Nikita Karimov drove along the highway, the scenery outside blurring into a restless mosaic. The line of trees along the road seemed to perform a chaotic dance, appearing and disappearing, giving way to unfamiliar exits. The sky was gradually brightening, the clouds dispersed as if the city had never been cloaked in gloom. Beyond the glass, I could make out little more than the dark crowns of pines, soaking in the meager rays of a deceiving autumn sun. Day by day, its warmth waned. Sharp, desperate peaks reached upward, clinging to the last fleeting light before the inevitable chill of winter.
In the glove compartment, I discovered a full pack of colorful jelly bears shaped like little plush animals—just as I liked them. A small, delightful coincidence. With Nikita's quiet permission, I tore open the package and plucked out a few acid-green bears.
"Want some?" I asked, offering him a couple after tasting the first handful.
"If only a few," he said, extending his palm.
"What color do you want?" I asked.
Nikita furrowed his brow, puzzled. "Whatever I get," he shrugged.
"I can get the ones you like more," I said lightly. "It's easy. I always stick to green. Tried the yellow lemon ones once… too sour! Not risking it again."
"You can feed me your enemies," Nikita said conspiratorially, winking at me over his shoulder.
Without hesitation, I grabbed three yellow bears and placed them in his outstretched hand. Nikita tossed them into his mouth like a victorious warrior, chewing with exaggerated gusto, smack-sounds punctuating the imaginary battle. I laughed softly—he looked so absurdly cute. And yet, in his presence, I felt perfectly at ease.
The car drifted into the right lane and slowed as Nikita signaled and took the exit. The endless forest gave way to clusters of small, two-story houses. Greenhouses and potato fields, stripped bare for winter, lay like rectangles of cold earth. Yellowed grass stretched across every yard, scorched by the fierce summer sun. Everything whispered that frost was approaching.
The road grew bumpy, tossing us with every pothole. Strangely, it didn't annoy us. Being with Nikita was a lift, as though skipping school erased all looming problems and parental lectures. I wondered if Kostya had already been called by the teachers. Pulling out my phone, I unlocked it: no messages, no missed calls. Just the quiet ticking toward the end of the first lesson.
"Hey… how far is this place from school?" I asked.
Nikita glanced at the navigator, hand briefly leaving the wheel.
"Sixty-five kilometers. About twenty more to go."
"Wow… what time do the Smirnovs have to wake up to make the first lesson? Must be traffic!"
Karimov shrugged, indifferent. "Who knows? Lately, they haven't been coming much. Maybe they moved back up north."
I realized he was right. Stanislav, my desk neighbor, had been absent since that phone incident. Strange, how absorbed I'd been in my own household troubles that I hadn't noticed the Smirnov family's absence in the cafeteria. Perhaps it was for the best—no uneasy premonitions trailing me home.
Others, like Tatiana and her friends, must have noticed. I could easily imagine Rostova's disappointment at the "top five" table lying empty. Deep down, I didn't want Tanya to suffer. Yet, as a person… I didn't like her. Beneath her school-queen loudness and habit of asking intrusive questions, complex intrigues brewed. I never wanted to be part of them. The more I understood about Rostova, the more I avoided her. Except… I liked talking to her quiet friend, though her name stubbornly slipped my mind.
"Can I ask a silly question?" I ventured.
"You can ask a smart one too. Don't hold back."
I smiled nervously. "What's Tatiana's friend's name? The quiet one with long dark hair, usually in a low ponytail and glasses with thin frames."
Nikita paused, thinking. Clearly, he, too, sometimes forgot the girl who stood in quiet contrast to Rostova's bright, loud presence.
"Dasha, right? You still sit next to her in history?"
"Exactly! Dasha! Don't tell her I asked, okay? I… I never remembered her name the first time, and it felt awkward to ask again."
"I forget sometimes, honestly. She's good… just quiet. Tried to get her to talk once or twice—no luck," Nikita said softly. Then, quieter still, "By the way… she likes Andrew."
"Andrew? No way." I couldn't believe it.
"No, really. He's thinking about inviting her to the disco but can't decide. Tanya is always hovering. Approach, and—boom—Rostova's latest gossip siren blares across the school. And the clock's ticking," Nikita added, grinning.
"Have you invited anyone yet?" My voice slipped out faster than my mind could stop it. My heart pounded, anxiety whispering, what if he has?
Nikita said nothing. His expression unreadable. The silence was worse than any answer.
"You don't have to… if you don't want to," I murmured, staring at my knees. One careless question had created a rift neither of us could close. Words couldn't be unsaid. Girls didn't ask that lightly. Nikita understood.
What had I been hoping for, mistaking friendship for something more? There was nothing remarkable about me. Not pretty, not stylish, clueless about makeup or trends. I lived in a world of interests and values few others shared. Misplaced in time and place.
My mom often teased me at the supermarket when I lectured about plastic-free shopping, cotton bags, and net bags, relics of a Soviet-era alternative. Listening to my impassioned eco-rants, she'd shake her head, laughing, "You grumble like a granny in a bad mood."