Fortunately, the policeman who had given me a ride hadn't mentioned anything to my father. I was quietly grateful. The last thing I wanted was to burden Kostya with complaints about some unpleasant classmate—especially one who might not even have been angry at me personally.
My father arrived home late. By then, I had finished my homework and prepared a simple dinner—pasta with tomato sauce and ground beef. Kostya fetched a beer from the fridge and paused at the doorway, as if debating whether to get one for me too. The policeman inside me prevailed, and he returned to the table with only his own drink. I had tasted beer from my mother's glass before—probably something my father didn't know—but I stayed silent. I didn't like it, and had no desire to repeat the experience.
We ate while watching a slapstick show about a mad scientist and his neighbor, trading sarcastic remarks about a plot neither of us found amusing.
After dinner, I cleared the table and washed the dishes. In gratitude, my father helped me dry the plates and put them away in the cabinet above the sink. Wishing him a good night, I changed into pajamas, tied my hair into a loose braid, and went to bed.
Sleep, however, eluded me. All night, I was haunted by the gaze of abyss-black eyes that promised nothing good. Morning found me shattered and exhausted.
The new day was a strange mixture of better and worse. Better, because the air had warmed, despite the dense gray clouds hanging overhead. It was easier to navigate the school now that I was beginning to know the other students. During English, I sat next to Nikita, who even walked me to my next class under the sharp gaze of Andrey. I felt a flutter of pride at the attention. If I had to choose, I liked Nikita more, though the feeling inside me bore little resemblance to love. Novels, of course, described it differently. In practice, I had nothing to compare it to.
It should have been a great day, but exhaustion cast its shadow. Concentrating in class was a struggle, and I often caught myself drifting, lost to the teacher's words. Every step made me long to lie down, curl up, and sleep. By the time physical education arrived, I was barely holding myself together. I had hoped the gym teacher might let me sit out again, but instead, he sent me into the volleyball game.
It went horribly. The ball bounced off my hands as if mocking me, but that was only half the problem. I couldn't send it in any particular direction. Two of my teammates were hit in the head. Embarrassing? Immensely. Yet, even seeing my awkwardness, Coach Bobylev made me keep playing.
Corridors, at least, were merciful. People had stopped staring, which lifted my spirits. At lunch, I sat in the middle of a noisy group: Nikita and Andrey joined the girls from the day before. If things continued like this, the next six months might be bearable—but life rarely followed anyone's plans.
The famous "five" were in their usual seats in the dining room, only Eduard missing. I exhaled a quiet relief. I didn't want to feel that full weight of his gaze again. At the same time, anger and resentment had shifted overnight into something stranger. Speculation was useless, but the thought nagged: what had I done to draw such attention? I even considered asking him outright in front of everyone, though not today. Perhaps he had been unwell yesterday, and the look had nothing to do with me. That was the only plausible explanation I could summon.
By the end of lunch, he still hadn't appeared. I went to biology class untroubled. Nik circled nearby, extolling the virtues of dogs over cats and joking that the latter were surely plotting to enslave humans.
In class, I sank happily into an empty table, spreading my books and papers across its surface like a small act of rebellion, imagining Eduard's scowl if he had actually appeared. If anyone else had glared at me for that, I would have understood. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a low, nagging voice whispered: "What if…"
What if he skipped classes because of me? The thought was absurd, almost arrogant. Yet I couldn't shake it, even after the bell. How could someone loathe another's presence so much that they would avoid them entirely? Sooner or later, his parents would intervene. Tanya had mentioned that Eduard's father was a doctor, capable of seeing through any feigned illness. I wished it would happen soon, while I still had enough resolve and indignation to confront him. In a few days, I would exhaust myself rehearsing every possible confrontation, and my energy would dissipate.
I had never been brave, never decisive. But I wanted, more than anything, to shout at Eduard for yesterday's incomprehensible display. To release the tension on the one responsible.
That evening, I discovered that Kostya's culinary "masterpieces" were limited to omelets and scrambled eggs. Without much protest, I claimed my place in the kitchen, determined to contribute at least a little at home. From that moment on, cooking for the next six months became my responsibility—with one concession: once a week, Kostya would take us out to eat. I didn't mind. There would be days when I lacked the energy to cook anyway. Our final year of high school demanded too much effort to fuss over breakfast.
For now, I had a slight advantage in some subjects thanks to the rigorous program back in Rostov, but I knew it wouldn't last. And looming over everything was the specter of geometry—a subject I dreaded. Passing it with anything less than a B would leave me with a pile of Cs, and the idea of taking the Unified State Exam in it was inconceivable.
Hastily swallowing my scrambled eggs, I opened the refrigerator—and froze. It was almost empty. Nothing for breakfast. Kostya and I made a quick list of groceries together. But then my father surprised me with a bank card. He and my mother had agreed to open a child account, complete with a customizable spending limit in the app. I was stunned and touched. It felt like recognition—from my parents—that I was no longer a child. All my life I had used only cash; I had never even kept a card in my wallet.
The second gift was a sleek, black bicycle, thoughtfully hidden by Kostya on the balcony. No frills: a solid frame, a wide, comfortable seat, a small gold-plated bell on the left handlebar. No decorations, no tacky plastic flowers—just a blank canvas I could personalize as I wished. Dad had attached a luggage rack over the rear wheel, complete with side mounts for bags. The canvas panniers were already in place, ready to help with groceries or errands. Kostya also gave me a lock and a bright yellow raincoat with pink zippers on the pockets—a perfect set for the bike.
I walked to the mirror and tried on the new outfit. Pulling the hood over my head, I caught my reflection and felt like the main character from Darkness. If I could find a red balloon somewhere, I could have given a nod to Stephen King fans.
Dad leaned against the hallway wall, watching me expectantly.
"Well? Do you like it?"
"It's amazing. Thank you, Dad," I said, smiling so wide it hurt my cheeks.
Kostya's eyes went wide. He froze mid-blink, staring at me in stunned silence.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked, half-worried he'd have a heart attack.
The question seemed to pull him back to reality. He scratched his head thoughtfully, trying to hide a grin.
"Someone just called me… dad."