Summary: Amelia Jones is a girl with dreams of heroic proportion. Dreams which start to seem possible when she is nominated to represent the USA at the Hetalia Academy for Global Achievement, an experimental school built to foster cooperation in the modern world. Well…'cooperation' might be a stretch…RusxFem!Ame+others
Rating/Warnings: M. For language and situations of adult romantic times. Warning: Genderbending! And, for more than likely awful translated languages. I love your languages, I swear. I just don't speak them proficiently.
I have too many ideas for hetalia fanfiction (especially this pairing, which I totally love), but this is my first one so I would love love love feedback. ^J^
Prologue: An Invitation
Amelia was, by all means, a pro at tuning out Mrs. Freidman. By the time the late bell rang, the hag had organized her trunk-full of notes over the particular day's lesson, and she finally got the rowdy kids under control, Amelia had already pulled out her notebook and proceeded to doodling.
It wasn't that she hated History. Amelia shuddered at the thought. God, no. History was almost as awesome as sports or Mars or hotdogs. Which were pretty unparalleled in their level of awesomeness to begin with. History was like a secret code that everyone knew but didn't appreciate. A super code that told you what god you believed in or that women were just as kick-ass as men (Catharine the Great, anyone?) or why some people only ate with their right fingers.
But Mrs. Friedman took all that awesome, cool stuff and just shit all over it.
Amelia could imagine the crone musing to the sex-slave kept in her basement (because there was no way someone would have given her that gaudy gold ring on her left hand willingly) "My sweet prisoner, my lessons are already not in depth or rigorous enough to keep up with minds such as that stunning genius, Amelia Jones; what ever shall I do to make her further envision throwing herself out of a window during the last class of the day?"
One of those ways, apparently, was to talk the way she did. Like she was trying to cough down nails and grape flavored Tylenol syrup at the same time. All her previous incarnations must have been lifelong chain smokers, because no way Mrs. Friedman had enough time in forty some-odd years to tar up her throat that fucking much.
Amelia was so, eternally grateful her mom had made her learn an instrument. Focusing on one thing (like striking keys in time or shading a particularly spectacular doodle) was quite enough for her selective hearing to boot up and kick every other sound out of her brain. Including the Hag's speech about the political ramifications of the Camp David talks. Which were covered extensively in Amelia's archive of history notes and at least five of the seven college textbooks she read on a regular basis. Yawn.
Today's doodle was of Mrs. Friedman morphing into a giant, man-eating hotdog.
The fact that in less than a semester, she would soon be free from Mrs. Friedman's influence forever (after junior and senior year caught in her evil clutches) made Amelia want to cry. Except heroes didn't cry. Speaking of which, Friedman Frankfurter's rampage of Amelia's rendition of downtown Washington D.C. was getting destructive enough that a doodle hero could swoop in and roast that wiener—
"Ahem."
Amelia bit her tongue to avoid asking her teacher if she needed a Kleenex to hack out whatever was lodged in her throat. Probably a pack of Camels from 1994.
Everyone else had stopped taking notes (because they were dull enough to find things of interest peppered into the Lecture from Hell) and were trying to hide their little giggles or whispers.
"Yes?" Amelia drawled, looking up lazily, just to see if she could get that ugly vein in Friedman's forehead to pulse.
"Are you too busy ignoring the lesson to have heard that you are needed in the front office?" A few people chuckled when Friedman waved an off-yellow piece of paper in front of Amelia's nose. She hadn't even heard someone come in to deliver the notice.
"Am I?" Amelia said curiously, keeping eye contact with the Hag as she easily plucked the paper from her grasp. A lifetime of sports and video games kept her hand-eye coordination unmatched.
"Yes," Friedman sneered. "Perhaps they are to congratulate you on your art. I may have mentioned it in your last student review." Her bulging green eyes shot down to the hero now zapping a very recognizable hot dog with a heat/death ray in Amelia's notebook, to the rejoicing of graphite citizens below.
"Sweet!" Amelia beamed up at her teacher. "I'm glad. No offense, but if I'd had to hear another second of this shit I probably would have stapled my ears shut."
It wasn't until the door closed behind her—perhaps a bit more forceful than necessary—that Amelia looked down at the slip of paper and started worrying a teeny bit. A tad. Heroes (or heroines!) didn't need to worry that much, but she didn't like the note.
Amelia Jones, to report to the principal's office as soon as possible in concern to an urgent matter.
Yeah, no sweaty freshman jotted that down at the request of one of the dumpy secretaries. Sheesh. She felt like a hole would open up in a wall and suck her to a government facility.
Amelia rolled her eyes as she rounded the corner. More than likely it was a certificate or a little plaque that the principal had forgotten to give her during Honors Night. Maybe they'd created a whole new award for the Amelia Jones' of the world!
"Most likely to achieve acts of heroism?" she tested out. "Best Verbal Skills of Anyone Ever to Step Foot in this Institution? Greatest Motherf—"
Oh my God.
Amelia stopped and backpedaled at few steps. Shit, was the kid who tried to blow up the gym last year back for his transcripts or something?
There were two motherfucking Secret Service Agents stationed on either side of Principal Ahmad's office.
Yeah. Big, bulky, dark-suit and sunglasses wearing, headsets-wound-around-their-ears Service Agents. Amelia quickly ruled out Crazy Gym Kid. She reminded herself that the Secret Service was for the president and the Treasury. Holy Shit. Maybe the art project she'd done last semester using dollar bills was actually defacing government property.
She forced herself to breathe. Her steps felt ten times heavier than they did twenty seconds ago, but Amelia was pretty sure that these guys frowned on tardiness. If they were even for her, she reasoned, the blood circulating back to her brain regularly. Maybe they were old buddies of Ahmad's. Or maybe the Department of the Treasury was trying to integrate into eastern Virginian high schools to get youngsters more involved in their role in the economy.
Yeah.
"Amelia Jones?" She assumed it was Big-and-Scary to the left, since their stupid sunglasses didn't allow her to see who was looking at her and no one's mouth moved when the question was asked.
"In my defense, the bills I used for Washington's Payout were donated to the art fund by private citizens."
Senior Macho Uno cocked head, eyebrow arching over his sunglasses as if to say are you fucking serious? "That is not the purpose of this visit."
"Oh," Amelia tensed, obviously they'd already made up their minds on the matter. Well, tough. She wasn't going down for this. "You'll never take me alive!" She shouted, dropping her hips, pivoting in the direction of the front doors. She probably would've made it, too, but Secret Service Agents—as it turns out—are more than able to yank a teenager back by the straps of a backpack.
"Curse you, Newton," Amelia growled halfheartedly. One of the agents snorted (perhaps a bit meanly) and the other laughed; Amelia took it as a good sign. Maybe she'd been a tad overdramatic.
"Don't worry kid," the nicer of the two said after slack returned to Amelia's bag. "You aren't in trouble."
The other one grunted. "Miss Westin and your principal will see you now."
"Thanks, boys," she mumbled, a small part of her wanting to know who the hell Miss Westin was; or maybe to stick around and see if she could get one of them to smile, or thank them for protecting America's money and president, and ask them which one they thought was more important.
But Amelia felt the note get damp in her hand, and since palm sweat was not cool, she threw her shoulders back and pushed open the door.
Principal Ahmad looked like he would jump right over his pine desk and kiss Amelia. At least, that's what she read from the obvious relief in his face. The kiss was probably an overstatement. Seated across from Ahmad was a woman Amelia assumed was Miss Westin, but had never seen before.
She looked about as out of place in Ahmad's office as the weird ficus in the corner, the one that looked like it was dying even though it was fake.
She had on black slacks and a white, expensive looking blouse, with her long dark hair in a complicated braid. She wasn't pretty in a traditional sense, but she obviously had other things going for her and knew it. Confidence and poise seemed to ooze out of her, from the knowing little smile on her face to her fingers curled elegantly around a steaming mug of something that smelled milder than coffee, more spicy. Amelia distractedly wondered what hot tea tasted like. No one in the South seemed to know how to brew or buy anything that wasn't Ye Olde Sweet Iced Tea.
"Amelia," she said warmly, putting down her mug to stand and offer a hand. "Thank you for coming to see us. I'm Trinity Westin."
Amelia dumbly took her hand, blown away by the fact that this lady was British. What the heck was the Secret Service doing escorting a British lady to an American high school? Come to think of it, she hadn't bothered to address her position or what she was doing here either. Today was turning out to be really, really strange.
Principal Ahmad made a weird keening noise in his throat, which snapped Amelia out of it. Right. Be polite Amelia, don't scare away the British lady.
"Hello," she said, pumping Miss Westin's hand twice before letting go. "It's nice to meet you."
"I can imagine," Miss Westin said. It sounded like something Amelia might have said. She cracked a smile. Something told her she liked this lady.
"The reason," the visitor said after they'd all be seated. "That I am here today, Amelia, is that I represent a very distinguished school." She paused, as if Amelia should be taking notes.
"You're like…a recruiter?" She loved it when schools sent her letters or called, vying for her attention: pick me, pick me. But this cool, Secret Service toting lady was only here to try and persuade her to apply to yet another school? When senior year was winding down to the last three months? She's kind of late out of the gate, Amelia thought. Kind of disappointing, although she did get points for style.
Miss Westin pursed her lips in a contained smile. "Ah, yes, I imagine you could describe it that way. But, I am not so much as a recruiter as I am a messenger." Amelia titled her head to the side. "I could tell you all about the school that I come from. I could spent the next few months just talking and talking about what a great opportunity it is, that we have the best post-graduate success stories in the world. I'd swear on my mother's grave there isn't quite any place like it. But I'm not here to recruit you, Amelia. I could try to convince you, but the truth is, you do not chose to be admitted to this school. This school chooses you. And that is the message I've come to deliver to you."
Miss Westin took advantage of Amelia's silence to retrieve several thick manila folders and a bright, rectangular envelope. She handed them over to Amelia, who took them with almost unsteady hands. For some reason, this felt very important. She couldn't explain it properly, but with normally chatty Ahmad holding his breath in the corner like he was witnessing a turning point in history, it wasn't hard to feel the weight of the air. Man, Miss Westin sure knew how to talk up a place.
For lack of anything better to do, Amelia felt along the skinny envelope in her hands. The paper itself was thick, official, and something hard and waxy made her turn it over. She nearly threw it across the room, like it had caught fire.
"Is this a joke?" Amelia looked up quickly to Miss Westin, who was sipping her tea calmly. "Am I being Punk'd?"
Miss Westin smiled like she was watching a child put the pieces of a puzzle together that spelled out 'We're going to Disneyland'. "I assure you, it isn't."
Amelia swallowed against her dry, cottony tongue, and returned her gaze to the red seal on the envelope. Where the crest of the United States of Fucking America was stamped in wax. She broke it carefully with her thumbnail, thinking there might be a slight chance the Secret Service agents outside might be able to sense threats to a seal or some other bullshit. She was nervous, okay?
She pulled out a single sheet of paper and tried to focus on reading.
Dear Miss Amelia Jones,
It is my honor and privilege to nominate you as this year's representative of the United States of America to the Hetalia Academy. By use of a national lottery and then a succession of elimination rounds conducted by the Federal Board of Education, you have been narrowed down to our primer applicant. Currently, three other esteemed citizens are studying in the Academy's host cities of Stockholm, Istanbul, and Shanghai. It would be a great comfort to me to know that you would be a part of the newest branch of the Academy in Rome, Italy.
Yours truly,
Lyle Bartlett
President of the United States
"Oh my God," Amelia whispered, ghosting her hand over the dried ink. "No fucking way," she shot her head up. "Sorry, I just meant…wow."
Miss Westin nodded. "I know what you mean. I broke my hand falling out a desk when I saw the Queen's signature."
"You went to the Academy?"
"First branch at Berlin, graduating class of 1999," her chest swelled a little with pride. "Best four years of my life."
Amelia took a few minutes to work up the modesty to ask, "Why me? I mean…I know I'm awesome. But maybe…"
"You're too modest, Amelia." Amelia started. No one had ever called her modest. "You're in the top of your class. You have put several weeks' worth of work into your community. You have expressed interest in diplomacy and have spent several years studying foreign languages and culture."
Amelia blushed, picking at the edge of her shorts. "Yeah but I'm not…" She swallowed against something sticky in her throat. "I'm not…like, a superhero. I don't…I'm probably not the most qualified. Aren't there a few Ivy league monkeys you could send over?"
"And what?" Miss Westin said. "Have the elite make connections with the other elite from all around the world? The last thing we need is more inflated egos thinking they're entitled to the planet. The truth is, we need people like you. Normal people, who have a chance to be extraordinary."
The breath went out of Amelia's lungs with a whoosh. Damn. Maybe like a superhero after all.
"So," Amelia looked around the room. She sort of expected everything to have changed. After all she had the freaking president's signature in her lap, and what she guessed was paperwork to a very…prestigious in the least, university. "What now?"
Miss Westin set down her cup. "Now," she said excitedly. "We change your life."
The final bell rang somewhere in the whirl of paperwork Miss Westin had procured from out of nowhere, but for once Amelia wasn't concerned about how she would get home or helping her mom cook dinner. Instead she looked over the government's file on her, poured over the UN's debriefing packet of the mission statement the Academy. She refused to put down the letter from the president.
Principal Ahmad had cleared off about thirty minutes after school had let out. Amelia thought it odd, since it was his office after all, but she remembered the fucking Secret Service posted outside. Maybe the world had commandeered it for the time being.
"So," Amelia spoke after Miss Westin had explained the general overview. "The government is going to pay for me to study in Italy for four years with about…" she guesstimated from the length of the list of other countries participating in the Hetalia Program, "a hundred other kids. And I'm getting a degree that's recognized in every country in the world?"
Miss Westin nodded. "I believe I've covered at least some of the bases with you. Would you mind if I came by your home later this evening to discuss it with your parents? Their permission is not strictly needed, since you're eighteen, but it can be a bit…overwhelming."
"Yeah," Amelia started gathering up all the materials back into the folders. "That sounds fine."
"The agents will make sure you get home safely," Miss Westin said. "I suggest you call your parents to, ah, prepare them."
Amelia grinned at her as she made her way out of the office. She let the Secret Service walk her outside as she tapped her dad's icon on her phone. He picked up after a few rings.
"Hey, dad? Yeah…yeah I know I'm a little late. But wait until you hear..."
Amelia rolled the car window down. Up again, and the beautiful Virginia country side (read: telephone wire and signs for fast food that made her annoyed and hungry) was obscured by the insane amount of tint on the glass.
Halfway down. A quarter of the way up. Break it all the way down. Stutter-step up to the beat of a random Lady Gaga song Amelia hummed. Annnnd up again—
"Would you please stop that?" Mr. Nasty Secret Service twisted violently in the passenger seat, a vein popping vibrantly against his throat.
Amelia raised her hands, and then carefully moved a finger to hook on the button to slide the window the rest of the way up. She could practically hear his molars grinding.
"Thank you," he said briskly, turning back to watch the road.
Amelia stuck her tongue out at him. The agent driving the practical, no nonsense sedan caught her eye in the rear view mirror. He winked at her.
It was weird having fucking escorts to her house on Beech Street. And Miss Westin would be bringing over even more paperwork after she made a few phone calls. It was bizarre, thinking of the official documents, transcripts, visa forms, stamped with dozens of official seals and signatures spread across her coffee table.
"So…are you guys like, my bodyguards or something?" Amelia spoke up. "Do we get codenames? I call dibs on Double-Oh Ninja. Or you could call me Baby Eagle. Or do you think that's demeaning, since it's like I'm stealing the president's nickname? Won't the president miss you guys driving him around? Will you be following me around the Academy too? Does everyone get secret-agent bodyguards? Seems kind of counterproductive for an international schoo—"
The agent that snapped at her earlier—Amelia called him Newton (he was the one that yanked her pack)—very non-discretely turned to the driver and asked him loudly, "Please, tell me we're almost there."
The driver clucked his tongue at Newton. "A few minutes." He glanced in the rear-view mirror again. "To answer your question, Amelia, we're just escorting you to your home and we will be seeing you to and from the airport for the duration of your studies at the Academy. Don't worry, you won't have us old sacs dragging you down."
Amelia nodded. Though it would've been a little cool, now that she thought about it. They could've gotten matching shades and everything! Trés heroic.
Newton's earpiece buzzed. He pressed two fingers to it importantly, listening intently. Amelia decided she hated it, it was like he was copying moves from 24, trying to emphasize oh-I'm-so-much-more-important-than-thou.
He opened his mouth to reply, and Amelia loudly feigned vomiting.
Newton did the twist again, and she could tell even though he was wearing sunglasses he had his eyes narrowed. Amelia cleared her throat slightly, grinning.
The driver laughed, his shoulders shaking, and he said pleasantly, "She reminds me of that one kid from a few years back. Remember the one from Santa Fe? I think his name was 'Jones' too. You don't happen to have family in that part of the country, do you Amelia? That kid was a riot."
Amelia shook her head, trying not to laugh at the pained expression Newton was trying to hide; it was obvious he and the driver had opposing views on the context of the word 'riot'.
"Alfred Jones was a freaking menace. He tried to shove tin foil in my ears."
"That's to keep the aliens from controlling your brain." Amelia joked.
Newton paled. "Please, not again," he begged under his breath.
Amelia straightened up in her seat, going for a better angle to see the agent's face. She could've sworn… "Newton…are you crying?"
I know America in this story shows her smarts a lot more than our bumbling hero, but she's gotta be pretty damn smart to get into this school. Don't worry, under all that suave-femininity, she's just an idiot like the rest of us. I've been working on this story for a while, and I've gotten really far, but I'd also like to know what kind of response I get and what readers think before I move into finishing it up. Reading and reviewing is immensely awesome and I love you all for it. More soon!