"Smirnov," the principal began sternly, sitting at the head of the long table. "Neither our school nor the law of the Russian Federation condones physical violence. Only because there have been no previous complaints about your behavior from teachers or students am I willing to hear you out instead of throwing you straight out of school. And no contributions from your highly esteemed father will change this. Speak."
"Kulikov disrupted the class with loud and offensive remarks about Asya."
The principal turned an interested gaze toward me, after which Stas coughed and clarified, "I mean about the student Chernyaya. He spread rumors and conjectures that had nothing to do with my classmate, and I intervened. At first verbally, but Kulikov didn't understand. Then I helped him understand."
"Do you hear yourself? You 'helped him understand' by hitting another student. Smirnov, is everything okay at home right now?"
The question caught Stanislav off guard, and I, more than anyone, knew what was happening in the Smirnov household and felt sympathy from a distance: inventing a somewhat believable explanation while omitting details and still appearing sincere enough to satisfy the principal—that was no easy task. Just in case, I even tried to sniff for any magical hints from the principal, the way I would around vampires or werewolves, but no matter how hard I tried, she didn't smell remotely magical. How simple it would have been if she had known what was happening in the city.
Kulikov couldn't contain a giggle, enjoying how the principal had turned her attention to Stas. But the principal noticed his snicker and directed a stern gaze at my classmate:
"You find this amusing, I see? Well, we'll see how much fun you have when the secretary calls your father."
"What did I do to him? I didn't do anything!" For added effect, Kulikov gave his face an angelic expression, widening his eyes and blinking dramatically. He even pouted like a real Cupid. Only the halo above his head was missing.
"You speak maliciously, young man, and spread dirty rumors. I am already aware of the evening message that circulated throughout the eleventh grade. I've read its contents, but I haven't yet caught the culprit. And something tells me your candidacy, Kulikov, is perfectly suited for the instigator of this mess," the principal said, placing her thick-lensed glasses on her nose—like people over fifty often do—and began reading aloud from the sheet in front of her: "Summer arrest for alcohol consumption, last year—numerous complaints about disciplinary violations in class. Average grades leave much to be desired, and, most importantly, no achievements or socially useful school activities. Considering your history, it's not hard to believe you provoked Stanislav rather than the other way around."
Kulikov blushed and pressed his lips together. His nostrils flared with each breath, like a bull about to charge an experienced matador waving a vulgar scarlet cloth in front of it, luring it into a trap for the amusement of onlookers behind the barriers.
"I only told the truth!"
"Is that so? May I ask why you assumed that a message from a faceless account, created that very day, necessarily represents the truth?" the principal asked, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. "What if someone had sent similar messages about you to the eleventh grade?"
"I'd be thrilled!" Kulikov blurted out without thinking, and I snorted. Of course, such rumors make a boy the king among classmates, but if someone spreads them about a girl, trouble is inevitable. Double standards. A cruel and unfair world.
"You don't seem very happy about it, then, regarding Asya. On the contrary, you seem to reproach, without even trying to find out how much truth is in those words."
"What's there to check?" he nodded toward me. "Just look at her, and it's obvious."
"Excuse me?" I protested, unable to believe what I heard.
"Look at those tight pants! They cling to your hips, which you're always swaying. Every time I pass by, I'm amazed how with such sharp and tempting curves you don't fall on someone's face. You know, I wouldn't even mind," Kulikov said, looking at me with a fiery gaze, completely unafraid of the principal's presence. As the meaning of his words reached my consciousness, a storm churned in my stomach. I felt nauseated at his dirty fantasies and what he would have been willing to do to me if given the chance.
Stas sprang from his seat and loomed over Kulikov, looking down from his height. He pushed him with both hands on the shoulder once.
"Say that again."
Second push. Kulikov's lip twisted in anger.
"Go on. Just try," Stas pushed him a third time, and I tried to grab his forearm and pull him back before a fight broke out, but Smirnov dodged and pushed his opponent again.
Then the principal stepped in to help, leading Kulikov aside and shielding the brat behind her as if he were the one who needed protection—and clearly he didn't.
"Principal, did you hear what he said?"
"Not now, Chernyaya. We'll discuss this situation privately," she said, giving me a meaningful look, as if I should catch something important from her tone. "Woman to woman."
'Woman to woman' sounded harsh, like a fire alarm in a shopping center. Lately, I'd only been thinking about problems of a magical nature, trying at least to pretend to be ordinary in case I only had to play a role, rather than truly rid myself of my werewolf heritage, forgetting what the real world was like, where we coexisted shoulder to shoulder with humans. Afraid to unleash my full power, I feared harming others, forgetting that not every person deserved saving, because besides the good people doing good in the world, there were others on the ugly, werewolf side of the coin, like Kulikov. For every good person, there were five like him, regardless of country, time, or order. What if werewolf powers aren't just about controlling insane vampires, but about maintaining balance among humans? What if people like me can tip the scales and make the world a little better than yesterday?
"Since you cannot resolve this conflict peacefully, I have no choice but to call your fathers," she pressed the button on the rectangular landline and gave instructions to the secretary, then returned her attention to the boys. "In the meantime, go to the waiting room. And not a sound, understood? Otherwise, an expulsion order will be issued today."
"My father can't come. He's on duty," Stas clarified.
"Never mind, we'll call your mother then."
"She's, unfortunately, out of town."
"How convenient. Well, Smirnov, we'll sort it out somehow. After all, you have brothers and sisters here."
"I'm already an adult and able to take responsibility for my actions."
The principal stretched her lips in a smirk, showing she didn't take him seriously.
"Oh, if only words matched deeds!" she sighed and sank into her chair. "Go, boys. We'll return to you later."
Kulikov and Smirnov sulkily walked toward the exit. Stas froze in the hallway and gave me a worried look, unsure of what the principal wanted. I was nervous too, managing only a weak smile, hoping I could cope. It had to be admitted: sometimes another person's intervention made life much easier. It felt lighter knowing you weren't facing a problem alone and someone had your back. Stas was always there, never failing to care for me, even when met with resistance. Being grown-up seemed to mean handling problems alone in your own way. Yet what I wanted most now was for Stanislav to be allowed to stay in the room—but the door closed treacherously behind him, and the principal slowly returned to the table.
"Sit down, Asya," her tone softened noticeably as she sat at the head of the table and gestured for me to take a chair on her right.
My legs wouldn't obey me—I wanted to stay standing, but you don't argue with the principal. The last thing I needed was for Kostya to be dragged to school. Of course, my phone had stayed in the classroom, so there was no way to check whether my father had woken up or not. Everything was happening at the worst possible moment.
"Let's be honest," the principal began as soon as I touched the chair, "are these rumors true?"
"I would never…" I started to defend myself, feeling disgusted with my own words. Why should girls have to explain themselves to anyone for their sexual lives or for how baseless a rumor might be? Boys are never asked such things, and no one hunts them for having multiple partners, no matter how they dress. As soon as I got caught up in this story, the first thing I heard was, "It's your fault, you dressed wrong." But what kind of clothing could ever give anyone the right to sexualize my body in the middle of school? Or anywhere else, for that matter. Clothing is just clothing—a tool that lets me look how I want, express my individuality, and stay warm. I honestly didn't understand, and didn't want to understand, how ordinary pants could seduce someone or give them the right to interfere in my private life.
Summoning all my courage, I tried to answer as politely as possible, just to avoid making an already difficult situation worse:
"I know who is spreading these rumors about me and why. But it's all untrue and has nothing to do with school."
She started flipping through the papers on her desk and soon pulled out a printout of my grades.
"You've fallen behind in the program over the last month, but the teachers speak highly of your recent progress. You're trying, well done. But even so, I can't turn a blind eye to what's happening. It disrupts the work process and distracts the other students."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked, not understanding what she was getting at.
"You'll have to name the instigator."
"That's easy: the rumors are being spread by Tatyana Rostova."
"Are you sure about that?" she asked seriously, looking at me over the glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.
"Of course! There's simply no one else, and another classmate pointed her out."
"What's her last name?"
"Romanova."
"I see," the principal said, pressing the button on the phone again. "Zina, call the next students to my office…"