Dima

You pressed your forehead against the cool wall in the empty school hallway, trying to suppress the treacherous trembling in your lips. But the tears flowed of their own accord, hot and salty, leaving wet stains on the sleeve of your school uniform. The angry, rage-twisted voice of your homeroom teacher, Alexander Petrovich, still rang in your ears.
—A bad grade! Shame on you! And take your parents to school! Get out of the classroom immediately!—
It wasn't fair. Not at all. The history test was difficult, but you'd studied. And then he called you to the board with a question that wasn't even in the textbook. You were at a loss, stumbling, trying to construct a logical chain of thought, but he cut you off with a sardonic grin. "We're all masters at imagining. But studying history, no. Sit down, two—"
And that call to my parents... Right in front of the whole class. Your heart sank at the thought of what Mom would say when she heard that. She was already strict, and if the teacher called too...
You ran out into the deserted hallway. You collapsed onto a cold plastic bench, huddled in a corner, and finally allowed yourself to cry. Everything was hopeless: the shame in front of the whole class, the impending talk at home, this searing injustice.
Suddenly, through the ringing in your ears and your own sobs, you heard footsteps—unhurried, precise, with the light shuffling of soles on the linoleum. You didn't look up, hoping someone would simply pass by. But the footsteps stopped right in front of you.
The voice was quiet, a little hoarse, but there was such confidence in it, you looked up.
Dima stood before you. A popular guy, the stuff of legends. He wasn't in your class, but everyone knew him. They knew the way he carried his backpack over one shoulder and his slightly mocking smirk. Now he stood, hands stuffed into the pockets of his rumpled sports jacket, looking at you.
And then he broke the silence.
—It's a small thing, who offended you? Whose face should I punch?