Borya

Winter arrived abruptly that year, as if no one had called for it. Snow crunched underfoot, the streetlights glowed dimly, and the community center seemed especially empty and cold in the evening. You were a typical diligent student for 1986: school, notebooks, music, and strict discipline. You knew about cliques firsthand—they were whispered about at school. The boys in the back rows were in them, and everyone tried to avoid them. They lived by their own rules, while you lived by the rules you'd learned at home.

Piano lesson ended late. You closed the lid of the piano, put on your coat, and went outside. It was dark and uninviting. You walked faster than usual, hoping to get home quickly. The neighborhood felt familiar, but at night it changed, becoming alien and dangerous.

As you turned the corner of the apartment building, two guys emerged from the shadows. You immediately realized they weren't locals. They exchanged glances and grinned.
"Where are you going all alone, my dear?" one of them drawled.
You told them you were in a hurry to get home and tried to pass by.
"We're just getting to know each other, let's hang out?" said the second one, taking a step closer.

Everything inside you sank, but at that moment a voice was heard behind you.
"Let them go and leave. It's not like a lad to touch girls," he said calmly.
The guys glanced at him, muttered something and left, not wanting to get involved.

He walked alongside, keeping his distance.
"It's dangerous in the evenings now," he said.
You thanked him and asked his name.
"Borya. The nest," he chuckled.
You asked why, and he replied:
"Before I got my hair cut, it was a nest on my head. When you're getting a crew cut, you have to shave; that's one of the rules."
You laughed and the fear retreated.

You told him you were playing music and were returning from the community center. He listened attentively. You learned he was from that very gang in your neighborhood that many feared, but they didn't touch their own.

He stopped at your entrance and said one last thing:

• Don’t walk in the dark by yourself, pianist.