"People really aren't that observant…" I thought philosophically as I watched Dad in the hallway. Or maybe I was just acting a lot like the former owner of this body. I don't even know him…
On the other hand… What were they supposed to think? There's this guy, Vova Korneev. He plays guitar in some goofy band and… What else is he known for? I have no idea so far. I'm planning to fill in those information gaps as soon as Dad leaves. Anyway. He lives nearby, interacts with people, does stuff. And at some point, he starts acting differently. For example, he suddenly forgets how to play guitar. Or starts using unfamiliar gestures. Or saying strange words. Sure, I had to be creative with the guitar issue. But other than that… People aren't likely to notice all those small details. Or, even if someone does notice. What would they do? Make a suspicious face and say, "You're acting weird…" or "Are you crazy? What's wrong with your head?"
The average person isn't going to interrogate another average person just to expose an illegal tenant living inside their head.
I snorted and then started coughing. The thought made me laugh for some reason.
"What's so funny?" Dad immediately asked.
"Oh, nothing," I smirked. "I was just thinking that if aliens could possess human brains, they'd never get caught."
"And why's that?" Dad even paused in the middle of tying his shoes. "The people close to them would notice something's off right away."
"And so what?" I shrugged. "I mean, yeah, if they started flailing their arms like a windmill and babbling in Alpha Centaurian instead of Russian, they'd probably get sent to a psych ward. But what if they didn't? They walk straight, talk coherently. They're not trying to eat soap or greet people with a bare butt instead of a handshake. Who'd suspect them?"
"What a wild imagination you have, young man," Dad laughed and went back to tying his shoes. "You're wasting time on nonsense. You should be thinking about what you're going to do next year. Otherwise, you'll flunk out again, and it'll be embarrassing. The whole family's ashamed."
"Just what I expected," I thought, smirking.
"Soz, I didn't turn out to be a 'model son,'" I said. Judging by Dad's tone, this was a familiar ritual for us. Both parents had degrees, and their son flunked his exams. They had to bribe someone at the medical board to get him declared unfit. And now they're teasing him about his brains having gone into his long hair. That and similar stuff. Over breakfast, I heard a few jokes along those lines.
"'Soz? What's that supposed to mean? Some new fashionable jargon?" Dad asked. "Or should I be calling it 'slang' like the youth nowadays?"
"That's from the English word 'sorry,' Dad," I replied. "It means, you know, like 'my bad.' I'm at fault, I'll do better, and all that."
"Ah, you rascal, you rascal!" my father laughed, grabbing his toolbox and heading for the door. "Alright, I'm off to the garage. Need to finish that headboard for Galina Ilyinichna, I've been promising it for ages. And don't smoke in the house!"
"Got it," I nodded and closed the door behind him.
Now, the large family apartment was entirely at my disposal. Mom's at work, though I'm not sure where exactly. Oh… I forgot to pass on the nurse's message to her! Whatever, I'll do it later. There's time. Dad's in the garage. My sister's at school. That gives me at least a few hours to explore. So far, I really like my family. We've got money, no shortage of food, and the apartment's nice. My parents are sane. As for my sister… well, we'll get to know each other. I haven't even figured out how old she is yet.
I walked around the apartment, opening the doors to all the rooms. Ah, this is my parents' bedroom. Whoa, what a bed! It's like a royal bed with a headboard shaped like a blooming lotus, upholstered in pale pink tapestry. So, the puzzle pieces fall into place. My parents both worked at the same factory—NMAP. The factory shut down. Mom turned out to have a knack for business and quickly organized some kind of cooperative. And Dad, not wanting to climb the walls out of boredom during his indefinite leave, remembered he's good with his hands and refurnished the apartment with new furniture. Nice furniture, too. Made with taste and love, clearly. The wardrobe in the hallway, the sofas in the living room, this bed... Even the various decorative carvings seem to be his handiwork. Family friends noticed and started asking for similar pieces. Maybe even offering money for them.
On the handle of the next room's door hung a homemade door hanger, carefully cut out of cardboard and colored with markers. The letters miss-spelled out "NO ENTER!" and there was a drawing of a skull and crossbones.
At eye level, a sheet of paper was pinned with a cheerful warning: "If you enter without knocking, you'll leave without a sound!"
Alright, want to place bets? Is this my room, or is my sister just that welcoming?
I pushed the door open.
Nope, I lost the bet with myself. I thought I was the one defending my nonconformist personal space. It's clearly my sister's room. A low couch, a fluffy pink bedspread, a dozen embroidered pillows. I wonder if she made them herself? On the wall above the couch was a sheer drapery, a kind of fantasy on the theme of a princess's canopy. The wall opposite was covered in posters of late-Soviet "pretty boys"—Presnyakov, Malikov, the band "Laskovy Mai." A pink heart was pinned with a needle on one of the "Mai" members. So, she's not in the first grade; probably in at least the seventh or eighth. And clearly, our musical tastes don't align.
I didn't investigate further out of respect for her privacy. Besides, it's already clear enough. Now, what about my room?
As I suspected, it was behind the next door. A couch, black curtains, a wardrobe, and a desk. The walls were adorned with posters. Predictable ones, too—"Corrosion of Metal", "Kiss," "Sex Pistols." A decent sound system. A cassette stand filled with a variety of rock, both Russian and foreign. A stack of vinyl records in plain view. My parents sure do spoil me, I see.
Brr… The smell of smoke from my clothes hit my nose again. A shower, definitely.
I opened the wardrobe and whistled. Is it me who keeps such perfect order, or does my mom still clean my room? Underwear and clothes are neatly folded into perfect stacks—boxers, socks, t-shirts. Several pairs of black jeans, too.
Alright, the rest can wait. Shower time. Immediately. And I need to wash and comb these dreadful locks; it feels like I've got a crow's nest on my head.
I sat in the kitchen, sipping tea and flipping through an issue of "Parus," a magazine I found in my room. I was also digesting all the information I had gathered. After the shower, I took a more thoughtful walk around the apartment. Then I found what I was looking for—the box every Soviet family had. The one with documents. I sorted through various birth certificates, diplomas, and report cards. Turns out my dad has not one but two higher education degrees. One in Geology from Novokinevsk University and the other in Hydraulic Machines and Pneumohydraulic Systems from the local Polytechnic. My high school diploma revealed that I was no star student. Two Cs—one in History and, oddly enough, Geometry. Three As—in Algebra, Physical Education, and Chemistry. The rest were Bs. I graduated from School No. 80... I racked my brain to remember where it was. Ah, got it. Nearby, on Kommunistichesky Street. I studied close to home.
Judging by her birth certificate, my sister is sixteen years old. So, she's in her final year. Tenth grade? Or maybe already in eleventh?
The absence of a diploma from a music school means I play the guitar as an amateur. That's good.
I flexed my fingers on my injured hand. Everything still worked. I'll have to wrap my hand with an elastic bandage before rehearsal. And after that… I'll figure something else out.
The sound of a key scraping inside the lock was followed by girlish giggles from the hallway. Ah, that must be my sister. Home early, too—it's only noon. Skipping school, the little troublemakers.
"Why are you home?" she demanded from the doorway instead of saying 'hi' or 'how are you?'
"I've got two answers for you: one polite, the other not so much," I smirked. "Which one do you want first?"
"Ugh, you're always like this," she shrugged and darted out of the kitchen. More whispers and giggles came from the hallway.
"We need to do homework!" my sister announced loudly, clearly addressing me.
"Well then, do it. I'm not stopping you," I stood up from the table, rinsed out my cup, and placed it on the drying rack.
"You are stopping us!" she fired back defiantly. More laughter followed. She had brought two friends with her. I already knew what she looked like before she walked in—I'd seen a couple of photos. She took after our father more than our mother. Short, with dark curly hair, but unlike our dad, who was more on the lean side, she was rather plump. Her round butt was wrapped in a short knit skirt. Her legs were covered in brightly colored tights, looking at which gave me motion sickness. She wore a fluffy pink sweater. Huge plastic earrings dangled from her ears. And in her hair, there was a claw hair clip, with a thin braid on the right side of her face, woven with the same neon-pink thread.
I walked out of the kitchen. My sister's two friends immediately started whispering, giggling, and casting sideways glances at me.
"Good afternoon, ladies," I winked at them, which only caused them to exchange significant looks and start whispering to each other again. Kindergarten antics, seriously.
I retreated to my room and closed the door behind me.
Well, I suppose that counts as meeting the family. Overall, I'm okay with things. Maybe my sister and I will have some issues later on. Or maybe not. We don't seem to be particularly close anyway.
It's time to start planning. Or should I sleep first?
At that moment, a strange feeling struck my heart—what if I fall asleep and all this disappears? I had just started to get used to this place, had more or less settled in, and was even starting to enjoy myself to the point of making plans for the future. The thought that it could all vanish before I could act made me uneasy.
Ugh, what am I saying? I must be overthinking this because of sleep deprivation.
In truth, there was another thought on my mind. Not exactly worrying, but persistent nonetheless. Names. All these people from the address book, the relatives my father mentioned, classmates, and other acquaintances. I'm supposed to know all of them, right? But my memory has been failing me after the first dozen new introductions. My father's name is Viktor Pavlovich. My mother is Valentina Semyonovna. My sister is Larisa.
I got up from the couch and opened the drawer of my desk. I should start writing things down. Open files on all these people and acquaintances. Well, by that, I mean I'll find a notebook, give each person a page, and record all the known data. That way, I'll also remember better. And if anyone finds the notebook, I'll just say I want to be a writer and am keeping a catalog of character prototypes.
While rummaging through my desk for a blank notebook, I came across a journal filled with poems and rather crude drawings. I skimmed through it. Seems like I also tried my hand at writing songs, but I hadn't gotten much further than the level of lyrics our crappy band used. Ah, here are the notebooks. Since I had been trying to get into university, I had a stash of them. I opened the first page and methodically began unloading every bit of information I could remember about my acquaintances and relatives. Ages, birthdays, brief descriptions. I cross-referenced with the address book. Added phone numbers and addresses where I had them. Gradually, the confusion in my mind started to organize into a more coherent system.
Just as I reached Astaroth, I heard the sound of footsteps and giggles outside the door. It seemed the girls had eaten and retreated to my sister's room, which was right across from mine. Judging by the sound of the phone cord dragging across the floor, they had taken it with them.
The girls' voices became more audible. I paused my work to listen in. It wouldn't hurt to know what my sister was into. She's at an age where problems are bound to arise. For her, at least. So it wouldn't be a bad idea to keep an ear out for what or who I might need to deal with, if it comes to that.
"Did you see how Lopoukhova got her hair cut?'"
"Hehe, she now looks like a idiot! I told her not to do it back then!"
"Now Kondratyev will definitely dump her. He'll be too embarrassed to be seen with her!"
"He won't dump her, he loves her."
"Yeah, sure, loves her! He sits with Lopoukhova, but he's pining for Snezhana."
"Snezhana needs him like she needs a hole in her head..."
"How about we call him?"
"Let's rehearse instead!"
"Without Svetka?"
"She didn't come, that's her problem!"
'Rehearse?' I thought. 'Is my sister also dreaming of world fame? Or are they just preparing for a school concert?'
After a brief shuffle, some pop music started playing, but I couldn't recognize it. The three girls began singing along in unison.
"Love will carry away
The quiet wind of unwilling wanderings
And for me to the south, for you to the north
For fate has its own personal score." [4]
I recognized the singer by the chorus. Right, it's Anzhelika Varum. The girls were singing with such drama and affectation that I couldn't help but feel sorry for the unknown boy they were thinking of. Clearly, this was one of those cases where they chased him for three days just to tell him how indifferent they were.
I snorted and returned to organizing my acquaintances. It was clear that I didn't know much about most of the people listed in my notebook. And there's no internet to find information. Should I just start calling people? 'Hello, this is Vova Korneev, updating my contacts. Who are you, and how did we meet?'
No, that's stupid.
The song ended, but after a minute, it started playing again.
Should I play them some "Corrosion of Metal"? I mean, I'm also a musician in a way…
The Anzhelika Varum torture continued for about forty minutes. Then one of the friends started getting ready to leave. They giggled and said long goodbyes in the hallway. The door slammed, and my sister returned to the room with the other friend. To be honest, I hadn't really paid much attention to these girls. I didn't even notice if they were pretty. So I had no idea who left and who stayed.
But at least they stopped listening to music. Instead, their conversation became more intimate.
"So, how did your date go yesterday?" the friend asked.
"It was like a fairy tale, you have no idea!" my sister gushed. "We went to the 'Wave' restaurant at the river station in his car, can you imagine? We drank champagne and everything..."
"Come on, tell me more!"
"His friends were there too, they were so cool. One of them even drives a foreign car!"
"And then?"
"Nothing," my sister replied quietly after a pause.
"Chickened out?"
"I didn't chicken out… Just…"
"He's a grown man, do you really think he'll keep taking you to fancy restaurants like that all the time?"
"We kissed."
"Seriously, aren't you embarrassed to still be the only virgin in the class?"
"Who said I'm the only one? What about Berezina and Usova?"
"Do you want to end up like them?"
"Oh, come on..."
"Then stop playing hard to get!"
"I'm not playing hard to get..."
"When are you seeing him next?"
"He said he'd call."
"You're such an idiot! Are you just going to sit by the phone and wait? Call him right now!"
"Are you crazy?! What if his wife answers?"
"Tell her you're calling from work. Come on, call him!"
I wasn't in the habit of hitting girls, but I immediately wanted to smack this "friend" and kick her out the door to speed up her departure.
'None of your business!' I tried to tell myself mentally.
It didn't work. I was genuinely pissed off. This little brat was trying to convince my sixteen-year-old sister to sleep with a married man just because, at her age, it's supposedly embarrassing to still be a virgin. Unbelievable! And it's not like I'm strictly against sex before adulthood. To be honest, I lost my virginity at fifteen. My first partner was a classmate who already had some experience by then. But it's one thing when it's teenage passion or puppy love, and another when it's something like this. Ugh. I shuddered in disgust.
The notes on acquaintances can wait.
I slammed the notebook shut and decisively headed to my sister's room.