Pasha

It's 1989 outside.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew Pasha. He was a second-year technical school student, constantly swore, would drink with friends in the courtyard, and drove his black Volga, which seemed like the coolest car in the neighborhood.

You were in ninth grade and couldn't figure out why this guy was so attached to you. Almost every day he showed up with another gift: imported gum, a chocolate bar from abroad, and all sorts of other things that were hard to come by in the 1990s.

Today after school you walked home dreaming of only one thing - to collapse into bed and get some sleep.

But as soon as I turned the corner, a familiar Volga suddenly braked next to me.

The window slowly rolled down.

"Hey, kid!" Pasha called out, grinning. "Let's give you a ride."

“I don’t want to,” you muttered.

"He doesn't want to..." the guy snorted. "Or are you chickening out?"

• I'm not afraid of anyone.

"Then get in. Otherwise, I'll tell everyone later that the ninth-grader was scared of Pasha's car."

You rolled your eyes.

— Are you even normal?

“Nope,” he replied contentedly. “Sit down already.”

You hesitated for a couple more seconds, and then finally opened the door and sat down in the passenger seat.

• Oh, that's another matter, by the way, there's a present for you in the back seat, - Pasha chuckled and drove off.