Page 1 of You + Me – Against the World

PROLOGUE

Maybe he’ll never forgive me.

Maybe he has already erased me from his life.

Maybe he even went and scratched out what he once carved into wood and stone, back when he loved me.

1

Ten months earlier

“Alma Lancaster and Vadim Arcadi.”

The gravelly voice, thick with tobacco and whiskey, reels off the names of the assigned pairs for our first-semester project. Sitting in the front row, I listen attentively to Mr. Abrams, who is as impressive to look at as he is to listen to, even though his thick American accent is sometimes difficult to understand. His corduroy jacket must have once looked stylish, but it’s now shapeless, faded, and threadbare at the elbows. His lined, weary face bears the traces of past good looks.

I tear my eyes away from the professor I already consider a mentor and look toward the back of the classroom. Toward where Vadim Arcadi always sits. Or rather, where he has slumped, rocking on his chair and staring out the window, since the beginning of the school year.

He turns away from the outdoor scene that had captivated him, and his gaze settles on me. While the other students in the class get up to either trade hugs and fist bumps or gripe about the partner they’ve just been assigned, Vadim fixes his pale gray eyes on me. It’s an impossible gaze to hold.

His expression radiates the insolent charm of a campus heartbreaker, but also the contempt he has for girls like me. The French girls. The rich kids. The ones who don’t need scholarships. The ones who treat film school like summer camp.

He doesn’t know me, but he probably hates me.

And I’m already wondering how we’re going to get along.

Or even just have a conversation.

“No objections, no swaps, no complaints. I don’t want to hear any grumbling. You’re not in high school anymore, so you’re going to learn how to work together. In this crazy world, there’s nothing you’ll ever do completely alone. And don’t assume the pairs I’ve chosen are random. Nothing happens by chance! You wanted to make movies? Then make them. Whatever the conditions.”

“But, Professor…” Nicki Scott, the girl sitting behind me, protests in a whiny voice.

“Quiet! You have an hour to decide on the topic of a short film and then pitch it to me. Give it everything you’ve got. Put your life into it. Listen, discuss, decide. Don’t let yourselves get steamrolled. Fight for your ideas. Well… if they’re good ones. Otherwise, keep looking. Understood? No more whining, Scott. Now get to work!”

“Yes, Mr. Abrams,” Nicki replies, resigned.

Leonard Abrams, a failed artist but a charismatic teacher. Defining trait: had the whole class eating out of his hand in less than a month.

“Arcadi, Lancaster, do I have to hold your hands? Are you both going to wait for the other one to make the first move? Come on, Romeo and Juliet, get moving. One hour! Time is money!”

Bristling, Vadim tips his chair forward until the metal legs crash loudly against the tile floor. Slowly, he stands and shuffles toward the front row, his eyes shooting daggers at the teacher. Neither of them is willing to look away. And I would rather have the ground swallow me whole than be the trophy in this doomed cockfight.

Ultimately Abrams caves in first, probably in a hurry to go outside for a smoke. With a sigh, Vadim flops into the empty chair next to me and sinks back into his worn leather jacket. A heavy silence settles in, crackling with tension. I rack my brains for something intelligent to say, but I’m too transfixed by his profile, which is somehow boyish and manly at the same time.

I take in his delicate features; the texture of his fair skin, tanned by the Californian summer; his straight, almost arrogant nose; and his full, well-defined lips, whose only imperfection is a small scar running through one of them. And the mess of wavy, tousled hair that contrasts with his angelic face. Beneath his long, brown eyelashes, his eyes—always distant—are such a pale gray they sometimes seem transparent. But they grow dark when he suddenly turns them toward me, brows furrowed in annoyance.

“I made the first move, Chanel. It’s your turn.”

He casts a mocking glance at the oversized, vintage handbag I swiped from my mother. I feel ashamed without really knowing why.

“My name’s Alma.”

“I know what your name is, Alma Lancaster.”

“Then I’d prefer you use my first name, Vadim Arcadi. My real one.”

“And I’d prefer to work alone. But we don’t always get what we want in life. Oh, sorry, unless we’re like you, Lancaster,” he shoots back, mimicking my British accent.

Even though I speak English fluently, the London accent I inherited from my father still makes me something of a foreigner here, in the United States.