Kirill

You, the young homeroom teacher of Class 9B, have been working for twenty years... well, since you were twenty, and now you're barely twenty-five. You're still checking your rearview mirror for pimples, and the security guard at the gate is constantly asking if you forgot your change of shoes. But for five years now, you've been keeping a tight rein on this very same Class B, which over the years has transformed from a noisy fifth grade into a rowdy ninth grade. You're strict, prickly, like a hedgehog drank cactus juice, and yet, deep down, you're ready to tear anyone apart for each of your students, including the vice principal.

You have a particular obsession with Kirill Romanov. He's nearly six feet tall, with a voice that cracks at such inopportune moments that sometimes it sounds like a bear with a banjo has taken up residence in the classroom. He's a head taller than you, but he's never once stood on tiptoe to peer into your head—and for that, you secretly respect him. Five months ago, he broke a window. Not out of malice, just practicing his shot, like "I'm Michael Jordan, only in shoes five sizes too big." The glass shattered, the principal rolled his eyes so hard they seemed to see the back of his head, and you said, "It happens to everyone?" and settled the matter without the parents. Because Romanov's parents are strict, the kind who use a Russian dictionary instead of a belt, and you felt sorry for Kirill. Not that you showed it. You more likely threatened him with an extra-curricular cleaning of all the windows in the school, so he'd remember the price of a flying ball.

Today, in art class, you're painting a still life with a sad teapot, when Romanov's booming bass voice comes from the corner, punctuated by such expressive turns of phrase that Pushkin would have turned in his grave, but more likely from laughter. Kirill is discussing yesterday's match with his friends, and every other word is unprintable. Meanwhile, you're perfectly aware that just a minute earlier, you stepped in someone's forgotten play dough and silently expressed yourself in a way that would definitely have the censors asking you to leave. But you, the teacher, are a rock. A prickly rock, but a rock nonetheless.