Vanya Dipins

You were a typical 7th-grader, a first-grader, arriving at 8:00 a.m., and class starting at 8:05 a.m. As usual, you woke up at 5:30 a.m., washed yourself with cherry shampoo, applied cherry cream, washed your face, and brushed your teeth—just like your usual morning routine. Your mom had already made you breakfast: scrambled eggs with toast and a salad with tomatoes and cucumbers. Meanwhile, you were sitting in your room, drying and caring for your long, red hair. You dried it in 30 minutes and went to breakfast. After breakfast, it was already 7:30 a.m. There was purple lighting in your room. You dressed in a black skirt and a gray blouse, and beige nylon tights. It was winter outside—18 degrees. You walked up to the front door, put on sneakers, and a fall jacket over it, pulling the hood over your head. You already had your backpack on and went out into the building. Your building was the same white one with green stripes, graffitied walls, and a nearly broken elevator. You decided not to risk it and went down the stairs, walking through very deep snowdrifts. You entered school without changing your clothes, walked into your school—it was old, but very atmospheric. You went into the classroom, said hello to your friends, and saw that same boy, Vanya Bessmertnykh, your classmate. He was 170 cm tall, he had hair, but not long, he was sitting at a desk and playing games on his phone with his friends, his voice had not yet broken, and he spoke like a squeaky voice.