HENRY BANOFFEE (The Kindergarten Teacher and the Spirit of Banoffee)

June​ ​1st.

Social​ ​media​ ​had​ ​finally​ ​come​ ​back​ ​to​ ​life​ ​after​ ​a​ ​two-week​ ​stretch​ ​of​ ​complete​ ​dullness.

 

With​ ​a​ ​quiet​ ​sigh,​ ​her​ ​fingertip​ ​swiped​ ​across​ ​the​ ​phone​ ​screen.

Rynny​ ​opened​ ​the​ ​official​ ​website​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Government​ ​Lottery​ ​Office​ ​to​ ​check​ ​the​ ​results​ ​of​ ​the​ ​four​ ​lottery​ ​tickets​ ​in​ ​her​ ​hand.

 

“​Please​ ​let​ ​me​ ​win...​ ​just​ ​once,​”​ ​she​ ​muttered​ ​softly,​ ​typing​ ​in​ ​the​ ​six-digit​ ​number​ ​into​ ​the​ ​search​ ​box​ ​before​ ​tapping​ ​the​ ​“​Check​ ​Results​”​ ​button.

 

The​ ​screen​ ​blinked​ ​once​ ​before​ ​displaying​ ​the​ ​verdict:

“​Sorry,​ ​you​ ​didn​’​t​ ​win.​”

 

“​Tsk.​ ​What​’​s​ ​there​ ​to​ ​feel​ ​sorry​ ​about?​ ​Even​ ​I​—​the​ ​one​ ​who​ ​bought​ ​them​—​don​’​t​ ​feel​ ​bad,​”​ ​Rynny​ ​grumbled​ ​under​ ​her​ ​breath,​ ​slipping​ ​the​ ​four​ ​losing​ ​tickets​ ​back​ ​into​ ​her​ ​purse,​ ​as​ ​she​ ​always​ ​did.​ ​Every​ ​draw,​ ​they​ ​became​ ​little​ ​mementos.

 

Even​ ​though​ ​she​ ​never​ ​won​ ​a​ ​thing,​ ​she​ ​still​ ​felt​…​ ​there​ ​was​ ​something​ ​oddly​ ​fun​ ​about​ ​the​ ​shared​ ​excitement​—​being​ ​part​ ​of​ ​the​ ​collective​ ​thrill.

 

She​ ​let​ ​out​ ​a​ ​long​ ​sigh​ ​and​ ​opened​ ​Facebook​ ​to​ ​chase​ ​the​ ​boredom​ ​away.

 

The​ ​first​ ​post​ ​that​ ​popped​ ​up:

A​ ​picture​ ​of​ ​a​ ​winning​ ​lottery​ ​ticket​ ​with​ ​the​ ​caption:

“​Thank​ ​you,​ ​money​ ​from​ ​heaven​!​”

 

She​ ​scrolled​ ​down.​ ​Another​ ​post.​ ​Someone​ ​flaunting​ ​a​ ​perfect​ ​match​ ​on​ ​the​ ​two-digit​ ​ending.

“​Snack​ ​money​’​s​ ​in​!​ ​Got​ ​eight​ ​tickets​—​just​ ​enough​ ​for​ ​a​ ​treat​!​”

 

Rynny​ ​left​ ​a​ ​teasing​ ​comment:

“​Must​ ​be​ ​some​ ​fancy​ ​snack.​”

 

There​ ​were​ ​dozens​ ​of​ ​replies​ ​under​ ​the​ ​post.

Some​ ​were​ ​crying​ ​emojis.​ ​Others​ ​laughed​ ​it​ ​off​ ​with​ ​irony.

 

“​The​ ​number​ ​I​ ​threw​ ​away​ ​yesterdayyyyyy​!​”

 

“​Next​ ​draw,​ ​please​ ​let​ ​it​ ​be​ ​first​ ​prize​!​ ​Heaven​’​s​ ​cash,​ ​come​ ​to​ ​me​!​”

 

“​Ugh​!​!​!​ ​How​ ​many​ ​times​ ​must​ ​I​ ​be​ ​hurt​ ​by​ ​the​ ​words...​ ​‘​I​ ​knew​ ​it​!​’​”

“​I​ ​always​ ​follow​ ​my​ ​license​ ​plate​—​24​ ​and​ ​42​—​every​ ​single​ ​draw,​”​ ​said​ ​Dilly,​ ​the​ ​nanny,​ ​grimacing​ ​beside​ ​Rynny.

“​But​ ​the​ ​moment​ ​I​ ​gave​ ​up​ ​on​ ​it...​ ​bam​!​ ​It​ ​came​ ​out.​ ​I​ ​was​ ​so​ ​stressed,​ ​you​ ​have​ ​no​ ​idea.​”

 

“​No​ ​way,​ ​seriously?​”​ ​Rynny​ ​chuckled.

“​I​’​ve​ ​been​ ​chasing​ ​777​ ​for​ ​five​ ​years.​ ​Everyone​ ​keeps​ ​saying​ ​if​ ​I​ ​don​’​t​ ​buy​ ​it,​ ​that​’​s​ ​when​ ​it​’​ll​ ​win.​ ​So​ ​I​ ​keep​ ​going.​ ​Can​’​t​ ​stop​ ​now.​”

 

Just​ ​then,​ ​a​ ​message​ ​from​ ​her​ ​mother​ ​popped​ ​up,​ ​along​ ​with​ ​the​ ​latest​ ​lottery​ ​results​—​the​ ​first​ ​prize,​ ​two-digit,​ ​three-digit​ ​front​ ​and​ ​back​ ​numbers.

“​Have​ ​you​ ​checked​ ​the​ ​lottery​ ​yet,​ ​dear?​”

 

Rynny​ ​quickly​ ​typed​ ​her​ ​reply:

“​I​ ​did​!​ ​Didn​’​t​ ​buy​ ​the​ ​number​ ​you​ ​told​ ​me​ ​though.​ ​I​’​ve​ ​been​ ​loyal​ ​to​ ​one​ ​number​ ​only.​ ​Did​ ​you​ ​win,​ ​Mom?​”

 

“​I​ ​bought​ ​it​ ​for​ ​the​ ​top​ ​prize,​ ​but​ ​it​ ​came​ ​out​ ​on​ ​the​ ​bottom​ ​line.​ ​Too​ ​many​ ​numbers​—​my​ ​eyes​ ​got​ ​all​ ​crossed.​”

 

“​You​ ​didn​’​t​ ​buy​ ​the​ ​government​ ​lottery?​”

 

“​I​ ​did.​ ​Got​ ​two​ ​tickets.​ ​Checked​ ​them​ ​already.​ ​Nothing.​”

 

“​Giving​ ​up​ ​yet?​”

 

“​Never.​”

 

“​Alright​ ​then.​ ​Keep​ ​fighting,​ ​Mom.​”

She​ ​sent​ ​a​ ​heart​ ​sticker​ ​and​ ​closed​ ​the​ ​chat​ ​with​ ​a​ ​smile.

 

Feeling​ ​lighthearted,​ ​Rynny​ ​clicked​ ​into​ ​her​ ​Facebook​ ​memories​ ​and​ ​reshared​ ​a​ ​post​ ​from​ ​the​ ​same​ ​day​ ​last​ ​year.​ ​Reading​ ​through​ ​her​ ​old​ ​comments,​ ​she​ ​couldn​’​t​ ​help​ ​but​ ​smile.

 

“​Rynny,​ ​you​'​re​ ​amazing​!​ ​How​ ​do​ ​you​ ​manage​ ​all​ ​those​ ​Russian​ ​kids?​ ​I​ ​follow​ ​your​ ​posts​ ​every​ ​day.​ ​What​’​s​ ​your​ ​secret?​ ​You​’​re​ ​seriously​ ​incredible​!​”

 

She​ ​typed​ ​a​ ​short​ ​thank-you​ ​caption​ ​under​ ​the​ ​post:

 

Thank​ ​you​ ​for​ ​the​ ​kind​ ​words​ ​and​ ​questions​!​ ​Sorry​ ​I​ ​haven​’​t​ ​replied​ ​in​ ​chat​—​please​ ​allow​ ​me​ ​to​ ​answer​ ​here​ ​instead.

 

I​’​ve​ ​been​ ​working​ ​at​ ​a​ ​Russian​ ​kindergarten​ ​for​ ​two​ ​years​ ​now.

I​ ​sometimes​ ​wonder​ ​if​ ​people​ ​ever​ ​ask​ ​themselves​…

 

How​ ​do​ ​I​ ​even​ ​tolerate​ ​it​ ​when​ ​they​ ​speak​ ​Russian​ ​around​ ​me?

Does​ ​it​ ​get​ ​annoying​ ​for​ ​someone​ ​who​ ​doesn​’​t​ ​understand​ ​a​ ​word?

 

And​ ​of​ ​course,​ ​not​ ​all​ ​teachers​ ​speak​ ​English,​ ​nor​ ​do​ ​all​ ​the​ ​parents.

When​ ​two​ ​people​ ​with​ ​very​ ​different​ ​levels​ ​of​ ​English​ ​try​ ​to​ ​communicate,​ ​it​’​s​ ​hard.

That​’​s​ ​why​ ​I​ ​believe​ ​both​ ​sides​ ​should​ ​try​ ​to​ ​keep​ ​their​ ​language​ ​level​ ​balanced​—​or​ ​at​ ​least​ ​close​—​and​ ​always​ ​make​ ​the​ ​effort​ ​to​ ​understand​ ​one​ ​another.

 

At​ ​the​ ​very​ ​least,​ ​vocabulary​ ​matters.

Words​ ​are​ ​the​ ​bridge.

 

I​’​m​ ​truly​ ​thankful​ ​for​ ​myself​ ​today.​ ​I​’​m​ ​proud​ ​of​ ​the​ ​effort​ ​I​’​ve​ ​made​ ​to​ ​learn​ ​Russian.

Because​ ​of​ ​that,​ ​I​’​ve​ ​started​ ​to​ ​be​ ​able​ ​to​ ​communicate​ ​with​ ​and​ ​understand​ ​the​ ​Russian​ ​children​ ​here​—​at​ ​least​ ​a​ ​little​ ​bit.

 

I​ ​often​ ​think​ ​of​ ​those​ ​who​ ​dislike​ ​being​ ​around​ ​foreign​ ​languages.​ ​For​ ​people​ ​who​ ​can​’​t​ ​understand​ ​what​’​s​ ​being​ ​said,​ ​of​ ​course​ ​they​’​d​ ​feel​ ​annoyed​ ​or​ ​uncomfortable​—​it​’​s​ ​hard​ ​to​ ​exist​ ​in​ ​a​ ​world​ ​of​ ​noise​ ​you​ ​don​’​t​ ​understand.​ ​But​ ​for​ ​me​…​ ​I​’​ve​ ​somehow​ ​developed​ ​the​ ​ability​ ​to​ ​shut​ ​out​ ​those​ ​unfamiliar​ ​sounds​ ​and​ ​keep​ ​them​ ​from​ ​disturbing​ ​my​ ​peace​ ​of​ ​mind.

 

When​ ​they​ ​speak​ ​Russian​ ​around​ ​me,​ ​I​ ​simply​ ​listen.

I​ ​listen​ ​as​ ​much​ ​as​ ​I​ ​can​—

just​ ​like​ ​we​ ​teach​ ​children​ ​to​ ​speak.

Before​ ​they​ ​can​ ​talk,​ ​they​ ​have​ ​to​ ​listen.

They​ ​need​ ​to​ ​hear​ ​the​ ​words​ ​first.

And​ ​once​ ​they​ ​hear​ ​them​ ​enough,​ ​over​ ​and​ ​over​ ​again,​ ​they​’​ll​ ​begin​ ​to​ ​understand,​ ​and​ ​eventually​ ​remember.

 

That​’​s​ ​exactly​ ​how​ ​I​ ​started​ ​learning​ ​Russian.

I​ ​listened.​ ​I​ ​listened​ ​to​ ​the​ ​children.​ ​I​ ​heard​ ​them​ ​every​ ​day.

And​ ​when​ ​I​ ​didn​’​t​ ​understand​ ​something,​ ​I​ ​asked​ ​them​ ​what​ ​it​ ​meant.

And​ ​they​—​sweetly​ ​and​ ​naturally​—​taught​ ​me.​ ​They​ ​told​ ​me​ ​how​ ​to​ ​say​ ​it.

 

I​ ​can​’​t​ ​remember​ ​every​ ​word,​ ​of​ ​course.

Not​ ​unless​ ​I​ ​use​ ​it​ ​often.

 

So​ ​I​ ​started​ ​learning​ ​vocabulary​ ​that​ ​was​ ​close​ ​to​ ​me,

words​ ​I​ ​needed,​ ​words​ ​that​ ​came​ ​up​ ​a​ ​lot.

Then​ ​I​ ​said​ ​them​—​again​ ​and​ ​again,​ ​every​ ​day.

 

A​ ​few​ ​days​ ​ago,​ ​Vasya,​ ​a​ ​curious,​ ​talkative​ ​little​ ​boy,​ ​asked​ ​me:

 

“​Why​ ​do​ ​you​ ​always​ ​say​ ​‘​Stand​ ​up​’​ ​and​ ​‘​Sit​ ​down​’​ ​before​ ​every​ ​cooking​ ​class?​”

 

I​ ​told​ ​him:

“​It​’​s​ ​how​ ​I​ ​teach​ ​my​ ​kids​ ​English.

When​ ​I​ ​say​ ​these​ ​commands,​ ​they​ ​understand​ ​right​ ​away​ ​what​ ​I​’​m​ ​asking​ ​them​ ​to​ ​do.​”

 

It​’​s​ ​the​ ​same​ ​with​ ​Russian.

I​ ​listen.​ ​I​ ​repeat.​ ​I​ ​speak​ ​it​ ​every​ ​day.

I​ ​speak​ ​both​ ​English​ ​and​ ​Russian​—​back​ ​and​ ​forth.

 

All​ ​of​ ​this​ ​hard​ ​work​…​ ​I​ ​don​’​t​ ​do​ ​it​ ​for​ ​a​ ​raise.

I​ ​do​ ​it​ ​to​ ​improve​ ​my​ ​skills​—​my​ ​labor​—​so​ ​I​ ​can​ ​grow​ ​in​ ​my​ ​profession.

 

One​ ​day,​ ​if​ ​I​’​m​ ​no​ ​longer​ ​here,

at​ ​least​ ​I​’​ll​ ​be​ ​walking​ ​away​ ​with​ ​some​ ​real​ ​Russian​ ​under​ ​my​ ​belt.

 

But​ ​if​ ​I​’​m​ ​being​ ​honest​…

I​ ​didn​’​t​ ​come​ ​here​ ​to​ ​work.

I​’​m​ ​actually​ ​here​ ​on​ ​a​ ​secret​ ​mission.

 

#​LifeOfAThaiTeacherInARussianKindergarten

 

Rynny​ ​slipped​ ​her​ ​phone​ ​into​ ​her​ ​bag​ ​and​ ​began​ ​packing​ ​up​ ​the​ ​children​’​s​ ​toys​ ​into​ ​their​ ​bin.

 

Just​ ​then,​ ​little​ ​Milana​ ​came​ ​running​ ​toward​ ​her​—

tears​ ​streaming​ ​down​ ​her​ ​cheeks,​ ​nose​ ​running,​ ​crying​ ​desperately​ ​for​ ​her​ ​mother​ ​and​ ​begging​ ​to​ ​go​ ​home.

 

Scenes​ ​like​ ​this​ ​were​ ​fairly​ ​normal​ ​at​ ​the​ ​Russian​ ​kindergarten.

What​ ​wasn​'​t​ ​normal,​ ​though,​ ​was​ ​the​ ​time.

It​ ​was​ ​already​ ​half​ ​an​ ​hour​ ​past​ ​dismissal.

 

Mr.​ ​Maxim,​ ​another​ ​teacher,​ ​came​ ​jogging​ ​after​ ​Milana.

“​Rynny,​ ​could​ ​you​ ​please​ ​take​ ​care​ ​of​ ​her?​”​ ​he​ ​said,​ ​slightly​ ​out​ ​of​ ​breath.​ ​“​I​ ​tried​ ​calling​ ​her​ ​back,​ ​but​ ​she​ ​ran​ ​straight​ ​to​ ​you​ ​instead.​”

 

He​ ​approached​ ​to​ ​help​ ​calm​ ​the​ ​child,​ ​who​ ​was​ ​now​ ​in​ ​Rynny​’​s​ ​arms,​ ​clinging​ ​tightly.

 

“​It​’​s​ ​okay,​”​ ​Rynny​ ​said​ ​gently.​ ​“​I​’​ll​ ​take​ ​care​ ​of​ ​her.​ ​You​ ​go​ ​on​ ​home.​”

 

Once​ ​he​ ​was​ ​gone,​ ​Rynny​ ​closed​ ​her​ ​eyes​ ​for​ ​a​ ​moment​ ​and​ ​placed​ ​a​ ​quiet​ ​prayer​ ​in​ ​her​ ​heart.

She​ ​called​ ​upon​ ​Mother​ ​Earth​—​the​ ​sacred​ ​feminine​ ​of​ ​the​ ​land​ ​itself​—

asking​ ​her​ ​to​ ​cradle​ ​this​ ​child​ ​through​ ​her​ ​own​ ​arms,

to​ ​channel​ ​a​ ​mother​’​s​ ​love​ ​into​ ​this​ ​moment

and​ ​light​ ​up​ ​Milana​’​s​ ​little​ ​soul​ ​with​ ​peace.

 

To​ ​Rynny,​ ​the​ ​earth​ ​was​ ​the​ ​origin​ ​of​ ​all​ ​life.

It​ ​was​ ​the​ ​divine​ ​mother​—​nurturer​ ​of​ ​the​ ​world,​ ​symbol​ ​of​ ​abundance​ ​and​ ​safety.

 

And​ ​as​ ​if​ ​hearing​ ​her​ ​prayer,​ ​the​ ​child​ ​in​ ​her​ ​embrace​ ​slowly​ ​calmed.

The​ ​sobs​ ​faded.​ ​Her​ ​breath​ ​steadied.

Soon,​ ​the​ ​brightness​ ​returned​ ​to​ ​her​ ​eyes.

 

Moments​ ​later,​ ​Milana​’​s​ ​parents​ ​came​ ​rushing​ ​from​ ​their​ ​white​ ​car,​ ​panting​ ​as​ ​they​ ​ran​ ​across​ ​the​ ​schoolyard​ ​to​ ​take​ ​her​ ​home.

 

Once​ ​they​ ​were​ ​gone,​ ​Rynny​ ​finally​ ​packed​ ​her​ ​bag​ ​and​ ​prepared​ ​to​ ​leave.

 

But​ ​before​ ​she​ ​could​ ​take​ ​a​ ​single​ ​step​—

 

Bang​!

The​ ​classroom​ ​door​ ​slammed​ ​open.

 

Dilly,​ ​the​ ​nanny,​ ​charged​ ​in​ ​like​ ​a​ ​bolt​ ​of​ ​lightning,​ ​eyes​ ​wide​ ​with​ ​panic.

 

“​Rynny​!​ ​Quick​!​ ​There​’​s​ ​a​ ​war​ ​about​ ​to​ ​break​ ​out​ ​in​ ​the​ ​playroom​!​”

 

Rynny​ ​blinked.​ ​“​Wait,​ ​what?​ ​A​ ​war?​!​”

 

“​It​’​s​ ​Liana​ ​and​ ​Sasha​—​they​’​re​ ​fighting​ ​again​!​”

 

Without​ ​another​ ​word,​ ​Rynny​ ​sprinted​ ​after​ ​her​ ​down​ ​the​ ​hallway.

 

They​ ​burst​ ​into​ ​the​ ​playroom​—

and​ ​there​ ​it​ ​was:

 

Two​ ​Russian​ ​teachers,​ ​each​ ​standing​ ​at​ ​opposite​ ​ends​ ​of​ ​the​ ​room,​ ​helpless.

Colored​ ​pencils​ ​scattered​ ​everywhere.

Toys​ ​strewn​ ​across​ ​the​ ​padded​ ​floor​ ​like​ ​a​ ​miniature​ ​battlefield.

Rynny​ ​tried​ ​to​ ​keep​ ​her​ ​voice​ ​calm​ ​and​ ​soothing.

“​Hey,​ ​hey...​ ​Liana,​ ​Sasha,​ ​take​ ​a​ ​deep​ ​breath.​ ​You​’​re​ ​from​ ​the​ ​same​ ​country,​ ​aren​’​t​ ​you?​ ​Can​’​t​ ​we​ ​talk​ ​this​ ​through​ ​peacefully?​ ​You​ ​know​ ​there​ ​are​ ​four​ ​security​ ​cameras​ ​in​ ​this​ ​room,​ ​right?​”

 

Tears​ ​rolled​ ​down​ ​Liana​’​s​ ​cheeks​ ​as​ ​she​ ​replied​ ​in​ ​English,​ ​her​ ​voice​ ​shaking.

“​It​ ​doesn​’​t​ ​matter​ ​if​ ​we​’​re​ ​from​ ​the​ ​same​ ​country.​ ​People​ ​fight​—​no​ ​matter​ ​where​ ​they​ ​come​ ​from.​”

 

“​What​ ​are​ ​you​ ​fighting​ ​about?​”​ ​Rynny​ ​asked​ ​gently,​ ​trying​ ​to​ ​de-escalate​ ​the​ ​tension.

“​Is​ ​there​ ​anything​ ​I​ ​can​ ​help​ ​with?​”

 

Sasha​ ​stood​ ​still​ ​with​ ​her​ ​head​ ​bowed.​ ​After​ ​a​ ​long​ ​pause,​ ​she​ ​bent​ ​down,​ ​picked​ ​up​ ​a​ ​stuffed​ ​animal​ ​from​ ​the​ ​floor,​ ​and​ ​spoke​ ​softly:

“​We​ ​both​ ​came​ ​to​ ​this​ ​job​ ​because​ ​we​ ​love​ ​children​…​ ​But​ ​today,​ ​we​ ​hurt​ ​each​ ​other​ ​like​ ​animals.​”

 

Liana​ ​wasn​’​t​ ​done​ ​yet.

“​Sasha​ ​said​ ​I​ ​don​’​t​ ​take​ ​care​ ​of​ ​the​ ​little​ ​ones​ ​during​ ​lunch.​”

 

“​She​ ​was​ ​prepping​ ​a​ ​lesson​ ​at​ ​the​ ​time,​”​ ​Rynny​ ​interjected.

“​I​ ​saw​ ​it​ ​myself​—​she​ ​was​ ​busy​ ​and​ ​Sasha​ ​stepped​ ​in​ ​to​ ​help.​”

 

“​I​’​ve​ ​seen​ ​it​ ​more​ ​than​ ​once,​”​ ​Sasha​ ​insisted.

“​She​’​s​ ​always​ ​on​ ​her​ ​phone.​”

 

“​My​ ​brother​ ​is​ ​sick​!​”​ ​Liana​ ​cried,​ ​tears​ ​still​ ​flowing.

“​I​ ​have​ ​to​ ​keep​ ​checking​ ​in​ ​about​ ​his​ ​treatment.​”

 

Rynny​ ​looked​ ​at​ ​both​ ​of​ ​them​—​two​ ​grown​ ​teachers,​ ​standing​ ​there​ ​crying​ ​like​ ​children.​ ​She​ ​let​ ​out​ ​a​ ​long​ ​sigh,​ ​then​ ​said​ ​half-jokingly:

“​You​ ​know​…​ ​we​’​re​ ​kindergarten​ ​teachers,​ ​right?​ ​No​ ​wonder​ ​we​’​re​ ​starting​ ​to​ ​act​ ​like​ ​kindergarteners​ ​ourselves.​ ​Good​ ​thing​ ​all​ ​the​ ​kids​ ​have​ ​gone​ ​home.​ ​If​ ​they​ ​saw​ ​this,​ ​they​’​d​ ​think​ ​we​ ​were​ ​rehearsing​ ​for​ ​World​ ​War​ ​III.​”

 

She​ ​gently​ ​took​ ​Liana​ ​by​ ​the​ ​arm​ ​and​ ​led​ ​her​ ​out​ ​of​ ​the​ ​playroom,​ ​nodding​ ​at​ ​Dilly​ ​to​ ​guide​ ​Sasha​ ​out​ ​the​ ​opposite​ ​way.

 

As​ ​they​ ​walked​ ​off,​ ​Dilly​ ​called​ ​out​ ​with​ ​mock​ ​seriousness:

“​Next​ ​time​ ​they​ ​start​ ​yelling​ ​in​ ​Russian​…​ ​should​ ​we​ ​just​ ​sneak​ ​off​ ​and​ ​eat​ ​cake​ ​first?​”

 

Rynny​ ​laughed​ ​under​ ​her​ ​breath.

“​No​ ​need​ ​to​ ​sneak​ ​off​—​we​’​ve​ ​got​ ​plenty​ ​of​ ​leftover​ ​cake​ ​right​ ​here​ ​at​ ​school.​ ​The​ ​kids​ ​didn​’​t​ ​even​ ​touch​ ​it.​ ​They​ ​must​ ​be​ ​tired​ ​of​ ​the​ ​same​ ​flavor.​”

 

Even​ ​though​ ​tensions​ ​still​ ​simmered​ ​beneath​ ​the​ ​surface​ ​at​ ​Rabbit​ ​Hole​ ​Kindergarten​ ​(​К​р​о​л​и​ч​ь​я​ ​н​о​р​а​ ​Д​е​т​с​к​и​й​ ​с​а​д​)​—​between​ ​Liana​ ​and​ ​Sasha,​ ​and​ ​even​ ​in​ ​the​ ​ongoing​ ​kitchen​ ​turf​ ​war​ ​between​ ​Rynny​ ​and​ ​the​ ​cook​—​it​ ​didn​’​t​ ​affect​ ​Rynny​’​s​ ​performance​ ​in​ ​the​ ​slightest.

 

To​ ​her,​ ​he​ ​didn​’​t​ ​matter.

He​ ​was​ ​nothing​ ​more​ ​than​ ​air.

But​ ​to​ ​him​…​ ​she​ ​was​ ​far​ ​from​ ​invisible.

 

The​ ​one​ ​who​ ​found​ ​his​ ​heart​ ​stirred,

was​ ​Alyosha​—

the​ ​cook.

…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​…​.