Ksertone State University literally welcomed us with wide-open doors. It was crowded, like the first day of school on September 1st, only here, in addition to prospective students, there were their parents as well. At the entrance, students smiled at the newcomers and handed out brochures with brief descriptions of popular programs. Everyone seemed happy and content. Seeing Dasha's excitement, I couldn't help but want to soak in the atmosphere myself: turning my head, admiring the carved ceiling, smiling at passersby—only my mood after the pizzeria remained as dark as a storm cloud.
I checked my phone and saw that Vladimir hadn't written or called, which meant my dad still hadn't woken up, despite the doctor's assurances. The only comfort was the thought that this wasn't the first time it had happened to Kostya, which meant the doctor understood what was going on. All I could do was trust and wait, but that was devilishly hard. You can't switch off anxiety by pressing the right button. A bitter thought crept in—that Kostya couldn't wake up because of Vladimir—and tried to settle over my mind like a dense fog, blocking the horizon. I should have been thinking about studies and observing, like the other kids, the wide stairs covered with dark green carpet to prevent students from slipping on the marble.
The second floor was crowded. Along the walls were all kinds of stands with printed information about the faculties one could enter. People gathered in groups, looking like local professors. Everyone was, without exception, dressed formally, unlike some applicants who looked like they had just run a half marathon before the event. Dasha tugged Viola toward a woman handing out glossy brochures about the Faculty of Philology. Afraid to wander alone among so many strangers, I trudged after the girls. The woman turned out to be the dean of the faculty and willingly answered Dasha's questions about the program. I found it interesting to watch their conversation until one of our classmates joined us. Approaching with a couple of tall guys almost on our heels, he nodded at a banner listing graduates who had finished the institute with honors and said:
"Look, overachievers," he snorted and laughed nastily. "They've gathered a whole list of useless people."
"Of course they did," one of the guys supported him with a smirk. "Studying philology doesn't take much brainpower. These sheep can only speak nicely, and after graduation—nothing. No job, no money."
The trio laughed loudly and demonstratively, though their words disgusted me.
"Look, the sheep from our school immediately understood which herd they belong to," one continued, gasping with laughter.
The giggles stopped as soon as Viola turned to the classmates. Under the force of her gaze, you'd hide your head in the sand whether you wanted to or not. Brave only in words, the trio hurried to another stand.
I quickly scanned the hall, reading the names of other faculties, and suggested to Dasha that we go read about the Faculty of Journalism. Judging by the crowd of peers and their parents around it, I thought many were interested in this faculty. Approaching and overhearing other conversations, I got confused. People were discussing which profession would be in demand in ten years: economist or lawyer, and this conversation hardly seemed related to journalism. Before I could figure it out, Violetta took charge. She grabbed Dasha's hand and told me to follow and not fall behind. Thanks to Viola, the three of us managed to push through the crowd of arguing people and finally reach the stand we were interested in.
No one spoke directly to the professor representing the faculty. She stood with a bored expression behind a high counter and occasionally tapped on her laptop keyboard. Only when we approached closely and politely waited for a free moment did she look up at us expectantly. I greeted her briefly and asked her to tell us about the Faculty of Philology. It turned out it had been opened just this year. The professor had moved to Ksertone from Saint Petersburg and had previously written a culture column for an online publication I had never heard of. She wrote a lot about theater productions, exhibitions, and literary novelties, and I was surprised that being a journalist didn't mean only writing about, say, scary things. You could choose a niche that interested you and use the same skills to communicate what mattered to you through texts.
The longer she spoke, the brighter her eyes shone. I could feel how much she loved her work, and I wanted to become like her in the future. To not make a mistake and choose the right path, so I could inspire others who were just stepping onto this path.