Amara walked out of her father's embrace into a different world. Thomas waved to her as she approached Winthrop Academy. The school's twin main buildings, made predominantly of white marble and red brick, gleamed starkly in the midday sun.
The buildings were several stories high and connected by a short walkway. Her eyes widened as she gazed at them, and she paused momentarily to take it all in. From a distance, all Amara heard was silence, punctuated by the faint buzzing of conversation closer to the buildings.
The north building, which housed the living quarters, was about thirty years newer, and both had been renovated several times, but much of the original nineteenth-century structures still stood. Even so, much of it looked different on the inside.
The sprawling green lawns surrounding the buildings were bustling with students.
As she approached, she heard the chatter of the conversations more clearly. They were all speaking English in different regional and foreign accents, and their words blended with each other to the extent that she could not make out anything.
Some of the students were standing in tight circles, talking with each other and occasionally laughing as if they knew each other already. Some shook hands with others, as if they had just met and the interaction went well. Others, like Amara, seemed overwhelmed and gaped at the places that were going to be their home for the next thirty-nine days; many of them stood at a distance, looking unsure of what their next move would be.
Wide-eyed and apprehensive yet full of wonder, she took her first steps onto the campus. As she approached the building, she noticed that the marble pillars just outside appeared rough to the touch and shiny. She took a deep breath and walked into the south building, which held the academic facilities, to register her name with the administration of the summer program.
Inside, the building was a lot less imposing. She was surrounded by what looked like a normal school building. As she walked down the entrance hall to the office on the first floor, she saw normal classrooms on either side. There was the unmistakable musty scent present, one of aged wood and hundred-year-old books. She relaxed her shoulders and gave a sigh of relief.
Other students filed past her, walking at their own pace. Some high-fived each other, welcoming one another back with familiarity after a year apart.
Still, some of them, too, looked like they were in unfamiliar territory. Amara smiled at them. She knew that if this was her old private school in Brazil, they'd be having friendly discussions already.
A friendly voice said, "Hi!"
Amara turned around and returned the greeting. She saw that she had a name tag. Hannah.
"Is this your first summer with us?"
"Yeah. You're Hannah?"
"Sure am. Hannah Byers. I'm one of the student ambassadors."
Hannah seemed very friendly and open. She smiled, which eased Amara's nerves. These people were obviously chosen for their interpersonal skills.
"I'm Amara. What's up?"
"I'm leading a campus tour at one-forty-five, if you want to join."
Amara checked her phone. That was in twenty-five minutes.
"I have nothing to do until the group meeting at six, so sure. Sorry, I'm just a little nervous," she said, as if her nervousness was noticeable.
"Totally understand," said Hannah. "I was nervous on my first day too."
At one-forty-five, Hannah, Amara, and six other new students walked around the buildings, and Hannah led the way both physically and conversationally. Amara was surprised at how narrow the corridors were, emblematic of old buildings.
A younger student asked, "You go here full-time, right? Did you find it easy to make friends here?"
Hannah smiled at her.
"Yes, very. Even in my first week of freshman year. I hit it off with three other girls, and I distinctly remember all of us receiving a warning for talking in a common area an hour past lights out."
Amara glanced at her and nodded. Not even the veteran students were perfect.
They looked at some of the building's sixty-six classrooms, empty as instruction did not begin until the following day, and Amara found herself thinking about the learning that awaited her behind those doors.
"You've been here how long," asked Amara.
"Senior this fall," said Hannah.
Another student asked, "Is it safe to be in this building? It feels very old."
"Yes," said Hannah. "The state has a strict code, and we get inspected every year."
Amara knew this, of course, but the building did indeed feel old. It was different from the buildings at the school at which she studied in Florida: they had been built less than twenty years ago.
Hannah led them past a portrait of the school's founder. It had a plaque next to it.
George Donovan
1810-1889
"He founded the school," asked someone.
"Yes. Does anyone know what year?"
Amara raised her hand.
"Yes, Amara?"
"1853?"
"Impressive," said Hannah. "Any questions for me?"
A girl spoke up.
"Do you have any tips as for how to succeed in these high-level classes?"
"One big one. Focus more on attending classes than text readings. These teachers don't test you on anything that they don't cover in front of you. I can't believe I'm saying that but trust me," said Hannah.
The library, housed in the oldest part of the south building, was surprisingly small, at least for a school of Winthrop's pedigree. It was as if they didn't know back in 1853 that the school would need so many books.
Amara walked in, not knowing what to expect from the small library.
Students were already there, sitting at the communal table and looking at books that would be useful for their classes the next day and beyond. One of them, an older boy, had his arm extended over part of the table, and he was talking to two friends seated at his other side. Several others, in contrast, were sitting on their own and looking intently at their materials.
Amara sat down and opened the file she was carrying that contained the syllabi and other preparatory information for her courses. She looked at the information, her expression contemplative, and wrote down questions in the margins to ask later.
A younger girl, probably a rising sophomore, walked into the library and was immediately greeted with a hug from another girl her age.
"It's been so long," Amara overheard her say. "So good to see you."
Amara paced around, not knowing what to look at next.
"On this wall," said Hannah, "you can find a partial list of published authors who studied here since 1901, at least the ones whose books we have on hand."
Amara asked, "How many published authors have gone here?"
Hannah said, "I'm told this wall represents about one of every ten."
Amara looked at the names. There were at least thirty.
"Take a look around," Hannah told the group.
As she was led through the rows of shelves, Amara saw books that were older than she could have imagined, undoubtedly used by at least five generations of students. The scent of the books' old paper was almost overpowering, and in the corridors, the chatter at the communal table was heard only faintly.
"This is awesome," she whispered to herself.
...
The next day was the first day of instruction, and Amara was ready for both her classes: global studies from nine to eleven and creative writing from twelve-thirty to two-thirty.
In the global studies classroom, the atmosphere was a mix of curiosity of the students who didn't know much about the subject and anticipation of the students who did. The students were all there, seated in four orderly rows, ten deep, waiting for the instructor's computer clock to strike nine. More students seemed to desire the front of the class. A few talked to each other quietly out of restlessness.
Amara noticed that her wooden desk had been worn with the years, an effect that gave it more character. In Florida, the desks were made of soulless smooth laminated plywood. As she looked around, she saw that the room was filled with all different kinds of historical and contemporary maps and charts.
"I am Dr. Franklin," the instructor began. "Welcome. Let's get started."
Dr. Franklin paced the front of the room, and suddenly smiled and said, "I see some familiar faces. I taught four classes here last summer, so I'm not surprised. Welcome back to all of you here for another summer."
He then changed course.
"Let's have a discussion. What brought you to this class and what do you want to learn?"
Students raised their hands and shared their questions about global issues that Amara didn't fully understand. Soon thereafter, Dr. Franklin began his lecture on the history and development of globalization, and then to illustrate the idea of globalization, he paused, considering the idea, then said, "Show of hands. How many of you are foreign students?"
Of the forty or so people in the room, at least ten hands went up, but not Amara's, as she didn't know what qualified.
"I assumed there'd be a few," said Dr. Franklin. "You, what's your name?"
"Mikhail," the boy on whom he called said. He went into a story, with significant poise and confidence, of how he grew up in a poor family in Georgia who had become successful since moving to America.
Amara, slightly stunned, looked away from him.
"Thank you," said Dr. Franklin. "I appreciate your openness."
The students' gaze remained on him for a second; they were considering not just what he said but how he said it.
As Dr. Franklin wrapped up the lecture, he gave a preview of the subjects they would discuss over the term. A boy around Amara's age, possibly another rising junior, raised his hand.
"Yes, Alexei? Did I say that correctly?"
"You did," he said. "My family is from Ukraine, and I've thought a lot about the war there. I have relatives that were put in danger by Russia, so this matters a lot to me."
Dr. Franklin nodded.
The boy continued, "I assume we're going to talk about that, but I have a question. Would it be more the rule than the exception that a country would be discouraged from going rogue and invading the sovereignty of another country if a world power such as the U.S. threatens physical intervention on the invaded state's behalf? And if so, do world powers have such a responsibility?"
The class reacted with a mix of admiration and indifference.
"We'll definitely get to that," said Dr. Franklin, impressed. "Thank you."
After the class, Amara, curious about the question, approached Alexei.
"You said you're from Ukraine? I've heard a lot about what's happening there, and I really feel for you. That was a good question you asked, by the way. Could you tell me more?"
Alexei's eyes grew wide, and he took a step back.
"Sorry. I didn't expect someone to be so interested," said Alexei.
"Let me tell you a little secret. I'm an outsider too. I'm half Brazilian and came from Brazil just before I was in the sixth grade," said Amara.
"Why didn't you say so in class?"
"I didn't know whether to raise my hand. I've been a U.S. citizen since birth, technically."
"I live in Liege now. Belgium," said Alexei. "I moved there with my mom's family when I was seven. But most of my dad's family is still in Kharkiv."
"I'm like that too."
"Like what?"
"Well, my dad's family is all here, and my mom's family is all in Brazil. There's no war over there, obviously, but I know some of what it feels like," said Amara.
"You make sense. I like people who make sense."
"Dona Eliane said that too."
"Who's that," asked Alexei.
"My fifth-grade teacher in Brazil. She taught me a lot of knowledge and my idea of the meaning of education was largely shaped by her. She only spoke Portuguese, but the ideas she shared are universal."
"That's real," he said. "I wish I had a teacher like that at some point."
Amara asked, "What was it like?"
"What," asked Alexei.
"Your move from Ukraine to Belgium. How did that make you feel different?"
"Well, I had to learn a new language, a new culture, everything. And like I said, I was seven. That's a young age to do so."
"What did you feel was different," asked Amara.
"Well, in Ukraine, my family was always spending time together and with friends. We would go to each other's houses and share meals and do a lot of things together. There was no real distance between me and anyone else close to me."
"And Belgium?"
"Isn't like that at all. People are less personal there. There's less interaction between our family and others. But we live in a nicer house and have been able to afford a better lifestyle since we moved. I guess it's a trade-off," said Alexei.
"That really resonates with me," said Amara. "Because I feel the exact same way about Brazil and America. I remember when I turned ten back in Brazil. Everyone was coming up to me, giving me hugs and kisses, the works. But we have more here, and I have a better life. I miss Brazil, yes, but I like America better."
"So, you're saying it's a trade-off, but you clearly take a side?"
"Exactly."
"That's where we differ," said Alexei. "I have no idea."
"We don't have to agree on everything," reassured Amara.
"I haven't been in America for long, but people seem to be nicer here. Yesterday, I remember seeing all of us saying emotional goodbyes to our family, even though we'll all be back together in six weeks," Alexei said. "Even so, being from two different cultures feels strange. I think we feel things more deeply than people who have just grown up in one and never experienced another."
"Totally," said Amara. "It was nice to meet you."
She started to walk away, at which point Alexei asked, "Do you have time to get a coffee with me?"
Amara checked her watch. She was free for another hour.
"I do. Are you going to ask if I want to?"
"I would have thought that was obvious."
"Sure," said Amara. "I'll go. But we've got to finish by twelve-fifteen."
"No problem."
Amara and Alexei walked to the café and found it warm and inviting. It was furnished nicely and the paint job was darker than most of the rest of the south building. Amara's heart slowed as she walked in.
She noticed that the café was full of people. Most of them were students, but there were a few instructors present as well. The queue to be served was very long; Alexei and Amara got in line, waiting about ten minutes before being attended. Amara tried to adjust her shirt to feel cooler. Soon enough, they were at the front of the line. Amara put her arm against the counter, but immediately drew it back.
The clerk said, "How may I help you?"
They ordered iced lattes.
"That'll be 7.61."
Alexei gave the clerk a ten-dollar bill.
"Thank you," Amara said.
"You're very welcome."
They went to sit down and took their first sips of their drinks, which were cold and tasted good.
Amara asked, continuing their discussion outside the classroom, "I like America, but sometimes I feel lost. Just last month, I accidentally spoke in Portuguese to an Uber driver. You ever feel like you don't completely have a home?"
"All the time," said Alexei. "I feel like I have different parts of a home in different places that I can never put together."
"Real," said Amara. "Are you having a tough time adjusting to America?"
"Yeah. On my first night, with my parents, I didn't even understand the restaurant menu. Not that the English was tough, but it was a bunch of things I had never heard of. I just ordered a hamburger because that was the only thing that was clearly explained."
"Do you find Winthrop very unfamiliar? Like, worse than I find it? What's it like being in the United States while your parents are living across an ocean and the rest of your family is in a war zone?"
"Well," began Alexei, "I can't speak for you, but to me, it is a struggle, but you probably are also struggling."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that problems are like wildfires. If you're fighting a fire that is burning a hundred hectares, that's objectively better than dealing with a fire that is burning a thousand hectares, but you'd much rather be fighting no wildfire at all."
Amara nodded, happy to be validated.
Soon, it was time for Amara to head to her next class.
"I have to go now," she said. "Thanks again for the coffee. You want my phone number so we can stay in touch?"
"I'd be honored."
She wrote it on a piece of notebook paper from her backpack and handed it to him. He wrote his on the back of the coffee receipt, and Amara immediately added him as a contact. As she walked out of the café, she took a long look at Alexei and his surroundings.
With a newfound confidence, Amara walked to her creative writing class, thinking about how making a friend on the first day of instruction could be a sign of good things to come.
...
Alexei reflected on his unexpected encounter for a moment, then went to the library to think about the events of the morning, the conversation with Amara dominating his thoughts. Since his second class was not until four, he sat alone at a quiet corner of the library table. Thoughts of what Amara said bounced around his mind. He rose from his chair and walked a few paces back and forth to calm how conflicted he felt.
Alexei felt droplets of sweat form on his face. His homeland was burning due to a foreign enemy, and yet here he was, personally happy and content with his life. He swallowed hard to keep from choking up, then looked around at the rest of the library; everyone else there was just going about a normal day. They seemed happy and carefree, sitting and reading or engaging in quiet conversation.
There was an undeniable connection with Amara; at least, he thought there was. And if he was to be honest with himself, he couldn't have imagined that happening on the second day of the six-week program. Before he boarded the flight to America, he knew that it would be an experience to remember, but he wasn't quite sure how. It would be a better learning experience than Belgian school, that was obvious. But he worried about whether he could make friends, especially not knowing the Americans' culture beyond exposure to it in films and books.
These six weeks, he now knew, were ready to offer more than he had originally thought. He wanted to get the academic credential, yes, but fulfilling relationships would matter even more to him. And Amara seemed like she had the potential to be a gem in a world of plain rocks. Or at least he initially felt like he would face a world of plain rocks as far as the other students were concerned.
Another student broke his train of thought.
"Hey. Are you in my European literature class," the other student asked.
"No, I'm not. You must be mistaken."
"My apologies."
He scrolled through his Instagram, searching for Amara, and found a list of profiles, one demonstrating the Ukrainian flag as a show of solidarity.
Alexei looked at the ground, away from his phone on the table, and he sighed. How could he be optimistic when so many people so close to home were dying in a needless war? He remembered the day, sixteen months earlier, when he had first heard that Russia had invaded Ukraine. It was a gray February morning in Liege, and his father told him the unfortunate news of the predawn air raids at the breakfast table. He was filled with unthinkable fear for his family who remained in Kharkiv, where he soon learned that Russian troops had attacked.
Once that happened, he was terrified for the safety of his aunts, uncles, and cousins. Every day, he could not concentrate directly, because he knew his family could be killed at any moment. It was a small chance that it would happen that day, but it was still a chance. He remembered the sleepless nights that were the result of not receiving news.
He remembered the days in Belgium, before the war, where the most drama he faced involved playing around in the park with his friends. He spent many afternoons with the boys and girls he knew, most of whom were Belgian. They played games and sat talking for hours, and his parents almost had to drag him home for dinner.
And now, aside from the war, he faced the academic stress of a demanding American prep school. Still, he remained firm in his conviction that no one deserved to worry as much as he had.
Alexei had not eaten since breakfast and up until then, had been too busy to care. But hearing a crunching sound and turning to see someone eating pretzels, he noticed that he was slightly hungry and walked the hall to the dining area for lunch.