The Exchange Student

By Lolita Blue

Lolita never pictured herself as a world traveler; she felt lucky to escape daily gunfire in the tough South Tacoma neighborhood of Hilltop where her dad aided the poor and hungry. Following a tough move into a Washington suburb, she receives the unexpected opportunity to live abroad. A simple decision catapults Lolita into a “Rotarian” scandal that has been covered up to this day.

Placed into a host family where no common language is shared beyond rudimentary hand gestures and facial expressions, Lolita does her best to navigate the culture shock and find her place. Things seem to be going Lolita’s way when she discovers the affection of a gorgeous Belgian boy whom she'd been actively coveting since the beginning of school. Then, in one night, everything changes and Lolita is forced into the night with nothing but the clothes on her back.

What follows is the emotional journey of a young girl forced to cope without parents or home in a place where people aren’t always what they seem. Forced out of school by her host family's sister-in-law, who wants to see Lolita disgraced and the family protected, Lolita must decide if she will go home or stay among the rumors and outrage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Dec 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781645755593

Lolita Blue

Lolita Blue lives in the PNW countryside with spouse, dogs, cat, birds and squirrels.

Book preview

About the Author

Lolita Blue lives in the PNW countryside with spouse, dogs, cat, birds and squirrels.

Dedication

To my spouse – for your encouragement and keeping me from spilling stuff

all over myself.

Copyright Information ©

Lolita Blue 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Blue, Lolita

The Exchange Student

ISBN 9781645755579 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645755586 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645755593 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021918937

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2021

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

To all the friends that made life bearable. Laughter is the key.

Special thanks and immense gratitude to the wonderful team at Austin Macauley Publishers. Thank you for seeing potential in me and working with me to create this book. I especially appreciate your patience during my constant rewrites! I appreciate all AM does for new authors!

Prologue

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.

Anais Nin

Life is what you make it. It is not your surroundings, background, or economic status. It is THIS moment, right now, and how you choose to live it. It is getting out of your head and into the world.

I tell this story from the perspective of my 16-year-old self and all the insecurities, hilarity, and emotions that come with it.

The views on Rotary are mine alone and don’t reflect their good works in the community.

Introduction

I have always been a daddy’s girl but without the frills and ribbons. My father ensured a daredevil, not a princess; a tomboy, not a little Miss Sunshine. The holes in my jeans at the knee and the perpetual scabs beneath were proof of an active child. The smartass responses often resulting in spankings were a slow and sure cultivation to be fearless.

Humor was a large part of my upbringing, along with a healthy dose of public humiliation to ensure I did not grow up with airs. Whether he was doing the gopher dance from ‘Caddy Shack’ in crowded shopping centers or expounding on the importance of responsibility and independence in a masculine society then demanding I fetch his slippers; my father taught me to be an individual laughing at the world. So, when I flew to Belgium on my own at the age of 16, I put on a brave face as he would expect of me (also because he’d ridicule me if I didn’t).

Chapter 1

We look at one another across the small expanse of beige airport carpeting like two outlaws in the old west. He pulls his imaginary firearm first.

Are you going to commence the waterworks now? Or are you ready to get on that plane? he asks me in a jesting tone.

Good to go, I reply a little too quickly, feeling as if I’m about to vomit.

He claps me on the back like a quarterback. I wilt a bit under the bravado. I have not slept in days. I’m tired and overwhelmed. Up until this moment, I felt certain this trip would not happen. It seemed too farfetched an idea to actually take place, and my dad is big on practical jokes.

I’ve never left Washington State. Prior to this; the extent of my travels has been camping. Wait. Did that count?

I look up at my dad and give him a big grin to let him know I’m all right. A moment of worry crosses his face, then he hugs me and tells me not to get lost. I smirk at him.

Beware of werewolves, Lolita. I mean it, he says. I hear they’re prevalent in Belgium.

I’ll stay away from all werewolf parties and gatherings, I reply, looking serious so he knows I mean it. He clears his throat in a gruff manner. Don’t take any shit from anyone, and call me when you get there.

I mock salute him as is our custom since he left the military years before. I promise to call as soon as my host parents let me out of my cage.

He laughs and slaps me lovingly upside the head. I hug him once more then get in line for the plane that will ‘take me away,’ as advertised on ‘Calgon’ bath commercials. Here we go…

Chapter 2

This whole exchange idea started out so innocently. One night, I innocuously bring the idea up after a dinner of Mexican lasagna on paper plates. It’s the only thing my stepmom knows how to make beyond bagel sandwiches and graham crackers with peanut butter. I say paper plates because we’ve just moved to Gig Harbor, and boxes are spread unceremoniously like discarded dog poo throughout our new townhome.

Interaction with Father is as follows:

Me: Dad, I like my French classes at school.

Dad: Maybe you should marry them.

Me: I’m serious? I’m really digging the culture too. It’s all…French and stuff. Maybe I could go there for a week with my class fieldtrip in the spring and check it out? Sign here. I hand him the fieldtrip paperwork with a large car-salesman grin in an attempt to close the deal.

Dad: Ah, Lolita, you have such a way with words. Perhaps some night over French salad dressing, you can tell me all the ‘stuff’ you ‘dig’ about it. Look, if you really want this, don’t do it half-assed. You know Jennifer’s dad is in Rotary. They sponsor year exchanges.

No longer jesting, I reply: Okay, now you’re talking crazy; a YEAR? C’mon! And how would we pay for a YEAR abroad? We’re not exactly rolling in the dough.

Oh, you’d be paying for it, he replies nonchalantly. Better start saving those pizza-parlor wages. Then, he leaves the table and gooses my stepmom as she eavesdrops at the kitchen sink. Can I interject with an ‘EWW’ here? Thank you.

And that’s the end of it. Now that I’ve brought the subject up, the week-long fieldtrip is forgotten, and I’ve somehow been committed to try out for a year abroad. The idea of insisting to my father that I only want the week is now unthinkable. I’ve been called-out on a double dog dare, and I’m no cry baby.

From our research, this is what I have come to understand. I pay for my plane ticket. Rotary finds me a home, a school, and a sister Rotarian group abroad to host me during my stay. They’ll be the people that take responsibility for me while I’m in their jurisdiction.

What I offer in return is good behavior and a love and devotion of my nation. In essence, I will teach the foreigners about The United States of America.

Upon successful return from the exchange program, I’d be expected to give a series of speeches in which I tantalize youngsters with my amazing year overseas. Ultimately, the goal is to get new exchange students excited about their upcoming adventure and to cheerlead for Rotary. This didn’t seem a lot to ask of me.

Who is Rotary? My interpretation is, well, of businessmen who meet for meals and donate money to charities. It’s like a country club with handouts. Money is donated to grants for schooling and exchange programs abroad. My intended Rotarians included my step-grandpa. In fact, my stepmom had been an exchange student as well when she was 18. I had an in.

Three, random, families would be taking me into their homes and providing me with an honest-to-goodness overseas cultural experience. That is, if I get chosen… It seems I picked a good time to be in the running, as interviews were the following Saturday. I felt both lucky and extremely screwed over at the same time.

Chapter 3

Get up, Sausage! my dad yells from the other room.

It’s Saturday morning and Rotary tryout day. Groggily, I look around my recently unpacked room, attempting to catch my bearings. The alarm Clock tells me it’s 8:30 in the morning which makes me groan aloud and turn back over.

The endearment, ‘Sausage,’ should probably be explained. When I was seven, I went to my father and told him I no longer wished to be called Lolita. I wanted to be Kristine. I hated the name Lolita. Hate is not a good word to use in my household.

My father looked at me askance and said, But, Lolita, if your name were Kristine, then everyone would call you ‘Kristinie Sausage’. I look at him like he’s crazy.

Undeterred, my dad continued, You don’t want that, do you?

He clearly made his point in his mind so I shake my head and I remained Lolita.

I turn my head into the pillow to avoid the daylight streaming into my bedroom. No matter how hard I struggle against them, thoughts of my dad pouring water over my head pervade my mind, dissuading me from further slumber.

Rousing myself grumpily from bed, I stumble to the bathroom in pink ‘Hello Kitty’ pajamas, shower, and dress. For some reason, my stepmom thinks I like pink things. She’s wrong, but they’re cozy.

At the breakfast table, my dad meets me, grinning, and in usual top form.

What’s the population of Maryland? he asks.

My look of incredulity makes him chuckle. You’re supposed to know these things for your country, Sausage. If you don’t study, Rotary might haze you… His smiling face turns somber. I’m serious; I hear they do that.

Raising his eyebrows for emphasis, he says, Lolita, you don’t want to be their bitch, do you?

Hold off, Pops, I haven’t had my Wheaties yet. I pour the cereal into a bowl. They are the breakfast of champions, after all, I reply, meeting his serious gaze with my own. I have some Rotarian ass to kick, Dad. Please, let me focus.

He laughs good-naturedly to himself and drinks down the rest of his coffee. The quizzing continues until we’re ready to depart.

My father and I head to the garage and our awaiting ‘Little Shit.’ ‘The Little Shit’ is a small, white convertible my dad bought in a moment of irrational impulsivity that has frequent engine troubles. Hence its name. We drive out of Gig Harbor and make our way to downtown Tacoma. Parking on a side street; we get out and start walking to the appointed building. Suddenly, I trip.

Lolita, quit being so clumsy! My dad laughs as he pulls back his foot.

I have no choice but to run and, of course, he is in quick pursuit behind me. I feel like I’m five again. Giggling madly, I add speed to my gait and manage to get some distance between us. I turn my head back to him, stick my tongue out and trip on a curb. His laughter follows me up the street.

We quickly find the giant skyscraper that houses Rotarians and take the elevator to floor 19. The double doors slide open to an immaculate office lorded over by a silent and imposing receptionist. She deigns to look at us before directing me to the massive, mahogany, double doors to her left. I look at my dad only to find him with his finger playfully up his nose. I shake my head at him sternly.

He laughs at my mutinous facial expression and apologizes to the receptionist, then asks if she can take me off his hands because I keep following him places. She stares back at him, disinterested. Undeterred, he sits down on the couch and begins elaborating on my trade-in value.

I walk toward the door, knock tentatively, and open it. I feel eyes scrutinizing me, but I’m too shy to look up and meet them. Instead, I turn to shut the door behind me with a longing look toward my dad, but he’s paying me no mind. I sigh. Turning back, I finally look up. Three older gentlemen sit huddled on one side of the table in matching dark suits. Plates of food rest before them on long, sleek, black tables.

Next to them is my first look at an exchange student. He is dressed in sharp contrast to the dark funereal attire of the older and sleek-looking gents next to him. He wears a dark-blue suit jacket covered in crazy-looking pins that blaze the names of different countries in various symbols. His jacket is complete with a fox tail sewn about the neck. I get a glimpse of a white T-shirt stating, ‘I’m Horny,’ beneath. Masses of reddish-blonde curls top his head like fleeing noodles.

G’day! he states gleefully. I’m an Aussie. Nice to meet you. Name’s Gus. What’s yours?

Lolita, and it’s nice to meet you too. I reply, a large grin creeping on to my face. I like him immediately. He has very succinct sentence flow.

I look back to the old codgers. One of them motions me to sit down across from them. Jen’s dad is not amongst them. I expected this. We’d need an impartial interview.

I sit down, and silence welcomes me. Do the Rotarians speak? I look at each participant, but only Gus continues to grin encouragingly at me. Huh. So, do Gus and I make small talk while they monitor our interactions? Or is this some sort of international dating game my dad didn’t tell me about?

I wonder what they must think of me; the exchange-student wannabe. I suppose I’m decent-looking in a youthful puppy-dog sort of way. No matter how I do my hair or wear my clothes; I look 12. Boys are somewhat interested when I first walk into a new school. Then, they realize my head is perpetually in a book and they move on. My dad’s former military career saw me in a new school most every year. It could be lonely and redundant, but I had grown used to it and learned that no matter what school one attended, their library could always be counted on for consistency.

Back in Rotary land, silence continues as we size one another up. The middle Rotarian proffers a plate of cookies like a stranger with candy. I decline, wondering if it’s a test. Too nervous to utter a peep in fear that my voice might crack, I sit patiently, waiting.

Are you close to your mother? the dark suit on my right says abruptly.

Me: Yes?

Could you leave her behind for an extended period of time? another continues gruffly.

Me: Leaving both parents poses no issue. And my hour-long interview begins.

I am picked out of 100 applicants. That first question turns out to be the most important. Exchange students who claim a strong bond with their mothers most often demand to be returned home within the first trimester. I see my mom regularly and love her entirely but being a child of divorce from an early age, I felt better prepared to depart both parents without much angst. They can take care of themselves.

Chapter 4

We aren’t rich, if my duplex home and the little shit car didn’t already give me away. My dad left the military when I was 11 to work non-profit. He currently splits his time between volunteering at a halfway house for homeless substance abusers and as an executive director of a food kitchen providing breakfast and lunch to the poverty stricken. That’s where he met my stepmom. She volunteered at the kitchen one summer. They locked eyes and that was a wrap. It’s a true love story set in the ghetto.

After their marriage, my dad moved us from the crack-dealing hood of Hill Top located in beautiful South Tacoma to the upscale, densely forested population of ritzy Gig Harbor.

WH High School, where I spent freshmen and part of my sophomore year, had regular knife fights and bomb threats. ‘White Bitch’ was not an uncommon nickname for me in the hallways. Violence aside, my peers and I were all at the same poverty level for the most part.

At GH, the wealth was so prolific, I stood out for where I came from in my Kmart clothes and aged black Nikes with the pink swoosh. My counterparts wore Eddie Bauer and Timberlands. I was shunned for the most part, which is a much better fate than being bullied in my mind. Glass half full!

I found some insight and a lot of humor in my new life. Nothing says funny like a decked out white boy in a lowered Honda moving slowly through the Safeway parking lot with the bass on high, listening to Gin and Juice.

I preferred Tacoma. Tacoma was gritty but real. Gig Harbor felt like a movie about excess that I could not turn off. But I had no say in the matter.

At least, I no longer had to worry about my dad getting shot in a drive-by shooting. He was hyper vigilant to all drug activity in our Tacoma neighborhood. Hill Top was synonymous with both crack cocaine and gangs in the early 1990s. Multiple times a day, my father would go outside and tell the drug dealers, Not on this corner, guys.

They would begrudgingly move on but come back the next day like clockwork. No matter how many times he went out there, I never got over my fear that they’d finally pull a gun and shoot him. My fear never dissuaded him from continuing his pattern. My dad does not live in fear.

He also never let anyone go hungry or cold that asked for help. At the ready, were clean, folded blankets next to our front door that we gave out to anyone who knocked. If they were hungry, we gave them what we had in the kitchen. We ate the food that we served at the food shelter. It was not a well-paying job, but it was a fulfilling one.

Even if we had money (which we did not), my father believed that all members of a family should contribute financially. I got my first job three days after my 16th birthday only because no one would hire me at 15.

I loved my job at the local pizza parlor—the hard work and social interactions it provided me. I have no eye/hand coordination skills, so team sports had always eluded me. Work became an effective way to meet the friends who otherwise evaded me in the complicated popularity matrix at GH Highschool.

When the news came back that Rotary had chosen me for the exchange program, life sped up. I take on more shifts at the pizza parlor to save up. Every other Friday, I come home from work, encrusted in pizza sauce, and hand over my paycheck for the Overseas Fund and it slowly but surely grows.

Chapter 5

I’m leaving August 15, 1994. I get to choose three countries. If all three choices are unavailable, Rotary will choose my destination. It eradicates the back and forth I suppose. It also means I must pick carefully. I really don’t want to end up in Antarctica. I’m easily cold.

There are many banned countries with horror stories alongside to further dissuade us in case we insist. One girl was raped the last night of exchange by her host brother. Another was kidnapped while walking in a group of other students in broad daylight. She was recovered thankfully.

Belgium is my first choice because, to be honest, I’ve heard the French are snooty. Belgium is unique because it’s not France, yet they speak French, unlike French-Canadians who are unintelligible. It’s the language I’d picked as my free elective at GH High, so I figure I’ll have a jumpstart. Back in 1994, French was THE language, at least in my 16-year-old mind.

My life from May to July consists of a Rotarian fueled montage of Washington State’s geographical finer points. Rotary’s goal during these field trips is to bring together the new, the current, and the retired exchange student. The opportunity provided is to ask lots and lots of questions.

Ultimately, an exchange student’s job is to educate and mentor. It is mandatory that we be outgoing. Don’t be