Alina

 

"Here we are," says Michal, opening the door to my new apartment. "Home sweet home, as they say."

 

He pushes open the door, and I use all of my politeness to not let my expression sink.

 

The first thing that hits me is the smell. As soon as the door opens, a strong waft of a dusty, stale smell rushes up to my nostrils and causes my eyes to water. It feels as though he had opened the door to a crypt. As soon as I adjust to that, I scan the place and see that it's a small, cramped studio apartment that’s seen much better days. There's a small bed on a metal frame, a dresser set with white paint peeling off it, and a puffy, red couch that looks like it'd been found at some forgotten second-hand store.

 

"After you," says Michal.

 

I walk in and set my bag on the hardwood floor.

 

"It's …nice," I say, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

 

"It's a shithole," says Michal, scoffing. "But good that you're polite."

 

I look around, noting the small, dingy kitchen with off-white appliances and the gray walls that look like they haven't been touched up in years. The apartment reminds me of the homes in the smaller towns in Poland that never quite recovered from the spare conditions imposed on them by the Soviets.

 

"No," I say, letting myself feel enthusiastic. "It's great."

 

"Whatever you say," says Michal. "It will get you started, at least."

 

Such a strange man, I think, looking at Michal out of the corner of my eye. But …really, really handsome.

 

My eyes flit over to Michal as he stands near the grimy windows, looking out over the rundown apartments on the street below and the industrial parks off in the distance. I look over his physique, trim under his expensive-looking, well-tailored suit, though clearly muscular. His eyes are green and mischievous, his lips are full and sensual, and his hair is thick and dark. I'm trying to stay cool and professional, but I can't get over how gorgeous he is. He may very well be one of the most attractive men who I've ever seen. Coming back to my senses, I realize that I'm biting my lips and playing with my hair as I look at him.

 

Get it together, I think, shaking my head and pushing these thoughts out of my mind as I look around the room once again.

 

I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge, seeing nothing but a dingy interior and a box of baking soda with the top ripped off that'd been there for God knows how long.

 

"I got a text from my father on the way over," says Michal. "He's found a placement for you."

 

"A placement?" I ask, turning away from the fridge.

 

"Yes, like a job."

 

I'm elated, but I try not to show it too much.

 

"Where?"

 

"At my father's company, actually. A receptionist position has just opened up, and with your strong English skills and, ah, professional attitude, he seems to think that you'd be perfect for the job."

 

"That's …wonderful. I don't know what to say."

 

He looks me up and down.

 

"Say that you have something a little nicer to wear than that."

 

My face reddens and my eyes shoot down at the off-the-rack, business-casual clothes that I'm wearing.

 

"Do a little shopping tonight," he says, now knowing my answer is "no." "We can advance you a little money for essentials."

 

He moves towards the door.

 

"I'll leave you to it," he says, one foot already out of the door. "Get settled and be at the offices tomorrow at nine sharp."

 

With that, he steps over the threshold and out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

 

Now I'm alone.

 

I look around the apartment once again. It's dingy and run-down sure, but it's something. It's a place of my own—a place to get started in this new country.

 

And a job! I realize that I have a job waiting for me. A place to live and a place to work—already within a short time of being in America I have two things that most immigrants spend years trying to achieve. I silently thank my father for forcing me to stick with my English lessons, spending endless hours drilling conjugations into my head, going days speaking to me in only English, and forcing me to read books by writers like Dickens and Trollope. As a young girl, his lessons drove me to tears at time, but I realize now that he wanted nothing more than for me to have the most useful tool that I could possibly have to be successful.

 

I begin to feel overcome with emotion. Sitting down on the couch, I begin to think of my parents for the first time at any length since I've arrived. They were taken from me so suddenly, without warning. Many children's parents die at an old age after prolonged illness, their deaths being conclusions to lives well-lived. But my parents were taken both at once, the car accident stealing them from me instantly. One moment we're driving together as a family, and the next I'm in a hospital, lying in a cold, sterile room, my arm and leg broken, and a team of doctors standing over me with somber faces.

 

Tears begin to well in my eyes as these memories flood into my mind, unbidden. I slump over on the couch, pressing my face into one of the ratty pillows and letting myself cry for the first time in weeks. The tears flow hard and seemingly without end, my body wracking with sobs as I weep in the silent, stark room.

 

After a time, I feel that I've wept every tear I can. I force myself off of the couch and into the bathroom, looking at my face in the mirror, my eyes red, my cheeks wet. Drying my face off, I walk over to the windows of my apartment and look out over the city. The sprawl of Philadelphia before me, I make a solemn promise to myself and my parents that I'll succeed in this country, no matter what it takes. I won't let the love they gave me go to waste.

 

I'll make it, and no one and nothing will stand in my way.