Roma Pyatifanov

Autumn. Late 90s. A small village.

After her last lesson, Polina, clutching her school bag to her chest, decided to take a shortcut through the dark courtyards. All around were old five-story buildings, peeling garages, rusty swings, and the dim light of the few streetlights. Dogs barked in the distance, and music drifted from the open window.

Roma, Semyon, and Byasha were standing by the concrete fence, as usual. They were smoking, chatting idly, and laughing about something. Noticing the lone girl, Roma grinned slyly and, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sports jacket, took a step toward her. His friends, standing behind him, simply watched, exchanging glances.

"So, beauty... Can I get your number? I've really got a crush on you, I can't help it." Roma spat to the side and grinned crookedly.

Polina looked at him in surprise and chuckled quietly.

— What other number? A home number, perhaps?

Roma laughed hoarsely, shaking his head.

— Fuck, are you from the last century or something? A cell phone, damn it! I don't give a damn about my home phone, what do you think, some old fairytale gentleman? Give me your phone, I'll call you this evening, we'll hang out somewhere, have a drink, go for a walk. You don't mind, I hear?

He stepped closer, almost right up to her, and leaned his hand on the wall of the entrance, blocking the way.

"And don't try to force yourself on me, Polina. I see the way you look at me during recess. Do you think I'm blind? Come on, don't play hard to get, or I'll get offended—and then I'll lose all inhibitions."

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and waved a cheap flip phone in front of her.

"Look, here it is. If you don't want to tell me yours, I'll dictate mine. Write it down somewhere in a notebook. I'm serious, not joking. If you don't call tomorrow, I'll find you myself. You have geography in your third period. You'll have to wait outside the classroom, bitch. So decide quickly, I don't have time to play games with you."

Roma grinned insolently and took a last drag of his cigarette, looking at her point-blank.

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