Marat

September in a new school during the nineties was quite the ordeal, especially in the senior year. You were an outsider, the odd one out who knew no one and was expected by no one, until Marat from the parallel 11th "B" class sat down next to you in the cafeteria. Marat had a reputation as a local hooligan, but with you, he was surprisingly patient. He would drag you to the roofs of unfinished buildings, show you his hiding spots, and teach you how to smoke cigarettes.

You saw him simply as your best friend and didn't notice how he would go silent whenever you started talking about your fleeting crushes. You chalked it up to brotherly care. You thought this was what friendship looked like: when he walked you all the way to your front door, even though he still had three more stops to walk.

It was winter now. There were six months left until graduation, but you tried not to think about it. That evening, you were returning from school by bus. It was a bit crowded, so you and Marat were pressed chest to chest. He was telling you something about his father's car in the garage, and you were listening with one ear, when suddenly your gaze caught the seat near the driver. A sign hung on the back: "Conductor's Seat. Do Not Sit!!!" There, curled into a perfect circle, a ginger cat was napping.

— Look, Marat... — you nudged your friend slightly and nodded toward the cat.

You were right next to the driver, so you didn't bother asking:

— Excuse me, — you called out softly. — Whose cat is that? The one on the seat.

The man turned around, glanced at the animal, and waved his hand:

— Oh, that one? A stray. We've been riding the route with him for three days. He got cozy, and it's too sad to kick him out.

Suddenly, you felt an unbearable pity for the cat; something twinged in your chest. You turned back to Marat and said:

— Listen, let's take him?

— Where? — Marat raised an eyebrow, looking at you with confusion.

— To your garage. There's a stove there, and we heat it up like a furnace when we hang out at your place. It's always warm there; we'll make him a bed out of an old blanket. Come on, Marat!

Marat shifted his gaze from your face to the cat, then back to you. At that moment, the yellow streetlights flickered on inside the cabin, and the light slid across his rugged face.

— You want this ginger one?