The rest of the school day slipped by unnoticed. At lunch, the famed "Fabulous Five" were all perched by the window, absorbed in their own world, indifferent to the murmurs around them. There wasn't much happening anyway. The only stir came from Karimov and Andrey, locked in a heated debate about the new road.
"The road is the best thing to happen to Kserton in years," Karimov insisted. "You can't imagine how many customers my dad is getting because of it! I even have to fill in at the supermarket sometimes. New people are good for the city. More money, more life. Maybe even more tourists will come."
Andrey poked at the untouched macaroni on his plate. "And what exactly is there to see? The dreary sawmill? The top of the Smirnovs' mansion? Have you noticed that fence? You can see everything through the bars, sure—but the view's ruined. Getting there is a hassle, too. You need a car just to reach it."
Another voice chipped in: "Well, there's the fishing store at Vesennaya and Lenin Street. Their inner courtyard is really pleasant—garden and all."
Nikita lifted his fork slowly, moving macaroni from one side of his plate to the other. "The garden's nice, sure, but snow will cover it before long."
"In October? You're exaggerating!" Nikita's voice rose enough to draw glances from the surrounding tables. "Snow doesn't arrive until November, at least."
"And who's going to travel miles to see a 'garden behind the fisherman's house'?" Andrey pressed on, unconvinced.
Karimov's pride gleamed in his reply. "You won't find pastries like ours anywhere else, and the place itself is important. Gradually, there'll be sights worth seeing. I might even persuade my dad to build a spa!"
"Didn't you already build a dog kennel?" I asked, recalling our car conversation.
Nikita and Andrey exchanged a look, forks suspended mid-air. After a pause, Nik answered: "Yes, we're building it. Think tourists will care?"
"Of course," Karimov said, laughing. "Who doesn't love fluffy puppies?"
I considered asking what breeds they were planning, but never got the chance.
Nikita leaned forward, concern in his eyes. "What happened in biology class? Smirnov bolted like he'd been stung. Did he hurt you?"
"No, nothing like that," I lied. Better he believed it. I didn't want anyone prying into my business. What could I say anyway? "Smirnov was watching me. I don't like it. He even returned the phone I lost in the woods. What a villain." Even I had to smile at the thought. No proof, no accusation.
Tanya arrived at the table with her friends, launching into a discussion about the upcoming school dance.
"I love the Halloween theme! Too bad we don't decorate our houses like in the US," one classmate mused dreamily.
"They're lying in those movies," Tanya replied skeptically. "Maybe one or two houses on the street actually do anything, and only in expensive neighborhoods. Those decorations cost a fortune!"
"Maybe they make half of it themselves," the friend insisted. "Using everyday materials, quietly sewing while waiting for their husbands to come home."
"Right. And the house magically cleans itself and dinner sets itself, too. Fairy tale stuff. Try telling that to my mom—she's always busy with chores. Hardly any time for herself, except at night," Tanya retorted.
Her friend reminded her: "She still has two younger kids to care for—school pickups, activities, meals. And then your dad needs attention when you get home."
Tanya snorted. I watched, thinking of my own mother, always negotiating with clients, drawing children's book illustrations, doing portraits. When she connected with a major Moscow publisher, things became easier financially. We never chased trends, but she still managed to treat us to bowling or cinema trips.
Home wasn't always orderly; it only felt organized at my grandmother's. Most chores fell to me, and I cleaned willingly, for peace of mind. Dirty dishes annoyed me like dust on a shelf. Mom wasn't a cook, so we discovered new favorite eateries year after year. Women who managed perfect homes, children, and work inspired me. I didn't judge Tanya's mother's occasional slip:
"It must be exhausting," I said, "to care for three kids and keep a house in order."
Tanya waved it off. "If she talked less with friends or the parent committee, she'd have more time."
"But she needs rest," I persisted. "Do you or your dad ever help with the younger ones?"
She shrugged. "She doesn't ask. She talks with the committee instead. They're still undecided about decorating the first floor. The theme? Quote: 'Halloween, but not Satanic—we live in an Orthodox country.'"
"Maybe we can help," Nikita offered. Tanya lit up. We reminisced about horror movies, debated witches versus vampires, touched on Scandinavian and ancient myths. Greek togas sounded fun, until someone remembered October's chill—tights under sandals? Not practical. The witch theme won: warm clothes or daring bare arms, all options open. Tanya promised to coordinate with her mother and recruit another class for decorations.
Lunch ended. Jackets on, we headed to the school exit. Stepping outside, a gaze caught me—Stanislav, leaning against a wall. Morning déjà vu. Our eyes met, he started toward me, but Karimov intervened:
"Want a ride?" He zipped his leather jacket, smiling.
"I'm fine, Konstantin's colleague will pick me up. Plus, I'm on my bike again."
"The bike? No problem. Trunk it, like yesterday."
Nikita's voice carried. Stas paused, bit his lip, looked away, then retreated to his friends. Soon, the five of us stood beside a silver SUV.
"See your dad's colleague?" Nik asked.
"Not yet."
"Call? Maybe he hasn't left. It wouldn't be hard for me to give you a ride."
"Sorry," I said, as Konstantin's convoy pulled in. "He's here already."
"Tomorrow, then?"
"The point of biking is alternative transport."
"If you change your mind, I'm available. Ride with me, fewer cars, better for the environment."
"Like in a social ad: one car, four people, instead of four separate cars?"
"Exactly."
"Alright," I smiled. "When it's really cold, okay?"
"Perfect," Nik beamed.