Vanguard (4 page)

“I wouldn’t react that way.” Sophie felt oddly put out that he hadn’t told her.

Michael smiled. “I know. But I was shy.” Sophie nodded. “We no longer have a reason to be shy. So now, we will speak in Orlisian.” He switched languages. “Tell me how you learned to speak the language of my country.”

“Not easily,” she replied. “So few people outside Orlisia speak it since it is a relatively new dialect. I taught myself the written language from books. Then I located a professor of Eastern European languages at the university in my city who could speak not just Latvian, but the Orlisian dialect of Latvian. I’ve studied for three years with him.”

“This professor must be from the south of the unified lands,” Michael said, “since your accent is provincial.” Sophie’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. “Do not be ashamed. Many claim to speak Orlisian, but few do it properly. I will teach you.” Her heart soared at the prospect of private language lessons from a native speaker.

Who also happens to be gorgeous.

“That would be wonderful,” she managed.

“Why did you learn Orlisian? It is not a practical language.”

Sophie paused. It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked, but getting the answer right had never seemed more important. “I remember your liberation day, when the Soviets withdrew,” she said. “I was eleven. I saw such joy on the people’s faces on television. Insurmountable odds, yet you won.

“When I grew older, I became more interested in world affairs, and later, international development. I learned more about Orlisia, its struggle to maintain its independence. I lost my heart to your country and never regained it.” She looked at Michael. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” he said. “I know exactly how you feel.”

~~ - ~~

They sat together at dinner, earning Sophie a jealous glance from Mirielle Desmarais, easily the most beautiful girl in the class. Half French, half Ethiopian, Mirielle was a stunning mix of creamy brown skin, hazel eyes, and chiseled cheekbones. She was also whip smart, spoke several languages, and was said to have turned down a modeling contract and deferred acceptance to the University of Paris in favor of GYL.

“You lived in Orlisia under the Soviet occupation, didn’t you?” Sophie asked. “When you were a child?”

“Yes, I was four when they invaded. I will be twenty in December. The four years the Soviets occupied my country were difficult. We did not cooperate.” Sophie rolled her eyes at the understatement.

“My mother stayed in Orlisia through the occupation, even though Father begged her to come to America when the diplomatic corps was evacuated. He was attached to the American embassy in the capital city of Vollka at the time, you see, and they were unmarried. I was born out of wedlock, as you Americans call it.

“My mother was a dancer with the Orlisian National Ballet, and felt a duty to help keep the spirit of Orlisia alive during its darkest years. Once we were free of Soviet rule, she danced her final performances. We came to New York within a year.” He smiled. “They married the day after we arrived. I was my father’s best man.”

Sophie imagined Michael as an innocent child in a suit, seeing his parents together at last. She felt Michael wipe away a tear that had escaped down her cheek.

“What have I said to make you cry?” he asked softly, reverting to Orlisian. It made the question feel very intimate.

“It’s a happy ending,” she said. “It moved me.”

“Very much like a woman.” She smacked the back of his hand, and he grinned. “I hold traditional values about many things,” he warned, “especially women.”

“Spare me.” They spent the meal discussing Orlisian history, and their free time until curfew sprawled on the floor of the hallway outside Sophie’s dorm room, talking.

“If you grew up in Orlisia, why do you have a Western name?” she asked.

“My mother knew one day we would come to America, so she chose Mikael for me, a name suitable for both cultures. She still calls me that.”

“Mikael,” Sophie repeated with a smile. “It suits you.”

~~ - ~~

Sophie tossed her head and looked at Michael curled up asleep at the back of the bus with Mirielle Desmarais running her fingers through his black hair. Jealousy settled into her stomach like a hard lump.

They were six weeks into their tour and having the time of their lives. Life was perfect. Or it would be, were it not for Michael Nariovsky-Trent. He made her so
angry
!

Their promising friendship had collapsed within a single language lesson. What had started as a disagreement about verb tense had somehow turned into a full-blown shouting match in seconds.

“You need to back the fuck off,” Sophie had snapped when Michael had gotten in her face about conjugation. “What kind of a teacher are you?”

Michael’s face had gone dark with disapproval. “This language is unacceptable for a woman. You speak as an uncivilized child.”

Sophie had scrambled up, enraged. She’d stood several inches shorter than him, but just as defiant.

“I speak as I please,” she’d hissed. “This isn’t a backward society where women are treated as subordinates. This is America, not Orlisia.” Anger had flared in his eyes at the snub, and he’d spat an obscenity at her. “Your language is no less disgusting than mine.”

“It is different for a man.”

She’d shot him a withering look, picked up her books, and stalked away, tears of anger stinging her eyes. She’d sworn never to speak to him again – yet when he’d approached her a few days after and humbly asked her forgiveness, she’d been unable to deny him.

They’d fought and made up again two days later. And again. And again. Yet there was no one she felt closer to in the class. And it would seem he felt the same way.

~~ - ~~

Their first city in Africa was Senegal, and Sophie hit the ground running. She had a weeklong volunteer assignment lined up with Crisis International, a midsized aid agency with a solid reputation for its relief work.

“Sophie Swenda?” A tall, blond-haired man wearing cowboy boots appeared in the doorway of the makeshift hut where she waited. “William Temple.” He tossed her sunscreen and a Crisis International shirt. “Go cover yourself in sunscreen and put that shirt on, Red.” He looked at her sneakers doubtfully. “I guess those shoes will do. Do you have a strong stomach?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” she said, heading into the tiny bathroom to change. “And don’t call me Red!”

“I like you already!” he shouted after her.

They worked together for one stomach-churning, heartbreaking week in the urban slums of Dakar. For a first experience in the field, it was everything she could have hoped for and more – even if she had tossed her breakfast at the smell of her first slum.

“You did good work here, Sophie,” said Will on her last day in Dakar when he dropped her back at the hotel. “I hope you know that. You touched some lives.”

“Not enough.”

“It’s always like that in our line of work,” he said. “There will always be more who need help than we have resources. You learn to find the small victories where you can.” He handed her a business card and an envelope. “My card and a recommendation I wrote for you.”

“You didn’t need to do that. It’s been my privilege to work with you.” Sophie tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I can’t tell you what the last week has meant to me.”

“I already know. Who doesn’t remember their first field placement?” He smiled. “Look, here’s some free advice. Finish this crazy GYL year of yours. Get your degree. Pick up another language, something more practical for the field, like French. Then come find me again.” He pulled her into a hug. “You can’t change the world, Sophie, but you can make a meaningful difference in the lives of some of its occupants. You can’t ask for more out of a career.”

Senegal was followed by South Africa, Tanzania, and Kenya in rapid succession. By the time the class got through Morocco and into Spain, they were ready for a breather from their hectic schedule.

The staff organized a special event at a tapas bar in Barcelona, complete with local food, music … and wine. “
Salud
,” said one of the staff members, toasting the room. “You’ve worked hard, behaved well, and you deserve to relax. Just don’t go overboard.”

Sophie had limited experience with drinking. Keeping it to two or three glasses of wine would be safe, wouldn’t it? Yet the glasses were large and the wine stronger than she’d ever had. Through a pleasant haze, she watched Carter DeVries get up from a nearby table, leaving Michael on his own. She walked up behind him, leaning over his shoulder.

“Hi,” she said with a hiccupping giggle. He turned around, grinning. “Wanna go for a walk?” They slipped out into the alley behind the restaurant in the fall night, and things began to happen very quickly.

The minute they were alone, Michael leaned back against the restaurant’s brick wall and pulled her up against him. His mouth opened against Sophie’s, their tongues wrapping around one another. She plunged her hands into his silky black curls, dragging her fingers through them the way she’d wanted to since they’d met. And especially since she’d seen Mirielle touching his hair on the bus.

He moaned deep in his throat, sending her nerves into overdrive. Suddenly she couldn’t get enough of him, pressing closer to her warm body. Michael’s hands slid down to Sophie’s hips and pulled her tight against his body. She could feel him grow rigid in his jeans.

Sophie might have been one of the most gifted students in the state of California, but she had limited sexual experience. Reason and intellect would normally tell her this was a poor choice. But reason and intellect had deserted both of them, and she would do
anything
to have this man. Michael gasped as she pushed her hips against him, and, encouraged, he cupped her breasts.

“Sophie,” he whispered after several intense moments. “I want you so bad. Right here, right now. I need you.” He pulled open her jeans, and slipped his hand into her underwear. She held her breath as his cold fingers found their way between her thighs. “Oh,
mana mila
, you need me too, don’t you? I can tell.” He touched her lightly, never losing contact with the spots that felt the best. Between the Orlisian endearment – one she’d never expected to hear from him – and the overwhelming sexual stimulation, Sophie mind went into overdrive. The pressure in her abdomen started to build.

Abruptly, someone grabbed her from behind and yanked her away. She gasped in fright. A low voice said, “Do up your pants.” Then the person rounded on Michael.

It was Carter.

“Have you lost your mind?” he whispered furiously. “The whole room saw you come out here, including staff. How long do you think before they come to investigate?” Michael lounged against the restaurant wall, flushed and smirking. Sophie struggled to do up her jeans, letting out a small shriek of horror when Carter slapped Michael across the face.

“You’re a pig, Nariovsky,” he said. “She’s had too much to drink and she’s just a kid. She deserves better than a quick fuck against a wall.” Michael’s face went from fury to shame as Carter spoke. His glance flickered to Sophie, then Carter shoved him toward the restaurant. “Get out of here.”

Once Michael vanished, she turned on Carter. “I can’t believe you did that! You had no right …”

He gently covered her mouth with his big hand. “Stop. Before you say another word, answer me. Did he force you? Because if he forced you, I’ll kill him.”

Sophie pushed his hand away. “No! It just came over us … it happened so fast. He wasn’t hurting me, Carter, honest.”

“Then I’m sorry,” he said. “But I won’t see you taken advantage of by anyone, even my best friend.” Sophie stared at him. “Now take my arm and smile. Everyone will think the three of us came out here together to smoke or talk. You and Michael stay away from one another for the rest of the night. Maybe the rest of the year.”

~~ - ~~

The next day, Sophie had a headache and a guilty conscience for deceiving her boyfriend. She blamed the wine, but deep inside she knew she was lying to herself, had been lying to herself for some time. The attraction between them was out in the open, and she had no idea how to undo it.

Michael seemed uncomfortable about the whole thing, refusing to speak of the incident and acting uncharacteristically awkward in her presence through Germany and into Scandinavia. Sophie felt stung and confused. As they travelled into Finland, she got her answer.

On an early travel day in in December, Sophie turned in her seat to answer a shouted question from the back in the coach. She couldn’t miss seeing Michael and Mirielle Desmarais sloppily kissing one another a few rows back. Sophie turned around without answering the question. Beside her, Ana looked back to see what had happened.

“Didn’t you know?” she whispered. “They’ve been together since Morocco.” That hit Sophie even harder. Morocco had been
weeks
ago, before Barcelona. Humiliated, she shrank down in her seat in numb silence, wrapped in her friend’s arms.

~~ - ~~