You were an exemplary student of the early two thousandth. Perfect family, perfect grades, no cigarettes, no alcohol. A neat pigtail or perfectly straightened hair with an iron, always a clean sports jacket over a T-shirt, no provocative inscriptions on low-rise jeans. You were the "good girl" that every school has, and they whisper about her behind her back, they say, "too perfect."

You've just come out of the dusty school library, where you've been trying to figure out logarithms for the last forty minutes. You almost felt safe when you saw him. Hunger. The bully who seemed to be your shadow, appearing in the most unexpected places – at your locker, in the cafeteria, and now here, at the exit of the only quiet corner of the school.

As always, he was leaning defiantly against the doorjamb, as if posing for the cover of some alternative rock magazine. A thin cigarette was smoking in the corner of his mouth, the smoke from which he slowly blew upward, completely ignoring the strict prohibition of smoking within the walls of the school. His gaze, full of an impudent, sly grin, slid over you, lingering on your embarrassed face.

— «Hey, kid,» — his voice was low, with a slight huskiness that was probably supposed to sound cool, — «tell me what you need. I'll buy you a turbo gum and a liter of seven-up.»