The Exchange Student

"First Impressions"

Angela’s POV

The next morning, after a surprisingly comfortable sleep in the hotel near the airport, we drove through Los Angeles toward Beverly Hills. My heart pounded in my chest as palm trees lined the wide roads, their fronds swaying gently in the breeze. The sky was a perfect blue, a color I’d only seen in postcards. Every building we passed seemed bigger, sleeker, cleaner than anything back home.

“Is this really where we’re going to live?” I whispered, leaning forward to see through the windshield.

“Yes, darling,” my mother said with a smile, adjusting her sunglasses. “This is where your father’s house is.”

I felt my stomach twist. I hadn’t seen Dad in so long—just a few brief visits when he was in Nigeria. He always seemed busy, preoccupied with business calls and meetings. But now, I’d be living under his roof. Would it be awkward? Would he be as distant as I remembered?

We pulled into a gated driveway, and my jaw practically hit the floor. The house—no, mansion—was massive. White walls, tall glass windows that sparkled in the sunlight, manicured hedges, and a long driveway leading up to a grand entrance with marble columns. A black Mercedes sat parked outside, gleaming.

Dad stepped out of the front door as we pulled up, dressed casually in jeans and a crisp white shirt. His smile was wide, but his eyes carried a hint of uncertainty.

“Angela, my star girl!” he called, spreading his arms.

I hesitated for a moment before stepping into his embrace. He smelled of expensive cologne and aftershave. It felt strange, being held by him again.

“Hi, Daddy,” I murmured.

He pulled back to look at me, pride shining in his eyes. “Look at you! So grown, so beautiful.”

Mum joined us, her expression softening. They exchanged a look—one that spoke of old memories and unresolved feelings. I stepped back, suddenly feeling like a little girl eavesdropping on a conversation meant for adults.

“Let’s get you settled in,” Dad said, ushering us inside.

The foyer was even more impressive than the outside. A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and the marble floor gleamed under my sneakers. Plush rugs, contemporary art on the walls, and huge windows made everything feel airy and open. My suitcase felt suddenly out of place, like a visitor in a luxury showroom.

Dad showed me to my room on the second floor—a spacious suite with a king-sized bed, a balcony overlooking the backyard, and an en suite bathroom with a tub big enough to swim in. I spun in the middle of the room, overwhelmed.

“This is mine?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“All yours,” Dad said with a laugh. “We want you to feel at home here.”

I bit my lip, trying not to show how impressed I was. “Thank you, Daddy.”

He nodded, then cleared his throat. “Angela, your mother and I want to make sure you understand—this isn’t just a vacation. You’re here to work hard. Woodsville High is competitive, and we know you’re capable of great things. Columbia University won’t accept anything less than excellence.”

I nodded, the weight of expectation settling on my shoulders. “I know. I’ll make you both proud.”

Over the next few days, we explored Los Angeles together. Dad took us shopping on Rodeo Drive, where I gawked at designer stores I’d only ever seen in magazines. I tried on clothes that made me feel like a movie star, though Mum kept a watchful eye on the price tags. At a fancy cafe, I had my first taste of an acai bowl—tart and sweet and topped with granola.

“Better than jollof?” Dad teased.

I laughed. “Nothing beats jollof, Daddy.”

We visited The Grove, where I got my nails done in a chic salon. I chose a simple nude color, wanting to look sophisticated for school. Mum suggested a new hairstyle, so we went to a trendy salon where I had my braids refreshed and styled into an elegant updo. I admired myself in the mirror, feeling a mix of pride and nerves.

That evening, Dad brought home takeout from Chick-fil-A and Crumbl Cookies. I bit into a warm, gooey cookie and sighed with contentment. “America is amazing,” I declared.

Mum chuckled. “Just don’t let the food distract you from your goals.”

As the days ticked by, summer melted into early autumn. The night before school started, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My books were neatly stacked on my desk, my new school uniform—crisp and tailored—hung in the closet. I’d chosen my outfit for the first day carefully: a pleated skirt, a white blouse, and a blazer with the Woodsville crest.

I couldn’t sleep. My mind was buzzing with questions. Would the other students like me? Would I fit in? Would they think I was weird for being Nigerian? I imagined walking through the hallways, hearing whispers behind my back. “Who’s that girl?” “Is she rich?” “Does she think she’s better than us?”

I rolled over, squeezing my eyes shut. You can do this, Angela, I told myself. You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You belong here.

Eventually, I drifted into a restless sleep.

Finally, it was morning. I woke up to the sun streaming through my balcony windows, dressed quickly, and headed downstairs for breakfast. Dad was waiting with a smile, and Mum had prepared a full Nigerian spread—akara, pap, and suya. I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in days.

“Ready for school?” Mum asked.

“Ready,” I said confidently.

We drove to Woodsville High, which looked even more impressive in daylight. The campus sprawled across manicured lawns, with sleek modern buildings and students in crisp uniforms walking confidently between classes. I felt a surge of pride as I stepped out of the car.

Inside, the hallways were buzzing with energy. I found my classroom easily, thanks to the map I’d studied the night before. As I entered, conversations hushed. Heads turned. I felt their eyes on me—curious, admiring, a hint of jealousy.

I stood at the front of the room, ready to introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Angela Adeoni, and—”

Suddenly, my foot caught on the edge of a chair. I stumbled forward, flailing wildly, and fell flat on my back. Gasps and laughter erupted around me. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.