Pushing the door to the classroom open, Zosia feels the tiniest bit braver. Maybe she was more similar to the people — the girls, in Albuquerque, than she thought.
Class is uneventful. People whisper about her. They think she doesn’t know what it means, they think she’s stupid or foreign. Zosia’s fists grip her pencil with a calmness she could only possess when she thought of her mother’s voice.
Do not let anyone intimidate you.
When released for lunch, it’s even more ridiculous than the morning. People are everywhere, kids screaming and banging on tables as she enters the lunchroom. It was sorely unfamiliar. Homesickness crawled up her spine like an ugly monster, and she tried to shake it off as she got in line for her tray of food.
The monster didn’t let up, and it walked with her all the way to a corner table. No one was sitting there, and it seemed like the perfect place to observe. To be.
Zosia is busy watching a nearby table of boys stuff as many ingredients as they can into a milk carton before daring someone to drink it when Carol slams her own lunch tray down.
“Trying to take my spot?” She teases, teeth on display as she tilts her head.
“What do you mean? This is your table?”
Carol laughs and shrugs. She was so carefree and snarky.
“Not literally, but I sit here every day,” she says and takes a bite of the mashed potato on her tray. Zosia wonders how she can eat this stuff. “How do you like Albuquerque?”
“It is nice,” she concludes after a long while.
She didn’t want to offend Carol. Perhaps she was one of the patriotic types.
“You can say it sucks. Hell, I’m not the Mayor.”
Scratch that, most definitely not a patriot.
“It is different to Poland. Gdańsk, that’s where I’m from,” Zosia admits.
“So, why are you here?”
That elusive question. Zosia ate a small piece of canned pineapple before shrugging.
“I… do not know. My parents–My mother, she had us move here. The reason is unknown to me.”
“That sucks,” Carol says while looking around. “She, like, ripped you from everything you know. All your friends and stuff, and then doesn’t even tell you why? My mom’s an ass, but even she would tell me where I’m going if she was gonna ship me off somewhere.”
Zosia doesn’t reply. That was a hard truth to swallow.
“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to,” Carol cuts herself off before sighing. “Sorry.”
“It is okay,” Zosia pushes hair from her face and gives an awkward shrug.
Carol watches the movement like a hawk, her throat bobbing before she looks down and away. They eat in silence, except Zosia doesn’t really eat because the food is downright repulsive. Carol has no problem shoveling it in, though Zosia suspects she doesn’t exactly chew, but rather swallows to mask the flavor. It was a good strategy.
“What class do you have next?”
“History,” Zosia replies after checking her copy of her schedule. “Mrs. Benson.”
Carol makes a face, nose scrunching up in a way Zosia could only describe as cute.
“Gross. Good luck with that,” and Carol smacks the table before standing up in all her glory.
“Thank you,” she replies earnestly, before following Carol’s lead.
She was taller than Carol, she realized now. Even at 13, she had just a few inches on her. She also notices the eyes lingering on the two of them, and how they seem to swirl with venom. Zosia wonders if it’s about her presence, or Carol’s, or both.
Carol doesn’t ask to walk her to class, she just does.
“Here we are. Mrs. Benson. Don’t be afraid to ask for a bathroom break, she might try to mess with you, but stay strong!”
“Bathroom break?”
Students couldn’t just go to the bathroom on their own? Carol sees the confusion dawn on Zosia’s face, but there’s no time as the bell for the next period rings. Zosia feels as though she’s been drafted for war, and these were the last words she’d have with her captain before she was sent out guns ablaze.
“Just don’t be afraid, okay?” Carol seems to implore the words like her mother did outside the school. “They’ll just think you’re weak.”
“I am not weak.”
Carol and Zosia stare at each other, before Carol’s lips quirk up.
“Good. That was a test, you passed.”
Then, Carol’s hand grabs her shoulder and pushes her towards the door, the way you would a long time friend. Zosia’s cheeks burn, her heart stuttering as she walks into the classroom in a daze. Her head turns, and she catches a glimpse that makes her heart downright stop.
Carol is just a few feet away, separated by a door with a small window. Carol’s face watches her, and then lights up as she gives a thumbs up before walking away. Zosia sits at a random desk to the back, pressing her hand to her chest and closing her eyes. What was that feeling?
She chalks it up to excitement. Her first friend, of course she’d be excited. That’s all it was.
Mrs. Benson is an ass, Zosia comes to learn. She was rude, and had a huge attitude for anyone she perceived wasn’t listening. Zosia was glad to have not appeared on her radar, and her escape is quick as soon as the bell rings.
She looks for Carol even when she’s not there, and it makes embarrassment flood through her. Why would Carol be waiting for her? She had her own classes, her own things to do. She did not have time to wait for someone like Zosia. She probably had her own friends.
Except as Zosia bursts through those thick doors to the cold outside air of New Mexico, it’s Carol Sturka who she first spots. Then, her mother a way’s away. Carol looks up, and offers a small wave that practically beckons Zosia over. She had to talk to her one last time.
“Hello,” Zosia greets, eyeing her bike as Carol loosened the chain.
“Hey,” she replies. “Are you heading home?”
“Yes. My mother is waiting over there.”
Both heads turn to the figure standing in a scarf, before returning to each other.
“My mom’s waiting for me, too. I gotta get going.”
Carol stands up straight, hands on her bike, before she asks suddenly.
“Do you have a phone at home?”
Zosia nods. Carol pulls out a Sharpie and grabs her hand, smiling at her cheekily before writing a string of numbers. Then, Carol points to Zosia’s palm.
“That’s my number. Call me if you need homework help, or whatever.”
“I-I will.”
It felt like when she would watch movies or read books, and the boys would always sweet talk a girl before giving his phone number out like hot cakes. This was different. One, it was Carol doing it, so it couldn’t have the same connotations as when boys did it, right? Second, Carol gave her number only to her, so what did that mean?
“I’ll see you around,” she says.
Carol hops on her bike and pedals off before Zosia can even say goodbye. She watches her before tugging her sleeve over her hand and making her way over to her mother. Her mother carries a bright, big grin on her face, and holds a bag of pastries.
“Who was that?!” Zosia’s mother exclaimed as they began to walk home.
Zosia smiled to herself. Carol Sturka. Her first friend.