Pia Padukone - The Faces Of Strangers

But he’d tried, hadn’t he? He’d emailed and called. He’d even gone to Estonia to meet with Paavo face-to-face and when Paavo hadn’t been there, Nico had returned to New York City and thrown himself headfirst into schmoozing with politicos and potential donors. He got too busy mobilizing field organizers and wooing supporters to follow up. He’s been too busy cozying up with Ivy in trendy restaurants with overpriced cocktails. He’s been too busy choosing his bespoke suits and neckties.

He stares at his suit where it hangs on the rack, looking shameful and despondent. It, along with the other beautiful garments in various shades of gray that he’d had to learn upon their purchase—charcoal, ash, smoke, birch—has cost hundreds of dollars. It feels like such a waste, like everything else he has worked toward: the campaigning, the speeches, the countless hours he has spent on his public image. It is all about to come crashing down. He clutches the phone to his ear and nods, concentrating on a spot on the floor. If he can carry the farce on a little longer on the phone, he can buy some time before he’s forced to face Ivy. If he continues pretending that nothing is wrong, maybe he can start believing his own lie.

But he can’t deny what happened in Estonia all those years ago. He can’t help but catapult his mind back to his junior year of high school when he stepped off a plane onto a sliver of land half the size of the state of Maine. It had been an experience, as he told his mother it would be when he had signed up for the exchange program. But apparently this experience has stretched far beyond the year that the program was supposed to take place. Nothing could have prepared him for how the Hallström student exchange program would change his life.

August 2002

HEADLOCK12 would like to chat. Accept?

HEADLOCK12: Hi...is this Paavo?

EESTIRIDDLER723: Yes. Is this Nico?

HEADLOCK12: It’s actually Nicholas.

EESTIRIDDLER723: In Estonia, the name is Nico.

HEADLOCK12: I kind of prefer Nicholas. Anyway, Ms. Rothenberg sent me your screen name, so I thought I’d say hi. How’s it going?

EESTIRIDDLER723: Hi, it is nice to talk to you. I look forward to coming to New York.

HEADLOCK12: Same. And I’m excited about Tallinn.

EESTIRIDDLER723: So you are a wrestler?

HEADLOCK12: Yep, I’m on the team at school. I’ve won my division a few times. But mostly it’s just nice to be a part of a team.

HEADLOCK12: What about you? Do you play any sports?

EESTIRIDDLER723: No. I am more intellectual.

HEADLOCK12: Ouch.

EESTIRIDDLER723: Oh, I did not mean to offend you. Perhaps I should say that I am not much of an athlete.

HEADLOCK12: Gotcha.

EESTIRIDDLER723: I’m actually quite poor at sports. My father was always trying to get me to play football—what you call soccer. And I was always trying to be the goalie so that I didn’t have to run. I’m more into riddles.

HEADLOCK12: What, like, why did the chicken cross the road?

EESTIRIDDLER723: That’s a joke. I mean brainteasers. Like, when you see me, you don’t see anybody. When you see everybody, you can’t see me. What am I?

HEADLOCK12: I give up. What?

EESTIRIDDLER723: Fog.

HEADLOCK12: Ah, I get it.

EESTIRIDDLER723: I’m as big as a house, as light as a feather. What am I?

HEADLOCK12: I’m not very good at these. What?

EESTIRIDDLER723: Smoke.

EESTIRIDDLER723: So is New York like it is in the movies?

HEADLOCK12: I guess that depends on the movie. But it is the best city in the world. No offense.

EESTIRIDDLER723: None taken. I can hardly compare the likes of Tallinn to a bustling metropolis like New York.

HEADLOCK12: Your English is very good.

EESTIRIDDLER723: Thank you. In Estonia, we take lessons since the first standard. It’s compulsory in all schools here. I have been reading English books all summer.

HEADLOCK12: You really are a bookworm. :) It’s cool that you read in English too.

EESTIRIDDLER723: I am fluent in Russian as well. It was compulsory until 1991 but I speak it because my father’s parents are originally from Russia. They don’t speak Estonian.

HEADLOCK12: This might be a stupid question, but is Estonian hard to learn?

EESTIRIDDLER723: I don’t really know. I grew up speaking it. But I will help you. You will take a class while you’re here.

HEADLOCK12: Cool. Hey I gotta run, but I guess I’ll see you at orientation?

EESTIRIDDLER723: A free trip to Berlin. No complaints from me.

HEADLOCK12: Yeah, totally. See you then.

HEADLOCK12 signed off.

EESTIRIDDLER723 signed off.

NICHOLAS

New York City

September 2002

The morning that Nicholas Grand set off for a semester in Estonia was like every other. At the table, his father, Arthur, chugged coffee in an effort to use the bathroom as the first step in his morning ablutions. His mother bounced around the kitchen like a pinball, pocketing a ring of keys, absently fingering the same gold-starred studs in her ears that she wore every day as she sorted through a stack of bills. His sister, Nora, pulled at a stray thread in the tablecloth, mussed and unsettled by the anticipation of the first meeting of a support group for other people just like her.

Although it was only eight o’clock, the air was already hazy and hot—an unseasonable September morning. Nicholas could feel perspiration collecting in his armpits as he sat slumped in a chair like the melted butter that was pooling in the dish on the table. Stella swooped in and collected the butter crock, depositing it in the fridge.

“Mo-om,” Nora bleated, her tone echoing a pair of bellows fanning a fire. “I kept that out on purpose. I hate hard butter. My toast always tears.”

“That butter was Dali-esque—practically drinkable,” Stella admonished. “Nicholas, did you eat? It’s a long flight.”

“There’ll be food on the plane, Mom.” It took effort just to speak. Nicholas felt as if he was talking through a bowl of tepid soup; the humidity had already risen to unspeakable levels. One of the few comforts of going to a place as random and as far north as Estonia was that the country scarcely appeared to even have a summer at all.

Stella paused in her undulations to place a maternal hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. Her hand hung like a wet mop against his damp T-shirt. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the airport with you?”

“The program is sending a car. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Stella pinged over to her daughter. “Nora, don’t be late for your first day of group,” she said. “First impressions are lasting.”

“It’s not like they’re going to remember who I am,” Nora said. She collected her wet hair into a tight, tidy cocoon against the nape of her neck with one hand and stroked the little black notebook by her side with the other. “It’s downright cruel, making us sit around learning new faces when we can’t remember the ones we are supposed to know.”

“Remember what Dr. Li said about seeking support from others who understand,” Stella said, putting her other hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “It’ll be good to have some cohesion and routine to your week. I’m sure it’ll get easier.”

Nora rolled her eyes. “I better go get ready,” she said. “Have fun in Commieville, Nicky.”

“STD!” Nicholas shouted gleefully.

“Seriously? You’re actually going to call that out every time?” Nora asked.

“Ste-re-o-typed. STD. Every time you make a generalization about Paavo, yes, I will. In fact, anytime anyone makes a generalization about him. It’s not fair. We don’t know anything about him. So be nice.”

“What kind of a name is Paavo?”

“STD!”