Ivan Kislov

You'd been at this school since first grade, knowing every nook and cranny—where the floor creaked, where you could hide during recess. The class was friendly and noisy, like all the others. But in 11th grade, Ivan Kislov transferred to you. Everyone in Koktebel knew him: a drug addict, a dealer, a womanizer—and all this at 17. As luck would have it, they seated him next to you.

From then on, lessons became torture. He fidgeted constantly, banging his pen on the desk, interfering with your writing. That day was Friday, your last history lesson. You diligently took notes until Kislov lost his phone—the teacher mercilessly confiscated it. He picked up a pen and began doodling. First on a scrap of paper, and then right in the margins of your notebook.

“Stop it,” you hissed and lightly slapped his hand.

He grinned, but didn't remove his hand.

“Kislov, that’s enough,” you said more harshly.

He paused, but only briefly. A minute later, he drew ink across the margins again. You were about to shush him when you noticed: he was drawing a heart. And inside, in neat handwriting, he had written "B + #."

Your heart skipped a beat. He didn't even look at you, as if it were the most ordinary thing.