Chapter 1

I put on my short fur coat and hat, opened the door with my butt, and rolled my suitcases out of the bedroom. I dragged them down the hall, stopped in the living-room doorway, and called to my parents:

"That's it, Mom, Dad. Remember me fondly—it's finally happening! I'm leaving home! No need to see me off, and no need to talk me out of it, either. You can wave a white handkerchief out the window as I go, and off I go to begin a new life!"

Of course, I'd chosen a terrible time to leave my parents' house. The clock on the wall said ten p.m., snow was falling outside, and the whole country was watching an important hockey game on TV. But once you've made up your mind, there's no choosing the timing—you either do it today or you never will. Because sometimes in life, all you can do is trust the stars. And on this day just before New Year's, the stars had decided I finally needed to face the obvious: the chapter of my five-year relationship with Zhorik had closed for good!

Dad had taken the stance of a weightlifter about to attempt a major lift, repeatedly raising his butt off the couch as he followed the hockey game, while Mom read a romance novel. And judging by how red the tip of her nose had grown beneath the glasses sliding down it, the love in that book was seriously romantic. The real, earth-shaking kind! Nothing like mine!

Look at the cover: a noble savage was charging across the prairie on horseback. And of course he had a bare torso and a flowing mane of hair—more impressive than his horse's! Maintaining a mane like that would cost half a fortune! He'd need regular visits to a hairstylist and a dietitian, while he just galloped across the prairie without getting a speck of dust on him. And I won't even mention the sculpted torso and the waxing. Honestly, men like that only exist in books!

Mom turned the page and smiled dreamily—well, obviously! Dad scratched his bald head and rose halfway. Sat back down. Swore under his breath. Only Liza, the family's German shepherd, lifted her head and turned her muzzle toward me in confusion—as if to say, What are you making a fuss about, Natashka?

That's how it always is. Why are dogs so much better at reading people?

I coughed and gave my suitcase a meaningful rattle.

"Hey, you two!" I called, unable to hide my hurt. "I'm really leaving you! And you're just sitting there like this is perfectly normal!"

"Why not?" Dad called back—he was a real comedian. "Off you go, sweetheart!" He waved a hand, still watching the hockey players like a cat watching a bunch of mischievous mice. "You'll be back before you know it! You're always welcome here! Just bring some beer on your way back"—Dad glanced warily at Mom and gave me a cautious wink—"nonalcoholic!"

Actually, this wasn't the first time I'd left home. But I'd never done it for real!

"Natasha, what happened?" Mom finally set her book aside and adjusted her glasses. "Trouble at work? Or have you decided to get back together with your dentist? You dumped Georgy, right?" She furrowed her brow. "Or not anymore? I'm completely lost with you two!"

Mom didn't like Zhorik. No, that's not right. Mom couldn't stand my ex-boyfriend! But it wasn't because she was mean. It was because he'd spent five years messing with her daughter's head, swearing he loved her, moving into my room with a little suitcase and then moving back out, and never getting around to proposing.

"No, Mom, Georgy and I are finally over!" I said firmly. "Crocodile Tears won, damn her! And it looks like he has another girlfriend, too."

I said the last sentence more quietly, but Mom still let the book fall from her hands and gasped. The noble savage on the cover went face-first into the floor at full gallop—serves him right!

"Who has another girlfriend?!" she asked, her mouth falling open. She was so shocked she could barely get the words out: "That bald ferret?"

Dad immediately stroked his bald head and took offense. He'd heard only enough to think she meant him.

"Hey, now, no insults! Why am I a ferret?"

"Oh, sit down, Feyakin!" Mom waved him off. "I'm not talking about you! I'm talking about Georgy!"

"Ohhh." Dad nodded in understanding and turned back to the hockey. "If it's Georgy, then he deserves it!" He lifted his butt off the couch again, watching the puck streak toward the opposing goal. "I've been telling Natasha for ages to throw him out on his ear! Look at our Vovka—he married Olga right away and started churning out kids; he never strung her along! And this one does nothing but whine: Mom's against it, Mom won't be able to handle it… Ugh! Is that supposed to be a man?! He's a limp noodle! If Volodya were in Natasha's place, he'd have kicked that sorry excuse for a suitor down the stairs long ago!"

There he went again. Same old story.

I have an older brother, Vovka—the pride of the family, working up north. He's the perfect son and a role model for everyone. An athlete, a good student, and a university graduate with an honors degree in power engineering. Not like me: I trained as a hairstylist at a college, and I'm perfectly happy.

It had been seven years since I finished school, and Dad had been at peace for only about two of them. Before that, he kept wondering: What kind of profession is that supposed to be, Natasha? Mom was a senior economist, he was an experienced dog handler, and I was… who knew what. No, Dad respected me and loved me very much, of course, but he thought all my personal failures came from having such simple ambitions in life. I was satisfied with too little, in his view. If his daughter had been a proud, ambitious engineer like my brother, he'd have sent Zhorik to the moon in a heartbeat!

It's hard to argue with Dad. First, he's so self-reliant that he's been shaving his own head ever since his army days—so much for hairstylists! And second, even male dogs from fighting breeds don't mess with him. They respect him.

I remember being about eight when Dad brought home an American bandog named Tim. Not a dog—a machine! Vovka and I squealed with delight for three days. He was as strong as a tank, with the same kind of temperament. He hadn't gotten along with his owner, who kept him in a cage and tried to train him with beatings and starvation. But with us, he became almost human. As a family, we fed him well and showered him with affection. He turned into such a sweet dog—he pulled me on a sled and licked my nose. We nicknamed him Snorty because he made funny snorting sounds when we scratched his belly. He lived with us for ten years…

But I'm getting sidetracked.

Anyway. I love my father, I really do, but I disagreed with his theory of personal success—or rather, with how rigidly he applied it. Of course, a prestigious profession gives you a certain status in society; that's hard to argue with. But does status itself really make us happy? Is a diploma from a respectable university the only thing that gives us a reason to respect ourselves?