Raika Tsyganova transferred to our class from another school. Every boy in the class immediately had his eye on her. Dimka and Kostya even bet a crate of Coca-Cola on which of them would be the first to start going out with the new girl. Hardly surprising: Raya made a striking impression, and she was very pretty too. Everyone wanted to distinguish himself and prove what a gentleman he was.
You may not believe me, but I didn't take to this particular “lady.” Not because of her appearance—there was no arguing with that—but because of the way she behaved. I don't mean that she raced along the corridors at break time or talked back to the teachers. Nothing of the sort; she was perfectly well behaved in that respect. There was just something artificial and haughty about her. Raya acted like an actress. Sometimes she would stick out her lips in the most idiotic way, as if… My older sister used to do that. Grandpa put up with it for ages, then one day he couldn't stand it any longer. “Lilya, why are you always showing me a chicken's backside?” he asked. It was like magic. Lilya gave up the silly habit there and then.
So I decided to follow Grandpa's example. During a break I blurted something similar out to Raya—only my choice of words was a little harsher than his. My classmate looked at me as if I were the lowest creature on earth. She blushed slightly, then gave a theatrical laugh (I told you she was an actress) and hissed:
“Mirov, you're an idiot!”
Incidentally, she never addressed anyone in our class by their first name. It was always a surname. We all did that sometimes, but most of us used first names as well. Raya made no exceptions.
“How very kind of you, Tsyganova,” I replied politely, with a grin. Then I added, “Raika, your perfume is fantastic. I really like the smell.”
“Everybody likes it,” she said, suddenly warming to me. “It's Chanel No. 5. Mum brought it back from Paris when she was on tour.”
“Who's your mum?” I asked in surprise. “And what was she doing in Paris?”
“My mother is a very famous actress.”
“A singer?” I was taken aback. “Viktoria Tsyganova?”
“No, her surname is different. I've got Dad's surname. Mum kept her maiden name.”
“So what's her surname?”
“I'm not allowed to say.”
“Why on earth not?” I was more surprised than ever.
“My parents forbade me to tell anyone about them. They don't want journalists paying attention to me. As soon as people find out who my mother is, reporters will come swarming here.”
“That's terrible,” I said, shaking my head.
“What do you mean?” Raya frowned.
“Not being allowed to talk about your parents.”
“It doesn't bother me,” Tsyganova snorted, and turned sharply towards the classroom.
At the next break, I went up to Raya and apologised.
“I admit it,” I said. “That was a rude joke. I'm sorry.”
She looked me up and down and thought for a moment. Perhaps she was deciding whether to insult me again. But then, to my surprise, she sounded relieved.
“All right, I forgive you. Do you want to go out with me?”
“What do you mean?” I froze. Well, this was a fine mess. I certainly hadn't come over to ask her that.
“Exactly what I said,” Raya laughed. “You'll be my boyfriend.”
“No, Raya.” Now it was my turn to blush. “You see, I've already got a girl. Masha…”
“Is there a Masha in our class?” Raya interrupted, her eyes wide.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “She doesn't even go to our school.”
“So what? Do you love her?” Tsyganova asked kindly. That surprised me too.
“I don't know,” I faltered. “I suppose so…”
“All right,” she said, offering me her hand. “Then let's just be friends.”
“Okay,” I agreed. And since we were friends now, I decided to ask her something directly. “Raya, why don't you make friends with the girls? They seem a bit wary of you. You're always on your own or hanging around with boys.”
“The girls are simply jealous of me,” she said sharply.
“Jealous of what?”
“Can't you see how I dress? Look!” She stuck out one leg. “These shoes are Jimmy Choo, and my blouse is Roberto Cavalli. My coat…”
“Whoa, whoa, stop!” I raised my hands. “Those names mean absolutely nothing to me. Why do you think the other girls know them? Maybe grown-ups do…”
“Ha!” Raya exclaimed. “You don't know much about girls. They dream of having clothes like mine.”
“I think you've got it wrong, Raya,” I said quietly. “There's a girl in our class called Vasilisa Berezhnaya. Her father donated a bus to the school. Do you really think she'd envy you? Her dad's a millionaire. But she's modest. She never shows off her clothes. Maybe you could be a bit more down-to-earth? Forget all those outfits and shoes…”
“Misha, you don't understand anything…”
The bell rang. I didn't go home immediately. When I finally left the school building, I met an elderly woman.
“Dear boy,” she said, “do you know where Class Nine G is?”
“Why, that's my class, Grandma!” I replied, feeling oddly pleased. “Come on, I'll show you. Are you going to see our form teacher, Valentina Stepanovna?”
“Yes, I'd like a word with her.”
Five minutes later we were in the classroom. The old lady said hello and introduced herself.
“I'm Raya Tsyganova's grandmother.”
“Raya never mentioned a grandmother,” I thought. Just then Valentina Stepanovna found a job for me.
“Misha, could you do me a favour? Take the newspapers from that cupboard so we don't get paint on the desks, and please straighten all the portraits on the wall. They're hanging like…”
She didn't finish the comparison, but I remembered Grandpa and grinned. I won't repeat his expression. Perhaps you know it already. It's the one about a bull walking down a road.
“Valentina Sergeyevna…”
“Valentina Stepanovna,” the teacher corrected her.
“Oh, forgive me, for heaven's sake,” the old woman fussed, taking a note out of her pocket. “Valentina Stepanovna, we have a little problem. Could our granddaughter carry her old schoolbag for a while longer? It still looks almost new.”
“Well… of course… I…” Valentina Stepanovna was bewildered. She glanced at me. “Misha, never mind the portraits. You can fix them tomorrow. Go home now.”
I headed for the door.
“You see,” the grandmother continued, “Grandpa and I are raising her on our own. She has no parents. And now there's this trouble. Raya says all the girls at your school are required to carry bags by…” She unfolded the note and read, “Louis Vuitton, or whatever it's called…”
© Mikhail Samarsky. English translation prepared for the samarski.com working edition.