A Little Piece of Glass

It was amazing. Unusual. I noticed only its edge, sparkling with multicolored facets like a diamond. The rain had already stopped, but the streets were full of puddles and there were few passersby; perhaps that was why no one had noticed it.

What luck! I bent down carefully, still unable to believe my good fortune, and picked up the little piece of glass with two fingers.

Oh! It was even more beautiful than I had expected. I could not even hold back a muffled "Hooray!" The little piece of glass was smooth, with no sharp edges. It was as though someone had prepared it especially for me, so I would not cut myself...

I was seven. May. Warm rain. You could stand with your eyes squeezed shut, offering your face to the water from the sky. Then lick your slightly sour lips.

I held the little piece of glass to my chest, imagining how I would show off and tell everyone about my wonderful find. After all, this was real crystal! The jewel of my collection.

Even thick pieces of bottle glass were prized, as long as they were flat and smooth. One smooth green piece of bottle glass (like an emerald) could be traded for two yellow ones, or even three if you were lucky. An amber one was worth a full five.

The sun came out. I could not resist: I held the little piece of glass up to my eyes, toward the sun. The world became so beautiful, so magical!

In our courtyard, Irochka had the biggest collection of little pieces of glass. Her father had brought her a piece of glass from somewhere by the sea, washed by the waves! It was so very beautiful, green, but not shiny and ordinary; it was frosted and elegant. Everyone was envious. Irochka even stopped showing anyone that piece of glass; she did not want someone to give it the evil eye.

Mine was a hundred times better! I would never, ever trade it for anything.

I jumped carefully over the puddles, determined not to drop it or lose it. Several times I stopped to check: was it still there?

My palm had grown sweaty, and it seemed to me that it, too, was sparkling, shimmering like a crystal mirror.

***

A strange sound made me stop. It was coming from the bushes, which had been trimmed just recently for May Day. It sounded as though someone was trying to get out but could not. Then the sounds grew louder, and the bushes began to move.

I knew, I could feel it: something bad was happening...

The boy being beaten was a stranger, not from our courtyard, not even from our neighborhood—I knew everyone there. But I knew the other three very well: "Gray" (because his name was Seryozhka), "Red" (that one is obvious), and "Fatty" (no comment needed there, either). All of them were in fifth grade.

They noticed me and stopped. The boy’s nose was bleeding, and it looked as though a bruise was swelling beneath his eye. "Fatty" was holding him by the hair, "Gray" by the arms, and "Red," apparently, had been hitting him.

I had nowhere to go. There were only two options: either run, very fast, or attack, very unexpectedly.

I chose the second option. You cannot put up much of a fight holding a piece of glass, especially one like this. I put it down on the ground, said, "Help me, magic piece of glass!" and leaped forward, letting out what I thought was a terrifying roar. It was our courtyard’s battle cry. If I was lucky and someone heard it, those bullies would be in for it!

The boys were stunned, and I kept yelling, louder and louder, pushing the bushes aside with my hands, getting my fists ready for battle.

"Fatty" let go of his victim.  One more instant and he would pounce on me, but then... "Gray" suddenly took off running.

Surely he could not have been frightened of a seven-year-old girl! Something must have happened; that great big oaf could not have run off for no reason!

Then "Red" and "Fatty" ran after him...

I instinctively looked back, expecting to see "my own crowd," but there was no one behind me.

The "magic piece of glass" had helped!

***

The boy did not look well. He was somehow much too pale and "lopsided," though, of course, when you are clutching one side, your body looks crooked.

I held out my hand. We had to get away before his tormentors changed their minds and came back.

He stood up, holding on to a long bush, and then I understood why I had thought he was "lopsided": the boy had some awful boot on one foot, while the other was normal, as it should be.

I should not have let him see how startled I was, but that was how it happened: I had not managed to "close my mouth." The boy gave a crooked smile:

“So”—his lips would not quite obey him—“I’m ugly, am I? A ‘Quozumodo’?”

I did not know who "Quozumodo" was, but I felt awkward, as though I had been caught with someone else’s apples tucked inside my shirt.

“I have a ‘harelip,’ too. See?” I pushed out my lower lip so that my upper one would be easier to see. “I had an operation just recently!”

We both began laughing at the same time, sensing a kinship between our misshapen bodies. He laughed in "bursts"—it clearly hurt him to laugh—while I roared with laughter.

I helped him out of the bushes and brushed off his clothes.

We walked through the park, afraid of no one. He told me that he and his parents had moved from Semipalatinsk, that his father was in the military, and that his mother was expecting a baby. "I just hope it is not born like me—a little freak!" he sighed. I was not laughing...

Then I helped him wash off the blood, pushing down on the cast-iron handle of the street pump.

He had an unusual name: Klim. The military compound where my new friend’s family lived was not far away, next to the movie theater.

Klim’s mother was very fat. At first I thought she was always that fat, but then Klim pointed to her belly with just his eyes, and I understood: there was a baby living in there!

We drank tea with cream from little bowls. There was jam, too—currant...

Oh, I completely forgot to mention!

I never saw my "magic" little piece of glass again...