"Your friend needs to go home," I said. "Come on, get up and get out of here."
"Have you lost your mind?!" my sister screeched, jumping off the couch. "Get out of my room, now!"
"Sweetie, didn't you hear me?" I turned to her friend. A blonde. Tall, about half a head taller than Larisa, with a hairstyle that screamed 'I'm a mess,' complete with a side braid. She even had a bright, neon-colored ribbon woven into it. Probably pretty, if it weren't for the clownish makeup. And the gum-chewing. She was clearly the "pretty friend," the one who drags around my chubby sister to look even more striking by comparison. "And who are you to tell me what to do?" she asked insolently.
"You're not at home, so don't act up," I said. "Get up and leave. I need to talk to my sister. Or do you need directions?"
"Nadya, don't listen to him!" my sister tried to push me out of her room. But I ignored her. I'd talk to her later.
"Fiiine," her friend suddenly smiled with her pearly lips and stood up dramatically. "Lara, I'll go. I don't want to interrupt... your conversation."
She swayed her hips as she walked slowly toward me, stopping just in front of me, her gaze lingering on my face. She brushed against me with her hip.
"Oh, sorry..." she drawled in a fake, coy tone. She licked her lips. Turning back to my sister, she fiddled with the zipper on her ridiculous purple-red-green sports jacket, playing with it so it alternated between exposing a white lace bra and closing up to her neck.
"Bye, Lariska," she said. "I'll call you. Tell me later how your... conversation went."
As she left, she brushed against me again with her hip. Seduction level: neighborhood tease.
Finally, I looked at my sister. To say she was in a bad mood would be an understatement. She was red in the face, nostrils flaring, and her eyes flashing. She'd shoot lightning if she could.
"Have you lost your mind?!" she hissed angrily. "What the hell was that? How dare you kick out my best friend?"
"That little bitch isn't your friend," I said. "And you're a fool if you think sleeping with a married man is stylish or cool."
"You were eavesdropping too?!" Larisa shrieked and punched me in the chest with her tiny fist.
"Hard not to when you were shouting loud enough for the whole apartment to hear," I smirked. "Larisa, I'm serious. I'm not here to lecture you, but what that pimp without bits wannabe is pushing you to do is trashy. Sex should be about love—or at least for fun. But not because it's uncool to be the only virgin left."
"What do you know about it anyway!" Larisa snapped, turning away from me, her shoulders slumping.
"Maybe not much," I shrugged. "But enough to see that your so-called friend is acting shitty. Real friends don't behave like that."
"Why do you even care?" Larisa muttered, still not facing me.
"Why shouldn't I care?" I said. "You're my sister. Of course, I care if someone tries to set you up with some asshole."
"He's not an asshole!" she turned back to me, her eyes blazing. "You don't even know him, so why are you talking?"
"How old is he?" I asked.
"Only thirty-seven," she said.
"Only?" I laughed. "So, he's a couple of years younger than Dad? Yeah, sure. A real young prince in a white Mercedes."
"So what?" she challenged. "All the girls do it!"
"Why?" I asked.
"Well..." Larisa faltered, sitting on the couch and burying her face in her hands.
"See, you can't even answer that," I sighed and sat across from her, trying to catch her eye. Damn, I was already regretting starting this conversation! What the hell kind of psychologist am I for a teenage girl? But I couldn't just stand by and do nothing. Listening to the garbage that brat Nadya was filling my sister's head with was more than I could take. But how could I get across that I only wanted what's best for her?
Damn it. Just don't say that out loud, or it'll sound like a lecture from Mom.
"Larisa, I'm sorry I barged in without knocking," I said. "But I couldn't stand by when I heard that Nadya trying to pressure you into sleeping with some married creep. It makes me sick that someone's trying to turn my sister into a cheap fling!"
"Why do you care?" Larisa lifted her head and looked at me. Tears were beginning to well up in her eyes. "Do you even understand what you've done? Now tomorrow... Ugh... She..."
"Your 'best friend' is going to make your life hell at school?" I squinted. "Remember what I said. She's not your friend. And who knows why she wants you to sleep with that creep. Maybe he's paying her to bring him virgins."
"How dare you...!" Larisa gasped in indignation.
"Shhh, calm down, sis," I patted her hand in a conciliatory manner. "I'm on your side, really. I can tell you didn't really want to do it anyway. If you did, you would've already, right?"
She frowned and looked away.
"I don't even know what I want," she said quietly. "I don't want to talk about it anymore, just go. Now I have to deal with all these problems because of you..."
"Larisa, I'm your brother," I said. "I want you to always remember that I'll stand up for you against anyone."
"You?" she exclaimed, giving me such a disdainful look that I wanted to disappear. Damn it... I always forget that I look like a skinny loser. "Sure, if some first-graders pick on me, I'll come to you for help."
"You shouldn't say that," I winked. "People change."
"Just leave," my sister scoffed. "And close the door on your way out."
I might have gotten angry, but she was right. While I was in the shower, I took another good look at myself in the mirror. I'm a scrawny guy, no denying that. I can fix it, but it's not something that happens overnight. Still, why put it off?
The conversation was pretty dumb. I wanted to do the right thing, but it turned out... well, it turned out the way it did. I just hope I didn't ruin everything. And I hope Lariska won't call that jerk in the fancy car—or whatever she said he drives—out of sheer contrariness and rush to spread her legs for him.
I felt a sudden urge to punch a wall with all my might. To hit a punching bag. A tough sparring session would be nice. Phew.
Anyway, there's no point in staying home. I'll take a walk. Get to know the neighborhood, maybe find a gym. I did my best to tame my hair and tied it in a ponytail at the back of my head. I looked in the mirror. Nope. This won't do. Ideally, I would just go to a barbershop and have them cut all this "beauty" off into a buzz cut. But no. For now, I'm still a metalhead, and among metalheads, it's customary to have long hair. So I just need to learn how to manage this hairstyle so that it doesn't make me want to puke every time I look at it.
I let the ponytail loose, grabbed the comb that my thoughtful mom bought for me, and patiently started combing through each strand, hissing and cursing under my breath.
I probably spent fifteen minutes on this pointless task. But at least my hair looked decent now. Slicked back — not as bad as having a head full of tangles and cowlicks. I pulled on my boots, threw on a jacket, and headed out.
I knew this neighborhood, at least somewhat. I'd been here before — or rather, I would be later. But in the future, everything would change drastically. Where an old movie theater with pretentious columns now stands, there will be a massive shopping mall made of mirrored glass. And where thirty years from now there will be colorful high-rise apartment blocks, there's currently just a private sector. So the only familiar things here were the street names, you could say. And the residential buildings and dormitories were still in the same places. I stopped by a grocery store and glanced at the empty counter, where a bored saleswoman was sitting. She didn't even notice I had entered. On the shelf behind the grim woman in a white coat stood a little pyramid of cans of seaweed. And the glass display fridge was completely empty.
"Milk and bread will be delivered at five," she said without looking at me. "No sugar."
I hurriedly retreated. I wonder where my parents manage to do their shopping? Our fridge at home is fully stocked. We have sausage, canned meat with potatoes, and all sorts of vegetables and fruits. I should probably help with the family grocery run so I'll know where they manage to find all that in these conditions.
I found a gym about forty minutes into my wandering around the neighborhood. The sign "Samson Gym" adorned the entrance to the basement of an ordinary, average Khrushchyovka. And it was just two buildings away from mine. I had just gone the other way during my initial neighborhood exploration.
I pushed the gate, which served as an external door to the gym, and descended a short, gloomy staircase dimly lit by a single weak bulb at the bottom.
I opened the second door.
The gym started right there. A long room, not very big. A low basement ceiling. A couple of fluorescent lights gave the skin of those working out a slightly deathly hue. It smelled of sweat and some intense joint pain remedy. The smell was so strong that it stung the eyes. The walls had clearly been painted a long time ago. So long ago that from the remnants of gray paint, where the plaster hadn't yet fallen off, it was hard to tell what color it originally was. A narrow strip of a window under the ceiling was covered with a thick layer of grime. On the far wall — a long mirror. And the room seemed to turn there, so it was probably L-shaped.
Yeah, pretty harsh. Wooden benches with blue legs, weight plates stamped "Made in the USSR," a rack for mismatched dumbbells clearly welded by Uncle Vasya from the neighboring building. Probably while drunk. A Swedish wall. A tattered pommel horse, just like the one we used to jump over in school during gym class. Among the machines, there was a leg press and some semblance of a cable crossover. But whatever, there were enough free weights here, and the selection was... adequate. It would do. And it was close to home.
"Hello, who can I talk to about the terms for the gym membership?" I asked politely, and that's when they finally noticed me.
There were five guys in the room. Their heads were almost completely shaved, with bulging biceps, wearing tank tops, boxer shorts, and rubber sandals. Two of them were doing bench presses—one was pushing a frighteningly huge barbell, and the other was spotting to make sure he didn't drop it and break everything down to the floor. The third guy was curling dumbbells for his biceps, standing in front of a mirror. He watched his reflection, exhaling loudly with every rep. The fourth was using the leg press machine. And the fifth was trying to attach a twenty-kilogram plate to his belt.
When I opened my mouth, all five of them turned to look at me.
"What?" one of them said, flashing a gold tooth.
"I'd like to work out in this gym," I said. "I came to find out the terms. How much is a membership, the hours, that kind of stuff."
"Look at this guy, huh?" Another musclehead jabbed a finger at me and laughed. "Membership? Are you sure you're not lost, shithead? You're just a fucking nerd with a hairdo!"
"Exactly," I nodded. "But I'd like to stop being one. And get biceps like yours."
In reality, those "guns" are useless, of course. But judging by the look on the musclehead's face, he was damn proud of his biceps. He'd marry them if it were legal to wed your own muscles.
"Hey, did you walk into the wrong door or something?" the third guy chimed in. An older man, shorter than me, but much broader in the shoulders. His nose was crooked to one side. When he grinned in what was supposed to be a smile, it was clear he was missing a couple of teeth. "Does this look like a fucking kids' sports school?"
Great. This bunch was clearly jumpy and unstable. That meant I had to speak evenly, make no sudden movements, but not back down either. Otherwise, I'd be toast. I'd already thrown them off by just showing up here.
"It does not," I nodded. "But there's a sign outside, the door's open. So I walked in."
In a past life, before I joined the army, I used to work out in a gym. Not a basement one, but the kind that used to be something like a kids' sports school. In the sports complex attached to the "Kineva" pool. Now that I think about it, I should've gone there; the years were the same. But some devil pushed me to find a gym closer by. Maybe I was in the mood for some 90s-style roughness. The kind everyone suddenly loved to reminisce about in the 2020s. Well, here's your roughness. In all its ape-like glory. In the form of five thugs surrounding me on three sides. Technically, the exit was still open. Nothing was stopping me from squeaking, "Sorry, guys, wrong door!" and bolting outside. And they'd probably let me go in peace. They were grown men, after all. All around thirty, hard to say exactly. They looked... rough. Despite all the working out. Too many marks of... let's say, a life not exactly lived righteously.
"And what makes you think the sign is meant for shitheads like you?" the toothless guy came up close, and I was hit with a wave of yesterday's booze. Yeah, not taking care of his heart. Lifting weights while hungover—he's not far from kicking the bucket. Although, he'll probably die from something else before a heart attack. Guys like him usually meet their end from a fatal overdose of lead.
"Hold on, Kostyan," the biceps fanatic asked in a sickly sweet voice, with a nasty wheeze and a mocking grin. "Maybe he knows someone... Hey, kid, did someone send you, or did you come here on your own?"
"Completely my own initiative, sir" I replied. For a second before that, I'd tried to recall some local tough guy's name from that time. Not to name-drop, just because their names sometimes came up in conversations with classmates. It would be stupid to mention someone I didn't know. If I blurted out that I came from some Vasya Sizo or Sergey from Archangelsk, I might end up talking to them right now.
"So you're pretty brave, huh?" The biceps fanatic's grin faded as he also moved closer. If he decided to shove me, I definitely wouldn't stay on my feet—he weighed at least twice as much as I did. I shifted my weight to one leg, ready to step back if needed and not fall over. "Not scared of anything, huh? Just waltzed in here like it's no big deal, thinking everyone here's gonna welcome you, right?"
"No, not at all," I shrugged slightly. "I was pacing outside for like forty minutes before coming in. But I figured if I didn't go for it, I'd stay a scrawny piece of crap for the rest of my life."
The five thugs burst out laughing. Looks like I scored a point. Soon I could probably bring up the cost of the membership again.
"So now what?" the musclehead who had been silent until now suddenly spoke up. The one with the twenty-kilogram plate on his belt. He finally managed to fasten the carabiner. "Did you think we were just gonna be best buds or something? You think this is where you find buddies, you shaggy-haired little shit?!"
"Never even crossed my mind," I responded, emphasizing politeness.
"The only thing that'll cross your mind is my fist, hairy," he grinned too. In the harsh daylight, his yellow teeth, stained from cheap cigarettes, looked downright menacing. "This is a place for real men, not sop like you."
"And you must have been born a mighty warrior, huh?" I said with a hint of sarcasm. And immediately cursed myself mentally. What a fucking idiot! Joking around here?! These meatheads will smear me across the walls like plaster before I can even squeak "For the Airborne Forces!" And judging by the glint in the eyes of the guy with the barbell plate on his belt was already planning something along those lines. His hands twitched toward the carabiner he'd struggled to fasten. The bicep freak bared his teeth again. The gold-toothed guy put on a serious and significant face. And the guy who'd been silent, pressing the leg machine, quietly circled around and blocked my exit. I had to do something to fix this. Just as I opened my mouth, another voice came from the back of the room.
"What the hell are you guys doing over there?"