Chapter 2 Noemi
NOEMI
December… One week until Novy God
The cold outside today is bone-chilling, but it's not unbearable like the bitter freeze that'll come in January when the wind cuts through every layer and leaves exposed skin burning.
Today, the air feels crisp and clean, the snow crunching beneath my boots as I shift my feet and scan the playground where thirty children scatter across the yard in bursts of color and noise.
Their voices rise in shouts and laughter, high-pitched squeals cutting through the steady hush of falling snow.
Flakes drift down from the gray sky and catch in my eyelashes, melting against my cheeks when I blink them away.
"Anya, not so rough!" I shout. The little menace. "Akh ty, shel’ma." Children can be so violent with each other at times, and Anya has a rotten streak.
I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and tuck my gloved hands into my pockets. The fabric scratches against my chin, rough wool that smells faintly of cedar from the chest where I keep it folded between seasons. My breath forms white clouds that hang in the air for a moment before dissipating.
I count heads automatically, my eyes moving from one group to the next.
Eight children cluster around the swings, their mittened hands gripping the chains as they pump their legs to gain height.
Five more build a lopsided snowman near the fence, packing handfuls of wet snow against its base while arguing over where the arms should go.
The rest spread out across the open space, running and chasing and throwing snowballs that explode in white puffs when they hit their targets.
Sasha kicks a ball with three other boys near the edge of the playground where the grass gives way to taller weeds and frozen brush.
His dark hair sticks out from beneath his knit cap, and his cheeks flush red from exertion.
He laughs when one of the boys trips over his own feet and lands face-first in a snowdrift.
The sound carries across the yard, bright and unguarded, and it makes my chest tighten as I watch him chase after the ball when it rolls away from the group.
His coat flaps open despite how many times I've reminded him to zip it up before going outside.
I want to call out to him to remind him to zip up again, but I don't want to be a nag. Teaching young boys is especially hard if their families aren't solid, and Sasha has a rough life. If being a bit too cold at recess time is the worst that happens to him at school, it's not a horrible thing.
The ball bounces once, twice, then disappears into the weeds.
Sasha follows without hesitation, plunging into the brush where the snow lies thicker and the dead stalks rise higher than his waist. I lose sight of him immediately.
The weeds close around the space where he entered, and all I can see is the swaying of brown stems where his body disturbs them.
I pull my hands from my pockets and take a few steps in that direction.
My heart beats a little faster, though I tell myself there's no reason for concern.
He's just retrieving the ball. He'll be back in a moment, but I have an irrational fear of losing even one of these kids.
Their parents entrust their care to me, and I take that seriously.
But Sasha is different still. When I learned of his mother's cancer diagnosis, I was almost crushed.
A boy losing a parent at such a young age is life-altering.
He doesn't deserve that at all, and it only made my affection for him stronger.
I worry over him now more than any other student, so moments like this make me hold my breath in fear.
I glance over my shoulder at the other children, checking that no one's climbed too high on the equipment or wandered too close to the street beyond the fence. Everyone seems accounted for. So I turn back toward the weeds.
Sasha still hasn't emerged. The stalks continue to sway, but I can't tell if that's from his movement or from the wind that's picked up in the last few minutes.
Snow falls harder now, fat flakes that stick to my coat and melt into dark spots on the fabric.
I wipe my face with the back of my glove and feel moisture collect on the wool.
"Sasha," I call. My voice doesn't carry as far as I expect. The falling snow seems to absorb the sound and muffle it and the wind chases it away. "Sasha, come back now."
But there's no response and the weeds keep swaying. I take another few steps forward, my boots sinking deeper into the snow with each stride. The cold seeps through the leather and chills my toes. I flex them inside my socks to keep the blood moving.
The other children's voices fade slightly, though I can still hear them laughing and shouting. I glance back one more time to confirm they're all still where they should be, but I won't just let a boy wander off into the tall brush and get lost. I can't.
"Sasha." I raise my voice this time, pushing it harder. "You need to come out now. Recess is almost over."
Even at that there's still no response, and it makes my heart tick up a few notches.
I tell myself he's fine, that he's probably found the ball and is on his way back, but my body doesn't believe the reassurance.
It's like my nervous system knows something I don’t, making my hands tremble from fear instead of shivers, and my pulse is racing now.
The weeds loom larger as I approach, their dry stalks clicking together when the wind pushes through them.
Snow has drifted against their base in uneven mounds that reach up to my knees.
I stop at the edge of the brush and peer into the tangle of stems and shadows. The light's dimmer here, filtered through the dead vegetation that blocks the sky. I can't see more than a few feet ahead. Everything blurs together into shades of brown and white and gray.
"Sasha!" My voice cracks. Panic rises in my throat as I swallow hard and taste bile.
What if he's hurt? What if he tripped and hit his head on a rock buried under the snow?
What if he's lost and doesn't know which direction to go to get back?
My thoughts spiral faster than I can control them.
I take a step into the weeds, then another.
The stalks scrape against my coat and catch on my sleeves.
Snow shakes loose from the plants and falls down the back of my neck, icy droplets that slide beneath my scarf and make me shiver.
"Sasha, please answer me!" The desperation in my voice is obvious now.
I don't care. I push deeper into the brush, shoving stems aside with my arms. They snap and crack under the pressure.
My boots slip on hidden ice beneath the snow.
I catch myself before I fall, grabbing onto a thick stalk that bends but doesn't break under my weight.
My breathing comes faster, each inhale burning my lungs.
Sweat forms along my hairline and my vision narrows until all I can see is the path ahead, the small tunnel through the weeds where I think he must've gone.
Then the brush explodes outward in an explosion of snow crystals that dance away on a gust of wind.
Sasha bursts through the stalks not three feet from where I'm standing, covered in snow from head to toe.
It clings to his hat, his coat, his pants.
His face is flushed and smiling, and he holds the ball triumphantly above his head.
"I got it!"
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees go weak.
I reach out and grab his shoulders, then pull him against my chest in a hug that's too tight and lasts too long for what a teacher should give a student.
He squirms in my grip, and I feel the dampness of his coat soaking through mine.
His small body radiates warmth despite being covered in snow, and I press my face against the top of his head and breathe in the smells of cold air and child sweat and wet wool.
"You scared me," I say. My voice comes out shaky. I pull back and hold him at arm's length, looking him over for injuries. His cheeks are bright red, his nose running. Snow melts on his eyelashes. "You can't just disappear into the weeds. I thought you were hurt."
"I'm sorry," he says. His eyes are wide and apologetic. "The ball rolled really far. I had to dig it out from under a bush."
I brush snow from his shoulders and straighten his hat. My hands won't stop trembling. "You need to be more careful. And next time, answer when I call you."
"I didn't hear you." He shifts the ball from one arm to the other. "The wind was too loud."
I nod and try to compose myself but my heart still pounds against my ribs. "Go on. Run and play. But stay where I can see you."
He grins and takes off running back toward the playground, the ball bouncing against his hip as he goes.
I watch him rejoin the other boys, who immediately start kicking the ball back and forth again.
Their shouts carry as one of them scores a goal against an imaginary net and raises both arms in victory.
I turn and walk slowly back toward the playground on unsteady legs as the panic fades gradually, replaced by embarrassment at how strongly I reacted.
It wasn't appropriate. Teachers aren't supposed to lose their composure over a student wandering off for two minutes to retrieve a ball.
We're trained to stay calm, to assess situations rationally, to respond with appropriate measures.
But the moment I couldn't see Sasha, something primal took over.
Ever since his mother mentioned during parent conferences that her cancer had progressed faster than the doctors expected, my heart made space for a little boy I knew would be hurting so badly, he would fall apart.
And now I'm just waiting for that call, any day, saying his mother is gone.
It makes me want to gather him up in my arms and protect him from the pain I know is inevitable, but I can't.
Sasha doesn't know yet, or if he does, he hasn't said anything.
He comes to school every day with his lunch packed and his homework completed and a smile that seems too bright for a child carrying that burden.
Sometimes, I catch him staring out the window during lessons, daydreaming, but he always snaps back when I call his name.
He answers questions correctly. He participates in group activities, plays with the other children at recess.
I reach the edge of the playground and stop beside a wooden bench half-buried in snow.
My legs feel heavy, weighted down by more than just wet fabric.
I watch Sasha laugh as he kicks the ball past one of his friends.
He moves with such ease, such unconscious grace, completely unaware that his world is about to shatter.
Part of me wants to talk to his mother again, to offer some kind of help or support.
But what would I say? What could I possibly offer that would make a difference?
I'm a single woman living in a small apartment on a teacher's salary.
I barely make enough to cover my own expenses each month.
Rent, utilities, groceries, the occasional book or pair of shoes when mine wear out.
There's no room in my budget for raising a child, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of Sasha ending up in some state facility where he'll be just another number in an overwhelmed system.
I know life isn't fair, but this has to be the worst feeling of all—knowing how unfair life will be to someone and being unable to stop it.
But if I could change things, I would. And that boy would only know love and happiness for the rest of his life.