teacher Ms. Tatiana Lazarevna was already quite old and the epitome of a strict Soviet teacher. I almost wrote «caregiver», but that doesn't quite fit the bill. She always set the bar high in terms of morals and education. The technical difficulties I was facing were absolutely unacceptable for her, and she quickly pounced on me.
Just 20 seconds later, I was standing in front of the whole class next to her desk, testifying to what had happened. To her, the story sounded unconvincing, it fell apart with lies. Her verdict was clear and sharp: to stand all day in front of the class until I could confess. I wouldn't admit to something I didn't do, even now. I remember how I was going mental inside, and I stood all day. The next day I had to come into school with my mother.
But it turned out to really make my day, because it so happened that the place I was forced to stand was straight ahead of Lena Khryashcheva – my super crush. So, even if I had glued these pages together myself, I would never have admitted it. I'd have stood there gladly all day long.
1993. Russian grammar
It turned out that this first incident with my teacher hadn't been enough and she wanted more the next year. I'll be honest, it was because I used to get mixed up with my grammar. I struggle to this day, but then it was a much bigger problem.
For example, to make the word «November» into an adjective would make it «Novemberish» (I promise, that's a real word in Russian). Except I used to write Novemborish. Or for December, I'd write Decemborish. You see? So I often failed our homework miserably, to the point where my work was read out in front of the whole class! The teacher's pet, the good boy, doesn't even know his grammar!
The stutter, which had almost disappeared, quickly came back. I don't know if it was visible from the outside, but from the inside I was all burning with blue flames. It was that day when a persistent dislike for this subject began to form, and in four years' time it would be fixed definitively. I'll tell you about that later…
1997. Not guilty and moving schools
There were no more special incidents, and gradually the end of the sixth grade came. And then a very hurtful and unfair story happened to me. One of the key moments that defined my future life path.
Like all normal children, I had a best friend: Vadim Zagvozdkin. I don't know why he fought with the other boys, Artyom and Alexander, but we were old enough to be fighting over girls yet. I happened to witness them scuffling after classes outside of our school. In my opinion, it wasn't a real fight, just a bit of a show.
The next day I was called to the headmistress's office and asked to explain the situation. When I wrote it, she looked at my writing with a grimace and gave me the verdict: I had egged them on. She didn't believe my story that I was only an onlooker. Vadim's mother really fanned the flames. She said things like «you two were best friends…» The investigation of this story was slow and tedious. The last word on the subject came from our class leader, Ms. Vassa Kondratyevna, who just stopped saying hello to me.
At the beginning of the school year, my mother had offered to send me instead to the lyceum in the nearby town of Lvovskaya. I'd remembered this, and later firmly told my mother that I was moving to the Lyceum – no explanations. In Russia we have this a proverb: «He said he would, so he did.» Four months later I moved schools and started a new year.
1997. «I will never snitch on my mates!»
But that wasn't the final word on disappointments in friendships. A child with such an active life philosophy couldn't have just one friend. There were also the boys that played out in the yard. The ones with whom I started smoking in seventh grade.
We didn't smoke that much; it was mostly just to get to grips with the idea and meet modern standards. But full disclosure: I was the first to start. When my mother demanded that I tell on my partners in crime, I said «I will never snitch on my mates, matter what!» And the case was closed.
At the same time, one of my «accomplices» Alexey Antonov from the flat 35 was compromised. He snitched on everyone to his mother. All the mothers at home made a showdown of the whole thing. But Alexey told everyone that I was the traitor, because I was first exposed.
That's when our long-term friendship ended.
1998. Taras Bulba
My mood actually improved when I'd run out of friends. There were less ways to get tricked. But I had completely forgotten about my Russian Literature amp; Language teachers. Clearly I had either a lack of experience or short memory loss.
Ms. Irina Borisovna had always been friendly and kind to me. I liked her too, but a man called Taras came between our love. It was Taras Bulba from the novella by Nikolay Gogol.
I had to write an essay on this subject, but I'd forgotten about it until it was almost too late. I scribbled it down while I was at my mother's workplace, a kid's massage clinic.
This time, my grammar was perfect. It was the commas that let me down. I used them so weirdly, that some of my sentences didn't even make sense. It was just hilarious! And everybody in the class thought so to. Laughter hit 100 dB, no less.
These sentences were read out to the class, with that stuck-up teacher voice, which drew a strong, hard line under my love for this teacher and the whole subject of Russian literature. I hate it.
But hatred, I'm sure you will agree, is a bad feeling, and later fate decided to play a little game on me: my wife Maria is a Russian Language amp; Literature teacher. Yes, yes, very funny… But years later I learned about Russian postfixes, some parts of the speech and some other little things. That said, I still can't manage phonetic from the third grade, which our daughter Anfisa has already mastered. Indeed, language is not my strong point.
2000. More Pushkin
Then, Ms. Irina Borisovna went on maternity leave and she was replaced by a trained specialist. She was so awful that I can't even remember her name. Ms. Valentina, was it? At the end of the ninth grade, in five lessons in a row I was asked a question in literature class. It was on the subject of the great genius Pushkin. In the first three lessons, I answered questions about him with all that I could remember from the textbook, no worries. But then by the fourth lesson I began to struggle. Some people weren't getting any questions, I was being tortured ever time! The fifth time came and it started to drive me mad. For all five answers I got five points out of five, again, no problems. But wasn't there such a thing as too much Pushkin per pound of flesh?
I was asked a sixth time, and I publicly refused to answer.
«Don't you know?» asked the teacher.
«I know, but you've already tortured me enough. Why do I have to answer every time?» I replied.
«Right, so, obviously, you don't know. Two points.[15]»
During the break, I came up to her to find out what she wanted from me, but she shrugged me off, did not listen, and said that it was impossible to change the grade she's given me. This brought my marks down, and I would be awarded a 4/5 for the term. F**k you… I thought to myself, leaving in silence. Pushkin, Pushkin, Pushkin… I get it, he's our national treasure. But you'd have thought someone else would have written something better by now…
Chapter 6. 1995. First Money
1995. Beer bottles
Pushkin, lifts, and grammar – I had bigger fish to fry. A real man needs money. A lot of money. For… crisps, chupa chups, and a little later for the collectable Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stickers.
Сheburashka[16] beer bottles were the answer to our meaningless summer existence and the absence of any pocket money. It made us a little more confident and even more grown-up. It was fun.
First of all, we had to know where to look for these bottles: stalls, bins, bushes and pubs. We were a valiant eco-squad scouring the whole neighbourhood. Sometimes even wouldn't even let one bottle split our grasp; we'd sit and wait for someone drinking a bottle to finish it to the end before