Other universes of Cherner's realities.

On September 22, the geography classroom felt alive in its own way—it was filled with the scent of dust, old maps, and something suspiciously green from a pot on the windowsill. — She’ll go to the geography Olympiad, — Cherner’s voice sounded as if the matter was already settled. — Kamilia has a better sense of direction than half the class. Shcherbakova stood with her arms crossed, looking at him coldly, almost with interest. — She’s only just starting to understand chemistry, — she replied evenly. — If you take her away now, you’ll only disrupt her progress. — Disrupt? — Cherner scoffed. — Anya, you’re exaggerating. She’s still mixing up oxidation states with spells. — But she’s trying, — Shcherbakova shot back sharply. — For the first time in years. I won’t let you break that. — You’re being overly dramatic, — he raised his voice. — I value her as a student just as much as you do. — No, — she cut him off. — You value the results. I value the process. The tension in the room became almost palpable. — You know what, — Cherner stepped closer, — I think you’re just afraid she’ll perform better under my guidance. Shcherbakova exhaled slowly. — I think you’re crossing a line right now. At that moment, Dima, unable to bear it any longer, grabbed the nearest flowerpot—one from the previous geography teacher—and, thinking "this classroom needs major renovations anyway, it can’t get worse," hurled it toward Shcherbakova. The pot didn’t reach her. Anna Stanislavovna caught it in mid-air and carefully placed it on the desk. Silence fell. — Is that it? — she asked calmly. Cherner squinted at her. — What's the matter, Anya? Are you scared? In response, a pen flew at him. He ducked. A second later, pencils and rulers were sailing back and forth across the room from both sides. What Dima didn’t know was that in seventh and eighth grade, Shcherbakova had been the kind of girl who could keep a class in line without yelling—just with her gaze. A scandalous, stubborn, and incredibly quick-on-the-draw un-crowned queen. In the hallway, a group of eleventh-graders huddled by the door. — We didn’t see anything, — Petrosyan whispered. Kostyleva nodded. Georgy Kunitsa did too. — Should we tell the teacher? — Zhilina started uncertainly. — Kamilia, where are you going?! — Trusova yelled, but Valieva had already slipped into the classroom. When she entered, the fight was nearly over. — Anna Stanislavovna, do you need help? — she asked quietly. — No, — Shcherbakova replied immediately. — We… just got a bit tangled up while looking at the same question from different angles. — A bit? — Zagitova called from the corridor. — Anya, I can’t even imagine what your "bit" looks like. How will you manage living with your... — Kamilia, duck. Something flew toward Zagitova. She almost fell. — And then my class asks, — Semenenko’s voice came from behind the wall, — Evgeny Stanislavovich, why didn’t you marry Shcherbakova? — What?! — Anya gasped. Surprisingly, Valieva thought the exact same thing, and her expression twisted into a brief, angry grimace. At that moment, Eteri Georgievna Tutberidze appeared. The people in the hallway vanished in an instant. — I’m not scary, — she smirked as she entered the classroom. Cherner spotted her and barely had time to exhale: — Oh wow... He instinctively ducked behind a desk. — Aha, — Shcherbakova said coldly, also reflexively hiding herself and Kamilia. Both knew well: for Eteri Georgievna, everyone is equal. Tutberidze looked at Dima Cherner hiding in one corner and at Anna Shcherbakova with Kamilia Valieva in another. — Well, warriors, — she called out loudly. — Let’s step out. The battle is over. I’ve won. Kamilia lifted her head, peeking out— and Shcherbakova’s hand swiftly pushed her back down. — Valieva, hide. You’re not here. Eteri Georgievna, you see nothing; she’s not here. Tutberidze laughed. — I’m waiting. Eventually, all three emerged. Later, they stood outside cleaning the school grounds. Shcherbakova and Cherner grumbled quietly. Out of nowhere, Tutberidze appeared again. — Don’t complain, children. Clean up. And remember—I see and hear everything. Cherner raised an eyebrow, silently asking, "How?" — I’m still in shock myself, — Shcherbakova whispered. Kamilia sneezed. — What? — she innocently asked. And in that moment, Anna realized something. — Valieva, where’s your hat? — Um… I don’t have one. My mom and I haven’t bought one yet. Shcherbakova looked her over—and then understood something else. Kamilia was trying to lie. The jacket was exactly like the one Alena wore last year. Anna mentally reviewed Kamilia's wardrobe and remembered: Yes, about half the time, her clothes were from Kostornaia, Usacheva, Trusova, and Kromykh. They were friends. But Frolova, Petrosyan, Akatieva, Streltzova, Petrova, and Karaseva—no, they weren’t close enough to swap clothes. Shcherbakova made a mental note: ask Medvedeva carefully. Without extra ears. The next day, Shcherbakova approached Medvedeva—without sarcasm, without harsh words. — Zhenya, — she began, — can I ask you a question… not as a colleague, but as a person? Medvedeva immediately set aside her papers. — Of course. Shcherbakova paused for a moment. — Have you noticed… that Kamilia often wears other people's clothes? Zhenya sighed. — I have. — Kostornaia’s jacket. Usacheva’s sweater. Sometimes Kromykh’s. Shcherbakova spoke quietly, as if afraid the walls would hear her. — And she doesn’t have a hat. Medvedeva nodded. — She hardly has any of her own things. Everything is either old or from the girls. She never asks—just takes what she’s given. — Why didn’t you tell me earlier? — Anna asked. — Because you wouldn’t have listened back then, — Zhenya replied honestly. — But now—you will. Shcherbakova lowered her gaze. — I realized yesterday that I’ve been looking the wrong way for too long. — You’re not a bad teacher, Anya, — Medvedeva said gently. — You just saw the person too late. — I want to help, — Shcherbakova said quietly. — But in a way that won’t scare her. Medvedeva smiled. — Then start with the simple things. Not grades. With warmth. Anna nodded. — I’ll try. And at that moment, she thought for the first time that perhaps the hardest part of this story wasn’t the chemistry exam. But learning how to be there without causing harm.