Chapter 5

"Ahem!" suddenly came loudly from the lectern, and all three of us flinched. The young English teacher stood at the board, looking at us sternly. "You. Yes, you." He nodded his chin in my direction. "What is your last name?"

"Catkin," I said, straightening as I stood, feeling Vicky and Dasha tense up beside me.

"Could you please remind us of the rule about the Past Perfect?"

(Please remind us of the rule about the Past Perfect.)

That wasn't hard to explain, and I exhaled inwardly. I could handle this!

"Of course..." I said brightly, ready to answer the question easily... but then froze when I saw, in the young man's place... the host, Valentine.

He looked at me slyly with black onyx eyes, smiled devilishly, and winked.

What the hell? Or was I seeing impossible things because I was nervous?

Feeling awkward and shocked at the same time, I mumbled helplessly:

"It's... the tense you use... when the past is more past than the... past?"

(It's... the tense you use... when the past is more past than... the past?)

The powdery scent of vanilla brushed my nostrils. I blinked in astonishment... and sneezed loudly. Valentine vanished at once, as if he had never been there.

The classroom burst into laughter, the teacher tactfully closed his eyes, and Vicky groaned softly, addressing Berest:

"That's it, Dasha, Catkin broke, and nothing has even started yet! I'll have to die like a swan after all, or he'll give her a failing mark!"

The girls tugged at my hands so I would sit down, and Craney jumped to her feet.

"Sorry, what did you say your name was?" she asked the teacher. "Could you repeat it for those of us who were late?"

"Igor..." he answered, stumbling under Crane's gaze, but immediately corrected himself strictly. "I mean, Mr. Viktorovich."

"Mr. Viktorovich," Vicky said, putting on a respectful, intelligent face, "you're such an unconventional teacher. It's so intriguing!"

Someone in the classroom snorted again, and the young man was clearly thrown.

"Uh... Thank you..." he answered, not knowing what else to say.

"And your thinking is so original, it makes me ponder higher things," Vicky added boldly, fluttering her brown eyes. "For example, why Past Perfect is always confused with Past Simple. It's so interesting! Won't you tell us more?"

A ripple of laughter ran through the rows, and the handsome teacher, whom Crane had clearly flustered for real, cleared his throat and hurriedly turned back to the board.

"Um... I think we'll get to that topic soon. Sit down!"

"Girls, the rescue line worked!" Vicky whispered triumphantly, plopping down in the seat beside me when the teacher returned to the lecture, no longer risking a look in our direction. "Did you see how I hypnotized him?! All thanks to the article, and no trouble at all!"

"We saw," Dasha snorted with laughter, "how he stared at you. Now you have two paths, Craney: either pass English with an A, or marry him."

"The first option is definitely out, but the second... I'm not ruling it out," Vicky smirked smugly, opening her notebook. "I love blondes. Just look, girls, at his back and everything below it! If he ever asks me on a date... I hope we can do without rescue lines and without English!"

I tried to bring my thoughts back to class and the new topic, but I still couldn't get over Valentine's sudden "hello." The classroom scene, like the students' laughter, gradually dissolved. My friends were writing something in their notes, and in my head one single countdown sounded louder and louder: two days.

Two days, and I would be on the other side of the screen.

Two days, and my life would split into before "airing"... and after.

And whatever apocalypse was waiting for me ahead, maybe the Amazon costume, the bat, and the rescue lines weren't such a bad idea after all?

Friday evening. Gravity Point Sports Club.

Dennis

 The air smelled of rubber and hot bodies. Sneakers squeaked over the smooth floor, short shouts rang out, and mats took dull, heavy hits. The sports club gym was in the middle of its usual Friday training session, and once again I was going all out, focused on finishing the final jump sequence where I'd added a new, difficult element.

I took a running start, cleared several obstacles, pushed off the wall, jumped onto a cube, launched upward, and caught the high bar with my fingers. For a moment I hung in the air, muscles tight, then pulled myself up with a jerk, lifted my body over the bar, and stood on it. I pushed off, rolled over my shoulder, and landed on the mat exactly how I wanted: light enough to make it seem like gravity in the gym had been set to minimum.

Perfect. A couple more repeats, and I could call it a day with this sequence.

"Nice one, Demon!" Art, an old parkour friend, jogged up from the side and clapped me on the shoulder. He pointed at the clock. "And you came in faster too. Add some ninja smoke," he gave a short laugh, "and it's a movie."

"Go to hell."

One of the new guys figured out how to turn the silent speaker back on, and the gym filled with The Prodigy's "Out of Space - Breakbeat Remix." First came the softer intro, then the dense, springy beat hit, the kind that always made you want to move faster, higher, sharper. Which was exactly what I planned to do.

Art and I went into our run-up in sync, cleared the walls and blocks, each repeated our own combo sequence, and only then made room for the other guys.

Walking over to the bench by the coaching area, I wiped my neck with a towel and picked up a bottle of water. I'd managed to drink half of it when I noticed Lera nearby, a girl I knew from university and sometimes saw here. Pretty enough for me to notice when she appeared, but not enough to keep my eyes on her for more than a couple of seconds.

"Hi, boys," she smiled. "Every time I see you jump, I think you're both insane. Only lunatics happily risk their necks for adrenaline."

"Hey," Art nodded, and I answered:

"That's about right."

The machines were on the other half of the gym, and she came over to take something from the equipment rack. The fact that this was not the first time it had happened to coincide with the moment Psycho and I were by the bench scratched at some private irritation inside me.

"Dennis, give me your email address," Lera suddenly asked with a smile, turning to me and casually adjusting the dark hair on her shoulder. "I promise I'll remember it."

"What do you need it for?" I lifted the bottle, took two more long swallows, and gave the girl a crooked sideways look.

"I'll write you a letter, sign it from your fan, and send it by email. What if you answer? Maybe you'll want to tell me the story of your relationship with parkour."

I had always been good at telling stories, but today I had no desire to, and Art read my mood exactly right when I turned away and wiped my mouth with my fist.

"He won't answer," he told the girl with a lazy smirk. "He has a whole line of letters! Forwards them to my email and ghosts everyone himself. Better write me directly. I'll answer!"

"He's just difficult. He doesn't give anyone a chance, while you, Psycho, are the opposite." Lera smiled, not offended. "You'll answer, but you'll immediately ask me to send a swimsuit photo, right? Did I guess?"

"Damn! How did you know?!"