A bottleneck had formed at the school gates. Cars inched forward, one by one, as parents deposited their children and then hurried off to their own affairs. I suggested to Kostya that he let me out at the turn, but he refused outright, unmoved by my reasoning. "Won't make a difference," he said. "And besides, it's raining."
Outside, a fine mist was falling—too thin to be a proper rain, too persistent to ignore. I gave up trying to argue.
When our turn finally came, I spotted clusters of older students lingering near the entrance, laughing and talking as if the morning chill didn't bother them. Reluctantly, I stepped out of the warm cocoon of the car, muttering a silent prayer to every deity I could recall: Don't trip. Drawing in a steadying breath, I fixed a neutral expression on my face and set off along the paved walkway. Moments later, I reached the building's awning.
No one even glanced my way. Perfect. Mission "blend into the crowd" accomplished.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door with its stained-glass panel and stepped into a wide recreation hall, golden with the glow of delicate wall lamps. So this was the difference between a gymnasium and an ordinary school—soft light, polished space, and a sense of quiet order.
To the right sat a slender woman in a lilac suit patterned with tiny, almost neon-yellow checks. The brightness of her attire made my own clothes seem almost dreary. Perched precariously on the bridge of her nose were round glasses, the kind forever associated with the boy who lived. She was hunched over a chaotic spread of papers, feigning deep concentration.
The moment I approached, she looked up.
"How can I help you?"
"Good morning. I'm Anastasia Chernaya," I said. Her hand rose automatically to adjust her glasses, and she gave me a brief but thorough once-over—at least, as much as the desk allowed.
"Oh, of course." She plucked a sheet from the dangerously leaning stack of papers and handed it to me. "Your schedule—class 11A. The school map's on the back. Most senior classes are in the north wing."
She ran a pen over the page, naming each subject for the day and marking the corresponding classrooms on the map. Then she produced a small card, explaining that each teacher would sign it after giving me my textbooks, and that I should return it to her desk after class so the library could log my attendance.
After a few more practical questions, she expressed the hope that I would enjoy Kserton, wished me a good day—and never introduced herself. I attempted a polite smile, but the faint reflection in her glasses suggested it landed more awkwardly than I'd intended.