u/CalligrapherNo1390

Warm autumn sunlight illuminated the streets of Cute-Willing. It was mid-September and the days were still warm, so the residents walked around in light dresses, shorts, capris, and other summer clothes. The leaves on the trees were only just beginning to change color, and only occasionally could yellow shades be seen among the green “sundresses” of birches, maples, and walnut trees. On this particular day it was especially hot. People tried not to go outside because of the stuffiness. Even the dogs, whom their owners took for walks through the local squares and alleys, did not run around happily, but merely wandered lazily with their tongues hanging out. The old people said it would rain in the evening, because it always became muggy before rain and a haze could be seen in the air. The young did not believe them and did not even think about taking umbrellas with them as they prepared for the usual Friday disco at the “Amfor” club. The only club in town, located in the very heart of Cute-Willing, next to the shopping center and the Cute-Willing elementary school.

An eight-year-old girl with two blonde braids and graphite-colored eyes sat in the first row at the second desk. She felt stuffy: the large glass windows in the small classroom created a “greenhouse effect,” and even the two open vents did not help. She impatiently waited for the math lesson to end so she could quickly step out into the cool hallway. However, despite her desire, she listened with genuine interest to the teacher, who near the end of the lesson began talking about sines and cosines. He was trying to spark the children’s interest in mathematics, since it would only appear in next year’s curriculum. Most of the children, however, did not care, while the girl with the braids already knew everything he was saying — her parents had taught her many things in childhood. Finally the lesson ended and the children left the classroom.

— Eima, look what badges my mom brought me for my backpack.

Nancy Abron, a tall girl with braces and chestnut hair, handed Eima a pack of round badges featuring members of a popular band from the Mills-Hill district.

— Wow, that’s so cool! — Eima exclaimed as she began looking through them. — Where did she get them?

— They just started selling them at “Paletnitsa.” Not long ago.

— That’s awesome. They even have Steve “Wolf.”

The girls moved over to the staircase leading to the third floor and sat down on the very edge step.

— Yeah. It’s surprising, because he doesn’t even really like photos of himself. And here they made entire badges!

— True enough. Nancy, maybe you could give me a couple? And I’ll bring you my “Lady Milady and Super-Kit” badges in return.

Nancy thought about it. She was one of those girls who loved showing off their things but hated parting with them. Though that could hardly be called a flaw.

The girls sat on the stairs for a while longer, discussing the terms of the trade, but soon the bell rang for class. Eima’s last lesson was literature. Eima loved reading. She read a lot at home, often books clearly not meant for her age. Despite this, she did not like literature lessons because they were taught by her homeroom teacher, Mrs. Hopewell. The woman came from an intelligent and wealthy family and always tried to show her superiority over others whenever she had the chance. Eima saw these “displays” more often than anyone else, because Mrs. Hopewell was also her neighbor.

Eima sat in her seat. The students took turns reading lines from the book while Mrs. Hopewell listened and made remarks. “This line should be read with expression”; “the character is frightened here, his voice should tremble,” and things like that. Eima sincerely did not understand why one had to be so picky about the reading of eight-year-olds. They were not in an acting academy, just an elementary school. Some of them could not even read fluently yet, so what expression could there possibly be? Nevertheless, whenever it was Eima’s turn, she delivered her lines perfectly. Well, as perfectly as her age and understanding of literary dialogue allowed. After the reading, Mrs. Hopewell assigned the class to write a short essay about what they had read. Suddenly it turned out that Eima had forgotten her pen in the math classroom. Unlike there, in literature class Eima sat in the second row, almost at the very back. This seating arrangement sometimes allowed her to talk to her classmates right during the lesson.

— Hey, Cindy, — Eima whispered.

The blonde girl sitting in front of her turned away from her conversation with her desk mate and looked back with an annoyed expression.

— What do you want?

Eima was surprised by the contemptuous tone and expression on her friend’s face, because Cindy had always treated her kindly before.

— Do you have a pen? I forgot mine in the cla...

— Cindy Crow, am I to understand that you have finished your work and are ready to hand it in for grading?

Mrs. Hopewell’s strict and even voice made all the students lower their heads almost right against their desks.

— No, Mrs. Hopewell. Eima called me and I...

— I see. So now friends have more authority than the teacher? Miss Brain, what exactly could have interested Miss Crow so much?

— I just asked for a pen, — Eima said uncertainly, averting her eyes to the side.

— Dare I ask, and where did yours disappear to?

— I forgot it in the math classroom, — Eima replied guiltily.

— And how exactly did you pack your pencil case and forget your pen? Or did you not check it properly? And stand up when a teacher is speaking to you!

Eima stood up, her chair scraping slightly backward.

— I don’t have a pencil case, — she answered.

The expression on Mrs. Hopewell’s face became as though the girl had just said something like “I don’t have an arm.” She began asking questions of the sort people ask when they are searching for something they can later reproach a person for. And such information was found, because it turned out that besides not having a pencil case, Eima also did not have a folder for her notebooks or a book stand. With a self-satisfied smirk, Mrs. Hopewell began scolding the girl in front of the entire class for her irresponsibility and absent-mindedness, as well as for neglecting school rules. Opportunities for Mrs. Hopewell to criticize the “perfect student Eima” were rare, and this time she made the most of it. She even forced her to stay after class and summoned her grandmother to the school in order to “advise” her to pay closer attention to her “troubled” child.

Eima’s grandmother arrived at around two in the afternoon. The teacher informed her of the situation and waited triumphantly for her to begin scolding her granddaughter. But that did not happen.

— Mrs. Hopewell, you know we’re having financial problems right now. Eima’s parents haven’t received their salaries for half a year and haven’t sent anything, and our pension isn’t enough. So we save money wherever we can. Notebooks and pens can easily be carried in a backpack, and a book can simply lie on the desk; it doesn’t necessarily have to stand upright.

— Mrs. Brain, there is certainly some truth in your words. However, the fact remains that school rules exist. And your granddaughter is violating them. Even if we disregard the absence of certain supplies — and we cannot disregard it — there is still the matter of discipline. Talking during class! In my day, even sneezing without the teacher’s permission was frightening. I’m sure it was the same in yours.

— Well, that’s not exactly true, but...

— ...but you understand the point, — Mrs. Hopewell interrupted. — Even if I’m exaggerating. You understand that talking during lessons is unacceptable! I turned a blind eye to many things. Including violations of the dress code. But to such disrespectful... behavior! Excuse me, but in this case I cannot turn a blind eye. I will have to write a report to the principal about your granddaughter.

— Why go that far right away? We’ll fix everything, honestly. We have some savings, we’ll buy whatever is needed. Just please don’t write anything. Eima is a good girl, she’s smart, she studies well. Please don’t ruin her school record.

— Teach the child some manners and prepare her properly for school so that I won’t be forced to write reports!

Eima stood there the entire time, listening to their conversation. She did not like the way Mrs. Hopewell spoke to her grandmother. A desire to shut the teacher up even appeared in her mind, but it quickly disappeared after the mention of her appearance. It was a sore subject for the girl. At the end of last semester, she had badly torn her school skirt while visiting her secret place in the storm drains after school. The skirt had to be thrown away because there was no money for a new one. And there still wasn’t, really. So together with her blouse, Eima had to wear a skirt from her grandmother’s old uniform, which, besides its faded and dull appearance, also did not fit her lengthwise — it reached all the way down to her ankles. It did not look very pretty, and in Eima’s opinion, that was the main reason why Sam — the classmate she liked — did not want to be friends with her.

In the end, the grandmother managed to convince the teacher not to write anything to the principal, and soon they left the school building. Their house was nearby, a fifteen-minute walk away. It was a two-story building made of wooden boards painted white. According to Eima’s parents, the house was over two hundred years old.

— So, what did our little “troublemaker” do this time? — Eima’s grandfather said when she entered the house.

The grandmother stayed behind by the decorative fence, deciding to check the mailbox.

— I talked during class, didn’t have a pen, and apparently I’m a lost child who needs constant supervision.

Eima said these words while trying her best to imitate the teacher’s tone and facial expression. It looked comical, which made her grandfather smile.

— I see. So that hag was looking for another excuse to humiliate you! And this time she found one, damn her! What kind of teachers are these nowadays? Back in my day they tried to help students, and now... eh, whatever. Lunch is on the table if you’re hungry.

— Very hungry! — Eima shouted and ran into the kitchen, quickly hugging her grandfather along the way.

She nearly knocked him over with that and even got slightly scared. Though ever since his legs had begun to weaken and he started using crutches, it had been far from the first time. Eima sat down at the table, where pancakes with jam and tea were already waiting for her. The pancakes, the girl decided, had clearly been made by her grandmother before leaving. But the tea had definitely been made by her grandfather. Even though it was difficult for him to move around, he had still tried to do something for his granddaughter. Realizing this, Eima smiled and looked at her grandfather. He was already sitting on the couch in the next room, separated only by an archway, searching for something to watch on television. Eima ate everything and even drank the still steaming tea despite today’s heat. Then she went upstairs to her room to change clothes. She decided to leave her homework for later.

Only half changed — having replaced her skirt with purple sweatpants — Eima collapsed onto the bed. The conversation with the teacher began replaying in her mind. It was as if she were reliving it again. She once more saw that disgusting expression on Mrs. Hopewell’s face and her grandmother’s almost pleading eyes as she begged her not to say anything to the principal. Some kind of anger appeared inside Eima. Anger that had not been there back in the classroom. The kind of anger that only appears when there is no way to let it out, because the consequences would cost too much. Eima lay there for a while longer, still only half changed, occasionally glancing at the laptop standing on the desk beside her bed. Her parents had left it for her before they departed, for video calls and entertainment. Eima did not understand how anyone could entertain themselves with a laptop, because video games did not interest her, and calls with her parents became rarer and rarer with every passing month. So it mostly stood there unused. But at moments like this she wanted to open it, call her mom and dad, complain, and hear some comforting and supportive words. Unfortunately, the girl understood that they would not answer the call. They never answered; they only called themselves, after first sending a message to her grandmother. After lying there a little longer, Eima finally decided to finish what she had started. She threw her blouse into the laundry and put on a summer sundress. She carried the dirty clothes to the washing machine and turned it on. She knew how to do it because half a year ago she had spent nearly a whole week chasing after her grandmother, begging her to teach her how to operate this marvelous machine. She tidied up her room a little, took out her collection of badges from the desk, and checked whether she had lost the ones she was supposed to bring to Nancy on Monday. After making sure everything was in place, she decided to watch television with her grandmother and grandfather. She still had a whole hour before going to the Hopewells’ house.

***

— Carrie, are you seriously not going to “Amfor”?! — a surprised female voice sounded from the other end of the line.

— I’m seriously not going. Sue, you know the Hopewells pay double for unscheduled shifts. And after all those price increases this semester, I’m broke right now. I barely have any money left.

— You’re seriously willing to miss an evening with Brick for just a couple hundred bucks? He only just started showing interest in you!

— I know, I know. I’m not thrilled about my decision either. But honestly, I don’t want to call my parents again and ask them to send me money because their beloved daughter is starving. And Brick... he can wait until next Friday. Besides, I’ll still have a pretty good time.

— Yeah right, wiping snot and changing diapers is definitely an amazing way to spend your evening! — laughter came from the phone.

— Idiot, that’s not what I mean, — Carrie smiled. — I’ll put the kid to bed around nine in the evening and then I’ll watch some movie on that huge 128-inch TV, drink beer, and eat tasty delivery food.

— You know, I think Mr. Hopewell is seriously going to notice someday that his alcohol keeps disappearing!

— He won’t notice. He orders so much of it that I have no idea how he even manages to drink it all! Seriously, I don’t get it!

The girls talked a little longer while Carrie packed her work backpack. Soon she left for the bus stop near her house and headed to work, to the Hopewell family.

She had to travel across the entire town. And although Cute-Willing was small, the trip took around forty minutes. All that time Carrie sat listening to her favorite music and looking out the window. Even though she had lived in this town for nineteen years and knew every bush here, she still never stopped admiring some of the scenery. She especially loved Bridge Alley — a system of bridges whose shutters and railings were decorated with Japanese-style carvings, crossing the Smurf River that ran along the edge of town, zigzagging through Cute-Willing and disappearing into the forest beyond the city. The bus passed this alley along a parallel road, since there was no room for transport on the alley itself — the spaces between the bridges were connected by greenery and pedestrian paths paved with cobblestone.

The bus stopped at the corner of Cristone and Welfare streets. The Hopewells’ house was located at 47 Cristone Street. Standing near the large frame house with two floors and an attic, covered in vinyl siding and with a garage for two cars, was a small eight-year-old girl. She was wearing a sundress and sweatpants, and in her hands she held a garbage bag filled mostly with cut grass and branches from bushes. Opposite her stood a tall man in an ordinary blue T-shirt.

— Good afternoon, Mr. Hopewell! — Carrie greeted cheerfully. — Hi, Eima.

— Hi. Are you working today too? — the girl asked curiously.

— Had to come in.

— For double pay, I’d come in too, — said Mr. Hopewell. — Here, your honestly earned ten dollars for the yard work.

— Thank you, — Eima replied gratefully and ran back home, to the neighboring house.

Carrie did not need anyone to explain what she had to do. She had already been working part-time as a babysitter for the Hopewell family for half a year. She usually worked on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Only occasionally was she asked to come in additionally. As a rule, this happened whenever the Hopewells had a reason to spend time together. Today was exactly such a day — it was their wedding anniversary. Around seven in the evening they got ready, got into the car, and drove to the city center. Carrie watched over their one-year-old son Richard while also talking on the phone with everyone she could manage to reach. There were not many of them, considering that most of her friends were already having fun at the club. Just as she had planned, she put the child to bed around half past nine. After feeding him and changing his diaper, she carried Richard to the nursery, laid him in the crib, turned on the baby monitor, and then headed to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and saw a six-pack of beer sitting there.

— Must’ve been delivered after lunch if Mr. Hopewell hasn’t touched it yet, — Carrie muttered to herself.

At first she hesitated — the disappearance of one bottle from a full pack would be noticed immediately. But then she decided that the head of the family was unlikely to return home sober and even less likely to care about such trifles. Taking a beer, she checked the chicken she had left to thaw in advance. She took a fillet knife, cut it up, fried several breaded pieces, and then headed to the guest room to watch television.

The Hopewells returned around one in the morning. Outside it was dark, and only the streetlights along the road created islands of light where the darkness did not suffocate quite so mercilessly. Linda Hopewell was behind the wheel. And she was not in the best mood. Her husband had managed to ruin their anniversary by getting drunk and spending the entire evening making nothing but stupid jokes and clumsy compliments. There had not even been a trace of the romance Linda had wanted. She parked the car and closed the garage.

They entered the house, quietly unlocking the front door. It was silent and dark.

— Looks like everyone’s asleep, — Linda’s husband drawled.

She glanced across the kitchen and living room. On the wall along the staircase leading to the guest room, she noticed a flickering light.

— That Carrie forgot to turn off the TV again. Go turn it off while I check on Richard.

Linda did not like Carrie. She constantly felt as though the young babysitter was making eyes at her husband. Linda did not really like anyone at all. Except Richard. Her beloved and wonderful son. Carefully she opened the nursery door. Quietly, without a single creak. Almost perfectly. Linda had always strived for perfection. But now her actions were far from perfect. She failed to scream perfectly — instead she only let out a cry and collapsed to her knees. Shock struck her as if an electric discharge had passed through her body, gathering somewhere deep inside her chest, at its very center. A discharge that paralyzed every cell of her body, pinning her in place, not allowing her to move. A discharge that disappeared as quickly as it had come, but took part of her soul away with it. She sat there on her knees with her mouth open. An imperfect, dull, drawn-out wheeze escaped from somewhere deep inside her body. Her husband came downstairs from the second floor. He saw his wife kneeling by the open nursery door. She was staring at the wall. There, on the far wall painted blue and decorated with stars, was him. His legs had been taped to the lower corners with duct tape. His arms were taped to the upper ones. In the center, beneath a massive layer of tape, was the torso, and near the ceiling — the head, with its mouth bound shut. On both sides of the torso, written in his own blood, were the words: “prepare your child properly.”

***
This chapter is a kind of announcement for the book. I’m planning to release it one chapter per week starting on June 1st. On that day, both the first and second chapters will be released.

I will most likely publish the book on Wattpad, though I haven’t fully decided yet. If you know any better platforms, I’d be happy to hear your recommendations.

And of course, if you enjoyed the chapter, I’d really appreciate your likes and feedback.

One more important thing: the original language of the book is Russian. The English translation was done with the help of translator, since my English level is not yet good enough for full work on literary text. That’s why I’d also really like to hear from native English speakers: how comfortable is this to read? Your feedback will help me improve the quality of the book.