By the end of the conversation, she handed each of us a folded program with information about courses, entrance exams, and required scores. In addition to standardized test scores, one also had to submit a motivational letter explaining why they wanted to study journalism. In that moment, I felt very excited about the prospect of studying journalism, but writing such an essay could become a problem. If my enthusiasm faded on the way home, it wouldn't be easy to invent why I wanted to attend this faculty. After a short moment of thought, I reassured myself that I didn't have to decide immediately. When the university loudspeaker invited all applicants and their parents to the assembly hall, I got busy, quickly grabbed a few more brochures about other faculties just in case, and hurried downstairs with the girls.
As soon as we reached the entrance to the hall, my phone vibrated. I hastily pulled it out of my pocket, hoping for good news, and immediately drooped when the screen lit up—it was another spam email. The triviality threw me off again and dragged me back into my worries, while I should have been focusing on studying and, like the others, observing the assembly hall we had just entered. But my mind had already wandered far away.
My thoughts began to flit again between the three men who had entered my life uninvited and firmly claimed a place for themselves. Driving them away was definitely beyond my power. And could I even stop worrying about my father? Despite all our disagreements, Kostya remained the dearest person to me. I only realized this now, picturing both my mother and father in my mind at the same time. It seemed that under my mother's roof I had spent most of my conscious life and had only recently flown from the family nest toward the prospects promised by a good school and the local institute. And yet, I worried far more about Kostya's health than about the fact that Maria was somewhere in the city. We hadn't spoken since what happened at the Smirnovs' house, and I wasn't ready to reach out again. Accepting the fact that my mother secretly plotted behind my back and decided how best to handle her daughter's uncertain future angered me, even though inside I understood: everything Maria did came from love. In this, my mother and father were alike. They always pretended to know better what was best for me. So why was I angrier at Maria? Or did it just seem that way now, in hindsight, after the last quarrel had shaken my father? Unfortunately, I had no ready answers to my questions.
Dasha dragged us down the aisle to take seats closer to the stage. The cherry-red seats, reminiscent of an old movie theater, stretched in long rows to the right and left of the wide aisle, where groups of seemingly familiar people had gathered. I quickly spotted a few acquaintances from our school but couldn't recall their names. My circle of friends was basically limited to the Smirnov family and Dasha with Tanya, for good reason. I was afraid to get close to anyone else, lest I place an unsuspecting friend in the crosshairs. Life had already shown me the true face of the creature hidden inside, waiting for the moment when defenses would fall. Who knew whom the long claws would reach for, and, most importantly, whether the victim could survive the encounter? Besides, I was sure that after Tanya's rumors in school, hardly anyone else would want to be friends with me. Definitely not the girls.
There were enough seats for our group only in the fifth row, and we hurried to take them despite Dasha's disgruntled protests. Listening to her, it seemed as if all the lucky ones who got seats in the front row would inevitably receive a university scholarship, provided they didn't forget to nod along with the words of each speaker. Dasha hesitated in the aisle, glancing periodically toward the front of the hall in hopes of finding a better option. Under Viola's stern gaze, she stopped pacing but asked to leave a seat in the aisle for herself.
"Just in case," she murmured at last, and I only shrugged, letting her go ahead. There was no point even pretending to understand Dasha's anxiety. In reality, I didn't just not understand it—I felt oddly irritated by her unusual mood, as if it hovered in the air and infected me. My list of worries was already written over in fine script, so feeling pressure from someone else seemed unbearable. Like a persistent song in my head, a rhythmic tapping sounded—it was Dasha tapping her foot on the floor. I had never noticed this habit before.
Knock-knock-knock. Knock. Knock-knock. And round and round. The tapping stubbornly refused to blend into the multitude of other sounds, no matter how hard I tried to focus elsewhere. Soon, I wanted to press Dasha's foot to the floor to stop this unbearable torture.
"Asya?" Diana touched my shoulder, and turning, I noticed the concern in Smirnov's eyes. "Are you okay?"
"Of course," I carefully removed Diana's hand and placed it on her lap.
"Really? If you want, I can take you home."
"I'm fine," I said, not recognizing my own voice.