With fifteen minutes left before the bell, I slipped outside, craving air sharp enough to chase away the fog of my restless thoughts. Choosing a quiet curb far from the chatter of other students, I unfolded the school map across my knees and studied it with care, tracing the lines of corridors and wings as if they were veins on an unfamiliar hand.
Kserton had four wings, all joined by a recreation hall on the first floor. Some classes would require trekking the length of the building, but on closer inspection I spotted a hidden shortcut: a third-floor passage linking the north and south wings. A small discovery, but a useful one—provided I didn't lose myself in the labyrinth first.
I took a sip from a bottle of orange juice, its sweetness cutting through the damp air, then went back inside, determined to reach my classroom without the map's help. By the time I neared the door, my pulse had quickened to the point of near hyperventilation. Holding my breath like a diver, I slipped inside and fell in step behind two other students in oversized raincoats, praying to remain invisible.
They stopped at a row of hooks to shed their dripping coats—apparently, in Kserton, such garments weren't seasonal but essential. Odd. The map hadn't shown a cloakroom, and no one had asked me to change my shoes.
Up close, I saw the girls were both pale—the first, a delicate blonde with veins faintly visible at her temples; the second, ash-haired and equally fair. At least my own refusal to tan under Rostov's scorching sun meant I wouldn't stand out.
At the teacher's desk, a polished plaque announced Georgiy Vasilyevich Radchinskiy. He was tall, with a wedge-shaped bald spot creeping up from his temples and a soft double chin. His eyes lingered on my surname longer than was comfortable before he waved me toward the only empty desk—in the back row. From there, my classmates' curiosity was less obvious, though they still found ways to glance at me whenever the teacher turned to the board.
The system here was baffling. Core subjects were split into small groups, not by ability, but—of all things—alphabetically, and only for certain classes. It made for a timetable that was part puzzle, part endurance test.
Half the lesson passed in silence as I buried myself in the reading list: Bulgakov, Pasternak, Solzhenitsyn, Kuprin, Gorky. All familiar. All long since read. I almost regretted not bringing my old essays from Rostov—perhaps I could persuade my mother to mail them.
The nasal school bell broke my thoughts. As my classmates surged for the door, I hung back, not eager to collide with anyone. That's when I noticed a boy making his way toward me—a lanky figure with a fringe falling over his eyes and a constellation of pimples on his chin.
"You're new, right? Anastasia Chernaya?" His voice was bright, almost mayoral.
"Asya," I corrected. Heads turned nearby.
"I've got Health and Safety with Mazepin next period, fourth wing. If you're headed that way, we could walk together."
I hesitated, realizing I couldn't remember my next class. Fishing out the map, I confirmed he was right.
"Great," he said. "I'm Andrey."
We set off, and he explained the school's hidden geography—four separate hallways spread over two floors. How I'd missed half of them was a mystery. As we walked, curious eyes followed us.
"Why no raincoat?" he asked.
"I didn't know it was a thing here. In Rostov it barely rains."
His expression brightened with genuine surprise. We traded small talk until we reached the classroom, where he wished me luck before disappearing to the front row.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of introductions and curious questions. By the third class, I no longer needed the map—students seemed determined to shepherd me from one lesson to the next, even when it wasn't their route.