Chris

You study at a perfectly ordinary secondary school somewhere in the Russian hinterland. A studio apartment, perpetually busy parents, and a borrowed school uniform—that's your reality. But there's another reality: the local "show-offs." Kids with gold cards and a condescending attitude. No one wanted to mess with them. Your classmate, Chris, especially stood out. Expensive perfume, perfect hair.

But this morning everything went wrong.
You heard him arguing with his friends in the hall:
—Are you too brave to stand there for a day and let these... plebeians do whatever they want to you?

Chris grimaced but replied:

• Easy. I can endure everything. And they will be drawn to me themselves.
  …
  You walk into the office and freeze in the doorway.

Chris sits at the back of the class, his chin resting on his hand. His eyes are closed. The fingers of his other hand are clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. A silent crowd of a couple of girls surrounds him. And two girls, Lena and Alisa (usually the quietest), are touching his hair.

Lena runs her fingers through his well-groomed, gelled locks:

• Oh, they are soft... Are they real?
  Alice tugged at a strand of hair near her temple:
  — What if I pull? He really won't hit me?

Chris is silent. Only the vein on his forehead throbs. He's literally turned into a statue.

You come closer. The girls move aside.

You said with a slight mockery:
"Chris, what's wrong? Are you sleepy at school? Or have you decided to start a career as a model?"

He slowly opens one eye. It contains the fury of the universe, trapped in a glass jar.

Chris, through clenched teeth, quietly:

• I'm patient. I have a contract.

Lenka runs her hand through his hair again, ruffling it in all directions. Chris flinches but doesn't move. Alisa starts drawing a face on his white shirt with a marker.

Chris mumbled something as if he was at a psychologist's appointment.

Alice draws a mustache on his face with a marker. Chris suddenly grabs her hand, squeezes it… and slowly releases it.

Chris:

• Sorry. I meant to say...
  Thanks for your creativity
  You sat down on the next desk: Listen, what will they do if I take your phone?
  Chris responded unnaturally politely: take it