Something In The Way

It’s no secret that the human year begins in February. January is just a prelude, a time to pick up speed, a warm-up phase.

It all started in February. I thought it was March, but then I remembered — it was definitely February. I hope it wasn’t January. A fine month, but May is still better. Although if this year’s May had been stretched into January and February, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it. To put it mildly.

So, February. A gloomy sky, whether from clouds or smoke, dirty frozen snow, and boots stepping through it. Size 42, with a complicated tread pattern. Boots on my feet, a hat on my head, a warm winter coat below. A backpack full of textbooks on my back. Yes, this is a school story. The story of a schoolboy, a resident of a four-million-strong metropolis, an industrial center of the new world.
"Our world is new only on the outside — great changes await within,” they said on the news today.

And it was exactly those upcoming changes I was thinking about as I approached the large light-red school building. The changes began immediately. The desk where the security guard usually sat had once again been moved to another corner of the lobby. Also, the lobby was under renovation. The walls were being tiled, and one of them was already shimmering coolly. When they finish, it’ll be even colder in the lobby.

The line in front of the cloakroom was unusually short. I took my phone out of my pocket. 7:54. A bit strange. My usual spot on the coat rack was taken. I had to hang my coat and change of shoes nearby. Another change.

The staircase to the second floor always amazed me. The hard stone steps had worn down over years of use and were slightly slanted toward the edge, increasing the risk of accidental slips — especially if you tend to step on the edge.

In the classroom, though, everything was fairly normal. Standard handshakes, standard replies to standard, sparse greetings — I headed to my seat. I set my backpack down and stepped into the hallway.

I often check what time it is. Now too, white numbers on the phone screen read 7:58. My homeroom teacher passed by.

— Good morning — I said, stifling a yawn.
— Morning. You look kind of sad today.

No, I’m not sad. I just didn’t sleep enough — as usual. I don’t know what’s up with my face, but I’m not sad. These accusations of sadness are starting to get on my nerves.

She entered the classroom, put a sheet of paper on the desk, and started saying something loudly. 8:00 — the bell. I entered the classroom. She announced another seating change. According to the paper, I now had a spot at the first desk. First row — usually right under the teacher’s nose. Though I was fine with both the “frontline” and the back rows.” Still, the front is easier to hear from. Given my hearing issues, that’s important.

I moved my things and sat down. The new desk partner — nothing special, but far from the worst option. Of course, that’s only if “not the worst” can describe a pairing of a sociable, active person with someone reserved and not particularly talkative like me.

A kind of "Captain Calmness" I tried to be.  Of course, I wasn’t “number one.” A standard greeting — just a polite gesture. That made four changes in ten minutes.

She asked me to switch to the right side, explaining she was left-handed and it would be more comfortable for both of us. I agreed. It wasn’t a big deal to me.

“— Maybe I should’ve insisted?” a voice in my head said.
“— Why? It really doesn’t matter to me. Option one, option two. I’m not being wronged, and that’s what matters most.
Insisting on your way all the time is just silly.”

The day went by normally. No, actually — it didn’t. But it could’ve. If not for the smell. Every time I sat down, and then again in sudden waves during lessons. A kind of sickly-sweet smell. Not nauseating exactly, but by the end of the school day — around lunchtime — I couldn’t even look at candy.

I walked home slowly. I was very sleepy. The sky hadn’t cleared; on the contrary, a strong wind picked up, and sharp, prickly snow started falling.

Staggering, I reached the apartment building door. The clink of the key, the beep of the intercom — the door opened. Elevator button, clunking mechanisms, squeaky doors. I stepped inside, careful to avoid the dirty, smelly puddle.

I pressed the button for the sixth floor. “Please mind the doors. Next station—…” No, wait. Not the metro. I shook my head to snap out of it. The elevator arrived. The doors opened. I used to be afraid of elevators and avoided them. But one day, the fear of the dark stairwell and strange sounds upstairs was stronger than the fear of being stuck for hours in a cramped box.

At last, I was home. The satisfying click of the heavy metal door lock. My home — my fortress. An incredibly accurate phrase. I wearily shrugged off my coat. A cat was lying on the couch, lazily watching me through half-closed eyes. The moment I stepped closer, it jumped up with surprising ease and darted under the couch. I smirked. I wish I could snap out of sleepiness that easily.

Here’s my room. I toss the backpack onto the chair, crack the balcony door open — need to air out the room. I barely undress before collapsing onto the couch. Everything else can wait. Right now, I just want a few hours of sleep after a sleepless Sunday night. The clock read 13:14.