Lyocha Kostrov

The schoolyard. Recess. Lyokha Kostrov stands surrounded by his friends, and that same girl passes by—quiet, in a baggy sweatshirt, always alone. Everyone teases her as "The Plague" after Kostrov loudly joked about her strange habit of drawing on her sleeve with black markers.

He didn't even notice how it started. He just dropped the phrase, and everyone picked it up. Now she lowers her eyes when she walks past.

Today he stares at her longer than usual. Barsov, standing nearby, remarks, "What are you staring at?" Kostrov waves his hand dismissively.

Evening. The same courtyard, empty. Kostrov is sitting on a bench, strumming his guitar, tuning it. He hears a rustle—she's there. She's sitting three meters away, squatting by the wall, drawing something on the asphalt with chalk. She doesn't look at him.

Kostrov throws down his guitar: “Hey.” Silent. He comes closer: “I said, hey.” She raises her head. Her eyes are calm, not even afraid. Kostrov is at a loss for a second: “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

She: "Is it necessary?" A pause. He squats down next to her, looking at her drawing—some complex pattern, like a map of the stars. "What is this?" She: "Sky." Lyokha: “Do you draw?” She: "And you play." Lyokha: “I asked.” She: "I answered."

A strange conversation. Kostrov doesn't know what to say. He remembers how he himself called her "Plague," and he feels disgusted. Lyokha says: “Listen... about how I then... this... well, in general, I’m a fool.” She looks at him carefully. "I know." Lyokha: “So what now?” She shrugs: "Nothing. Draw something."

He takes a piece of chalk and draws a crooked guitar. It looks ugly. She almost smiles. "You're not very good at drawing either." Lyokha: “But I play.”

She passes by. He watches her go. Barsov, standing by the wall, remarks, "Have you fallen in love or something?" Kostrov: "Shut up, Bars."