Boarding school
The driver, a man of Caucasian appearance, drove Nastyа briskly through the city streets. Finally, he stopped near a large house on the outskirts of the park, surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence. Nastya read the name on the sign at the gate, which apparently still hung from Soviet times. "The Clara Zetkin Boarding School." This taxi driver from this provincial town had put a period at the end of her journey from Moscow.
"Thank you," said Nastya, rummaging in her bag to settle up with the Caucasian man.
"Come to visit a relative?" the taxi driver suddenly asked, looking somewhere down. Nastya caught his gaze on her skirt; during the trip, it had ridden up above her knees, exposing her slender
attractive legs. With a sharp movement, Nastya adjusted her skirt, quickly found some small change, and handed it to the impudent taxi driver."I came here to work," she replied coldly.
"The Clara Zetkin Boarding School," the Caucasian man suddenly uttered, emphasizing the replaced letter in the last word—the surname of the once-famous revolutionary. The insolence of this 'khach' outraged and simultaneously stunned her. Noting Nastya's reaction, the taxi driver explained. "That's what we call it here."
"Why?" the surprised Nastya found it necessary to ask.
The taxi driver responded with a kind of slimy grin and said only one thing.
"Whorehouse."
The obscene word grated nastily in Nastya's ears. It sent shivers of disgust down her spine. But at the same time, it was as if a certain smell wafted by—the kind emitted by mixed female and male bodies. The smell of lust. Such a characterization of the institution, her future workplace, from a local resident raised questions. She didn't ask anything else of this plain-speaking driver, who nevertheless courteously helped her get her suitcases out.
"I can manage," Nastya cut off his offer to carry her things to the building doors. Taking two suitcases in her hands, she walked confidently down the path, but she could feel with her back how the Caucasian man was examining her gait from behind, her long, man-attracting legs, her neat, shapely butt. "Boor," Nastya thought about the driver, and switched her attention to the purpose of her trip—the girls' boarding school. The gray walls expressed the loneliness of the lives of the girls here, growing up without parents. The stairs and corridors were empty; lessons were in session. Ad posters were hanging everywhere on the walls: "Victor Glebov is our mayor!"
The boarding school director, Andrey Petrovich, a man nearing fifty, looked like a sheriff from American westerns. He greeted her warmly, looked her over from head to toe. Appraisingly. Nastya was used to such looks.
"Well, thank you to the capital for being able to allocate us a teacher. I must admit I'm surprised that such a young girl agreed to be assigned to our backwater, but at the same time, I'm glad," began Andrey Petrovich's welcoming monologue, his gaze sliding over Nastya's chest, which protruded from under her thin blouse. "There's a shortage of local teachers. We've been without a Russian language teacher for two months; your history colleague has been covering the lessons, but you understand... So you're just in time." And he continued. "You'll start with the senior girls. For living, until I resolve the issue through the executive committee about allocating municipal housing, I suggest you stay here, at the boarding school, with the girls; I'll give you a separate room. I assure you, it will be temporary. You don't mind, do you?" the director asked again, expecting an objection.
"No, I agree," Nastya hastened to assure him. "When can I start teaching?"
"Even today," said the director. "The girls are nice, you won't have any problems with them. We maintain discipline. Although many of the pupils, of course, have difficult histories. With food and clothing provision, thank God, everything is fine too. The boarding school is personally patronized by the city mayor, and additionally, it's sponsored by our local textile mill. It's the largest enterprise in the region—a giant, you could say. And after finishing their education, we send our girls to the mill—as apprentices. They are trained and employed there as weavers."
This narrative from the director reminded Nastya of an interview with a naive official about successes for publication in the local newspaper. But Nastya felt that behind this simplicity of Andrey Petrovich, something else was hidden. He was no simpleton.
An hour later, he introduced her to the 11th-grade students as their new Russian language and literature teacher. And also, as their new homeroom teacher. Nastya wasn't much older than them. The girls, young but already having experienced life's hardships, examined the newcomer with interest. No child would live in this boarding school if their parents were doing well. The girls' faces—all different, pretty and truly beautiful—were united by one thing, which Nastya grasped immediately. Self-reliance, even a kind of... maturity. They were different from girls who grew up in families. Nastya immediately wanted to start her first lesson. The director left, and she began. After briefly telling them about the Russian language and literature curriculum, Nastya gave the first assignment.
"I suggest writing an essay on the topic: 'My Life After the Boarding School.' Describe all your plans and what you want to achieve," Nastya announced to her students. "Don't be shy to fantasize about your future successes."
"Will there be successes?" one of the girls asked mockingly. Nastya paid attention to her. A brunette, with a short haircut and bright dark eyes like two pieces of coal, looked at Nastya skeptically.
"Of course there will be," the teacher replied confidently. "After all, it's your life, your path."
"There's only ONE path from here," declared the "brunette." It was unclear what she meant, but the harshness with a note of doom touched Nastya. The phrase sent a chill; the class fell silent.
"What's your name?" she asked the student in a friendly tone.
"Tanya," the girl voiced.
"I'll have to convince them of a lot," Nastya thought. "Tanechka, I believe you will choose your own path," said the teacher.
"Come on, Button, write what she said," someone from among the girls added in support of Nastya.
"Why Button?" Nastya clarified.
"Her last name is Knopenko," another girl prompted.
"We'll write," the students assured, almost in chorus. The girls perked up. It was clear the topic had hooked them.
The lesson ended, and Nastya was shown to her room. She unpacked her things and made tea. Only then did she notice how evening had fallen—her first in this boarding school. She dialed the mobile number of the person who was waiting for her call far from here. For him, her being here was very important.
"I'm in place," Nastya said.
She read her students' essays more attentively than ever, noting how sincerely the girls wrote. Literacy was severely lacking, but the thoughts had a freshness, an intensity created by a hidden dream. The resentment for their fate that shone through the texts found compensation in the girls' dreams. Some had plans to work at the textile mill, but there were also truly original ideas. Button submitted an essay with only one phrase: "I want to leave this city far behind." Nastya shook her head, smiled wryly, and decided not to give her a grade.
But one essay stood out among the rest. It was written grammatically, artistically, and about love. The girl wrote about how after finishing her studies at the boarding school, her beloved boyfriend, who is currently serving in Chechnya, would take her away, they would get married, have children, and build a huge house. The text radiated enormous positivity and faith in tomorrow, something without which lonely, abandoned girls find it hard to live. She turned over the cover and read the author's name. "Gelya." "A beautiful and rare name," Nastya noted. She wrote the highest mark in large letters, and the next day she went over the essays with her students. It was Gelya's essay's turn. Nastya praised the work and asked the author to stand up.
A short, petite girl timidly rose from her desk. Clear blue eyes from under a fringe of light golden hair looked shyly at Nastya. She seemed younger than her peers, and if not for the mounds of already mature breasts, Nastya wouldn't have believed this angelic creature was over sixteen.
"Bet you wrote about your Romka, Sunshine," one of the students responded with a smirk. Nastya already understood that everyone here had nicknames. "Sunshine suits her," flashed through Nastya's mind, "and the name is the same—Gelya."
"No one here has seen him, so he must really love her," another girl mocked.
"Definitely about him," Button supported, addressing Gelya. "Quite the boyfriend, writes and writes but never comes. Or you don't invite him, afraid we'll steal him?"
A wave of mockery rolled through the class.
"He's serving in the war, and they won't let him go yet," Gelya objected resentfully to her classmates.
"A beautiful and literate essay," Nastya cut off the girls' laughter with her assessment. "It's written vividly, the feelings for the guy are well conveyed. If love is real, you really shouldn't be ashamed of it." And she added kindly. "I believe everything will work out for you two. And in general, everyone tried hard. Well done, girls, I liked it. Although we'll work on literacy, which we'll start on now..."
Nastya was interrupted by the sound of the classroom door opening. She turned and saw the director entering with a guest—a tall, solid, expensively dressed middle-aged man. The girls stood up as if on command, and Nastya understood the visitor's status.
"Good afternoon," Andrey Petrovich greeted, "let me introduce you, if anyone doesn't know, the head of the city administration, Viktor Pavlovich Glebov. Anastasia Alexandrovna," the director addressed Nastya. "We'll sit in on the lesson."
Nastya finally saw the city mayor, the patron of the boarding school. She knew about the election campaign in full swing, during which Glebov was seeking re-election for a new term. He gave a short speech, telling the students what would be done for the boarding school after the elections, then sat down with the director at an empty back desk, apparently to assess the educational process. Nastya managed to quickly cope with the wave of excitement that washed over her and conducted the lesson in her usual manner. With her peripheral vision, she caught the mayor's studying gaze on her. Well, let him look.
"Who wants to read a Tsvetaeva poem first?" she asked the students.
"May I?" Gelya raised her hand, and receiving Nastya's consent, rose again from her desk. The poem was about love, and the girl read it inspiredly, expressively, only batting her eyelashes in time with the lines she recited from memory. Gelya's eyes shone, so much had the impression of the poem affected her. The class listened spellbound, and Nastya noted with what curiosity Glebov, in turn, was examining the young student. The reading ended, and everyone unexpectedly heard the mayor's applause. The pupils, the director, and Nastya applauded after him. Gelya was embarrassed, but it was clear how pleased she was with the assessment from those around her. Soon the lesson ended, and the director and Nastya went downstairs to see the guest off.
"I liked how you conducted the lesson," Glebov said to Nastya. "Professionally. I'm glad the boarding school, to which I have a special relationship, has received a good teacher. Life is hard for these girls, and they really need good teachers."
"Thank you," Nastya replied. The mayor's patronizing tone seemed to let her know that the boarding school was his territory, and Nastya, finding herself here, had to live by his rules.
"And besides, you are a beautiful girl," she suddenly heard another compliment from the distinguished guest. "If you don't mind, we'll see each other again. Here's my card, if you have any ideas or requests—call," the mayor extended a cardboard business card.
And after that, the bodyguard slammed the car door shut behind Glebov.
Nastya had made an impression on men before, but this compliment sounded somehow special. Something twinged inside her. She understood that the meeting with Glebov was definitely not the last.
Nastya asked the director about Gelya.
"Her mother is a prostitute," he said roughly, "there was no father. Since she was eight, when her mother was deprived of parental rights, the girl has been here, and her mother disappeared altogether after being deprived. The only relative is an old grandmother, whom Gelya visits on holidays."
The girl's fate sounded from the boarding school director's mouth as something completely ordinary, mundane.
"Gelya is very talented," she declared to Andrey Petrovich. "The girl needs help to realize herself."
"Everyone here is talented and everyone needs help," the director noted calmly. "But who really needs them?"
The boarding school head's words stung, but she remained silent. Nastya knew why she was here.
The first week at the boarding school flew by quickly. She had good relationships with the students; they studied her subject, and Gelya told her, when they were alone during a break, about her fiancé, Romka.
"He's from grandma's village, we met when I visited her on holidays. And then he was drafted into the army. But he'll come back. I'm waiting for him very much."
At the end of the week, when Nastya dialed the phone number and told about what was happening, she heard instructions in response from the same voice, authoritative for her and decisive in everything. How glad she was to hear HIM, how she wanted to be next to him. But for now, she had to be here. The voice spoke only about the matter.
"You need to befriend the girls, gain their trust. You need to make them talk, otherwise nothing will work out. Act, Nastya."
* * * * *
... She had practically fallen asleep when she was awakened by the light of headlights hitting the wide window of her room in the dormitory building. The light, appearing from nowhere at such an hour, suggested she needed to get out of bed. Intuition pushed Nastya to the window. A car had driven onto the boarding school grounds; judging by its size, an SUV. Who let it onto the grounds at such a time, since entry was forbidden at night and the gates were locked by the watchman? Nastya glanced at the time—the clock hands had passed midnight. From her third floor, she could see three men get out of the car and head towards the back entrance. "Could it really be?" Nastya thought. She quickly put on her robe. She couldn't miss this. The girl went out into the corridor and listened. The boarding school was asleep, but the visitors hadn't come for nothing. Sure enough, the sound of footsteps on the stairs was heard; they had gone up higher—to the fourth floor. Nastya pondered how to proceed further in the unfolding situation. Hesitating, she gathered her resolve and moved upstairs, following the night guests. Reaching the floor, she tried to determine which of the dozen rooms the men had entered. She quietly walked along the corridor, listening intently to catch any sound indicating an alien presence. There was sleeping silence everywhere, but behind the last door at the end of the corridor, Nastya heard voices. Them. Knocking, the girl boldly flung open the door and found herself in a room where pupil-girls lived.
"Who do we have here?"
The voice, sharp and confident, addressed its question directly to her. Only the nightlight was on, and the following scene presented itself to Nastya.
Three guys, sturdy, athletic build, in dark leather jackets, stood in the middle of the room. On their beds sat four girls—Gelya—with her legs tucked under her, in a nightgown and with disheveled hair, and three others—Button, Natasha, and Olya—dressed in short skirts and