The driver, a man of Caucasian appearance, famously drove Nastya through the streets of the city. Finally, he stopped near a large house on the outskirts of the park, surrounded by a high lattice fence. Nastya read the name on the plate at the gate, which had still hung, apparently, from sovdepovskih times. “Klara Zetkin Boarding School”. On her way from Moscow, the taxi driver of this provincial town was put a full stop.

“Thank you,” said Nastya, rummaging around in a bag for settlement with Caucasians.

“Did your relative go away?” - suddenly asked the taxi driver, and looked somewhere down. Nastya caught his gaze on her skirt, on the way she rode above her knees, exposing her slender, attractive legs. With a sharp movement Nastya straightened her skirt, quickly found small money and handed it over to an impudent taxi driver.

“I came here to work,” she answered coldly.

“Klara Tselkin’s orphanage,” the Caucasian suddenly gave out, focusing precisely on the replaced letter in the last word — the surname of the once famous revolutionary. The detachment of this hacha angered and simultaneously struck her. Noting Nastina reaction, the taxi driver explained. - We call it that.

- Why? - found it necessary to ask the surprised Nastya.

The taxi driver in response grinned at some sticky smile and said only one in response.

- Blyadyushnik.

Pokhabnoe word nasty creak sounded in Nastya in the ears. She gave goose bumps on her back. But at the same time, it seemed that there was a smell of some sort — one that the mixed female and male bodies emit. The smell of lust. Such a characteristic of the institution, its future place of work, from a local resident caused questions. She didn’t clarify anything more from this simple expression in terms of the carrier, who nonetheless kindly helped her to pull out the suitcases.

“I myself,” Nastya cut off the offer to bring her things to the door of the building. Picking up two suitcases, she walked with a confident walk along the avenue, but with her back she felt how a Caucasian was looking behind her at a walk, long, attractive men, legs, and a neat, bulging ass. “Hamier”, Nastya thought about the driver, and turned her attention to the purpose of her trip - the women's boarding school. The gray walls expressed the loneliness of the life of local girls growing up without parents. Stairs and corridors were empty, there were lessons. Advertising posters "Victor Glebov - our mayor!" Hung everywhere on the walls.

The director of the boarding school, Andrei Petrovich, a man under fifty, looked like a sheriff from American Westerns. Met her affably, looked from head to toe. Estimated. Nastya was no stranger to such a view.

- Well, thanks to the capital, that the teacher was able to provide us. Admittedly surprised that such a young girl agreed to distribution in our wilderness, but also happy. - began the welcome monologue Andrei Petrovich, glaring over Nastya's chest, bulging from under a thin blouse. - With local teachers deficit. The teacher in Russian is no longer two months, your history colleague replaced the lessons, well, you know ... So you are just in time. - And continued. - Start with high school students. To live, until I decide, through the executive committee, the issue of allocating municipal housing, I offer you here in the orphanage, with girls, I will give you a separate room. I assure you, this will be temporary. Do you mind? The director asked, waiting for an objection.

- No, I agree, - hurried to assure Nastya. - When can I start lessons?

“Yes, even today,” said the director. - The girls are glorious, you will have no problems with them. We hold discipline. Although many of the pupils, of course, with a difficult history. With the provision of food and clothing, too, thank God, everything is in order. The boarding school is personally supervised by the mayor of the city, in addition, sponsored by our local weaving mill. This is the largest enterprise in the region - a giant, one might say. And after sending our education, we send our girls to the mill as apprentices.There they are prepared and employed as weavers.

This narrative of the director reminded Nastya of an interview with a simple-minded official about successes for publication in a local newspaper. But Nastya felt that behind this simplicity of Andrei Petrovich something else was hiding. He was not a simpleton.

An hour later, he presented it to 11th grade students as a teacher of Russian language and literature. And also, as their new class teacher. Nastya was not much older. The girls, young, but already experienced the fate of fate, with interest looked at the new one. No child will live in this boarding school if everything is fine with his parents. The faces of the girls - the most different, cute and really beautiful, united one thing, that Nastya caught immediately. Independence, even some ... adulthood. They differed from girls who grew up in families. Nastya immediately wanted to start her first lesson. The director left, and she proceeded. Briefly talking about the program of teaching Russian language and literature, Nastya gave the first task.

- I propose to write an essay on the topic: "My life after the boarding school." Describe all your plans and what you want to accomplish, Nastya announced to her students. - Feel free to fantasize about your future success.

- Will there be success? - one of the girls asked with a sneer. Nastya paid attention to her. Chernyavka, with a short haircut and bright dark as two coals, eyes, looked skeptically at Nastya.

“Of course they will,” the teacher answered confidently. - After all, this is your life, your road.

“The road from here is ONE,” said the “chernushka”. It is not clear what she meant, but Nastya was hurt with a hint of doom. From this phrase gave cold, the class was silent.

- What's your name? - she asked the schoolgirl in a friendly tone.

“Tanya,” the girl sounded.

"In many ways, I will have to convince them," thought Nastya. “Tanya, I believe that it is you who will choose your path,” said the teacher.

“C'mon, Button, write what I’ve said,” someone from the girls added in support of Nastya.

- Why Button? - clarified Nastya.

“Her name is Knopenko,” said another girl.

“We’ll write,” the female students almost assured them. The girls livened up. It was clear that the topic hooked them.

The lesson was over, and Nastya was led to her room. She laid out things, brewed tea. Only then I noticed how the evening came - her first in this boarding school. I dialed the mobile phone number of the person who was waiting in the distance from here for the call. For him, her stay here was very important.

“I am on the spot,” Nastya said.

She carefully, more than ever, read the essays of her students, noting how sincere the girls wrote. Literacy was lame, but my thoughts gave me freshness, the pressure that is created by the secret dream. A grievance through their texts for their fate found compensation in girlish dreams. Some had plans to work at a weaving mill, but there were also truly original ideas. Button handed an essay with only one phrase: "I want to leave this city far." Nastya shook her head, grinned, and decided not to rate her.

But one essay stood out among the rest. It was written competently, artistically, and about love. The girl wrote about how, after completing her studies at the boarding school, her beloved boy who now serves in Chechnya will take her, they will marry, have children, and build a huge house. From the text came a huge positive and faith in tomorrow, then, without which lonely abandoned girls hard to live. She turned the cover and read the author's name and surname. "Helium." “Beautiful and rare name,” Nastya noted. She brought out the highest mark in large print, and the next day she analyzed works with her students. The turn has reached the Gelina composition. Nastya praised the work and asked the author to stand up.

A short, tiny girl timidly rose from behind the desk. Pure blue eyes from under the bangs of light golden hair shyly looked at Nastya.She seemed younger than her contemporaries, and if it were not for the mounds of a mature breast, Nastya would not have believed that this angelic creature is more than sixteen.

- I suppose, Sunny ...