Kserton State University literally welcomed us with wide-open doors. It was crowded, like the first day of school on September 1st, only here, in addition to prospective students, there were their parents as well. At the entrance, students smiled at the newcomers and handed out brochures with brief descriptions of popular programs. Everyone seemed happy and content. Seeing Dasha's excitement, I couldn't help but want to soak in the atmosphere myself: turning my head, admiring the carved ceiling, smiling at passersby—only my mood after the pizzeria remained as dark as a storm cloud.
I checked my phone and saw that Vladimir hadn't written or called, which meant my dad still hadn't woken up, despite the doctor's assurances. The only comfort was the thought that this wasn't the first time it had happened to Kostya, which meant the doctor understood what was going on. All I could do was trust and wait, but that was devilishly hard. You can't switch off anxiety by pressing the right button. A bitter thought crept in—that Kostya couldn't wake up because of Vladimir—and tried to settle over my mind like a dense fog, blocking the horizon. I should have been thinking about studies and observing, like the other kids, the wide stairs covered with dark green carpet to prevent students from slipping on the marble.
The second floor was crowded. Along the walls were all kinds of stands with printed information about the faculties one could enter. People gathered in groups, looking like local professors. Everyone was, without exception, dressed formally, unlike some applicants who looked like they had just run a half marathon before the event. Dasha tugged Viola toward a woman handing out glossy brochures about the Faculty of Philology. Afraid to wander alone among so many strangers, I trudged after the girls. The woman turned out to be the dean of the faculty and willingly answered Dasha's questions about the program. I found it interesting to watch their conversation until one of our classmates joined us. Approaching with a couple of tall guys almost on our heels, he nodded at a banner listing graduates who had finished the institute with honors and said:
"Look, overachievers," he snorted and laughed nastily. "They've gathered a whole list of useless people."
"Of course they did," one of the guys supported him with a smirk. "Studying philology doesn't take much brainpower. These sheep can only speak nicely, and after graduation—nothing. No job, no money."
The trio laughed loudly and demonstratively, though their words disgusted me.
"Look, the sheep from our school immediately understood which herd they belong to," one continued, gasping with laughter.
The giggles stopped as soon as Viola turned to the classmates. Under the force of her gaze, you'd hide your head in the sand whether you wanted to or not. Brave only in words, the trio hurried to another stand.
I quickly scanned the hall, reading the names of other faculties, and suggested to Dasha that we go read about the Faculty of Journalism. Judging by the crowd of peers and their parents around it, I thought many were interested in this faculty. Approaching and overhearing other conversations, I got confused. People were discussing which profession would be in demand in ten years: economist or lawyer, and this conversation hardly seemed related to journalism. Before I could figure it out, Violetta took charge. She grabbed Dasha's hand and told me to follow and not fall behind. Thanks to Viola, the three of us managed to push through the crowd of arguing people and finally reach the stand we were interested in.
No one spoke directly to the professor representing the faculty. She stood with a bored expression behind a high counter and occasionally tapped on her laptop keyboard. Only when we approached closely and politely waited for a free moment did she look up at us expectantly. I greeted her briefly and asked her to tell us about the Faculty of Philology. It turned out it had been opened just this year. The professor had moved to Ksertone from Saint Petersburg and had previously written a culture column for an online publication I had never heard of. She wrote a lot about theater productions, exhibitions, and literary novelties, and I was surprised that being a journalist didn't mean only writing about, say, scary things. You could choose a niche that interested you and use the same skills to communicate what mattered to you through texts.
The longer she spoke, the brighter her eyes shone. I could feel how much she loved her work, and I wanted to become like her in the future. To not make a mistake and choose the right path, so I could inspire others who were just stepping onto this path.
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.