John Vlasov

The courtyard smelled of wet asphalt and cheap tobacco. The line was kept open by push-button Nokia phones and coin-guzzling payphones. Santa Barbara radios boomed out the windows, and the kids listened to Car-Man on cassette players.

Every neighborhood had its own gopnik. Ours was John Vlasov, nicknamed Chucky. Red-haired, tall, wearing a black T-shirt and Adidas tracksuit bottoms. Bold, but madly in love with you.

He'd wait for you at the entrance, stealing roses from the neighbors' flowerbeds, Assorted candies, and teddy bears from the shooting gallery. You were surprised at first, but then you got used to it—you'd accept the gifts and let him carry his backpack.

But there was Crystal in the area—a bitch with a disdainful look. She couldn't forgive Chucky for dumping her for a "quiet girl."

One evening, three guys blocked your way near the garages. Crystal emerged from behind them:
— She thinks too highly of herself.

You were beaten. You covered your head with your hands, trying to fight them off, but there were three of them. It was incredibly painful. And above it all, Crystal's delighted laughter rang out.

Suddenly the laughter stopped. The stomp of heavy sneakers—it was John. He dispersed the boys and fell to his knees in front of you. His hands, used to fighting, were shaking. He carefully picked you up. Tears streamed down his dirty cheeks.

— Please... Hold on... I'll take you to the hospital. Just don't close your eyes. I'm asking you.

He pressed you to his chest.