September 11th. Very late. I don't want to check the time.

  I found a path today. I'm going to write about the path. But first I have to write about the ten days. Because the path only makes sense after the ten days. And I need to write about the ten days before I lose my nerve.

  I pressed my dark indigo jeans on the first morning. Starched them the way I always do — properly rigid, the crease sharp down the front of each leg. My best burgundy hijab. Black oxfords, polished. Red lip, natural. I looked in the mirror before leaving and I felt, like I always feel when I am correctly dressed, completely myself.

  I was so excited.

  That's the embarrassing part. I was genuinely, stupidly excited. I had been telling myself for a whole month — finally, Gulnara. St Petersburg. A city that actually understands fashion. Not Kazan where old Madame Khasanova says that girl knows what she's doing and means it as a mild curiosity. Here they would understand. Here the pressed crease would make sense. Here I would not be the strange one.

  I even had the exact change for the metro in my coat pocket. I always have exact change for the bus or the metro. It is a small thing but it helps. With every last detail thus worked out, I walked into School 209.

  Within four minutes I knew I had been wrong about everything.

  Her name is Svetlana Morozova.

  She's beautiful. I want to be accurate, so I'll say it plainly — she is genuinely beautiful in the way that is also a weapon. Tall, blonde, the kind of face that photographs well, which matters because she models and apparently has been offered two romantic comedy roles, which she mentions with practiced casualness about twice a day. She has never once in her life walked into a room wondering if she belonged there. You can tell just by watching her move.

  She noticed me at lunch on day one. Didn't say anything immediately. Just looked. The look of someone who has spotted something interesting to do. By day three, Polina Vasilyeva and Oksana Belova had joined in and it had become structured.

  Polina is sharp-faced and quick. She provides the commentary, the translation of Svetlana's silences into actual words. Oksana is less sharp but more enthusiastic — she's the one whose laughter is the loudest, the most reliable, the kind of laugh that gives everyone else permission.

  Together the three of them are very good at this. Better than I expected. I keep expecting it to bore them. It doesn't seem to bore them.

  On the Jeans

  Are those your grandmother's? They look like they've been pressed since the Soviet Union.

  Laughter from the immediate circle. But also — and this is the part I keep thinking about — laughter from two girls I don't know, standing near the window. They didn't hear the whole thing. They just saw Svetlana's expression and laughed at that. At whatever Svetlana was pointing at. Which was me.

  I love how committed you are to the crease. It's very... municipal.

  Polina actually covered her mouth. Like she was trying to be polite about laughing. She wasn't trying to be polite. She just wanted to make the laugh last longer.

  Do you starch them yourself or does someone do it for you? Like a service?

  A boy I don't know yet — I think his name is Vadim — turned to his friend and said something I couldn't hear. His friend looked at my jeans and nodded slowly. Like they were assessing something. Like I was a topic being discussed rather than a person standing there.

  They're very crisp. You could cut bread with those.

  General laughter. Even from the second kind. The indifferent ones. That one apparently crossed the threshold of indifference. I noted this. Filed it. Moved on.

  The fold at the ankle is so interesting. Very regional runway.

  Three girls I had hoped might be different — they sit together in Literature, they seem quieter than the others, I had noticed them with something like cautious hope on day two — laughed at this one. Not loudly. But they laughed. The cautious hope filed itself away without being asked.

  On the hijab.

  Is that for religious reasons or is it a style choice? I genuinely can't tell.

  Polina tilted her head while Svetlana said this. Performing curiosity alongside her. Like they had rehearsed. Behind them Oksana was already smiling in anticipation of her own laughter.

  In St Petersburg we don't really see that much. Outside of certain neighborhoods.

  Nobody laughed at this one. It didn't need laughter. It landed in silence and stayed there. A boy near the back of the group — Mikhail — looked at the floor. He knew what that sentence meant. He didn't say anything. He looked at the floor and I watched him decide.

  Mikhail. Quiet, careful, the kind of face that is kind when it thinks no one is watching. Something moved across his face that wanted very much to be courage. It looked at the situation. It left. He looked away. I don't blame him. Mikhail wants things that require Svetlana's tolerance and he can't afford the cost of me. I understand the calculation. It is a rational calculation.

  My cousin went to Kazan once. She said everyone dresses like that there.

  Laughter. And then — this is the detail that stays with me — Aigul, standing at the edge of the group, not quite in it and not quite out of it, smiled. Just slightly. The smile of someone purchasing something small and hoping not to be noticed doing it.

  I looked away first. I gave her that.

  It must be so warm. Aren't you warm?

  Oksana laughed before Svetlana even finished the sentence. She does this — pre-laughs. Laughs in advance to tell everyone else where the funny is. Like a laugh track. Efficient.

  On the red lip.

  The lipstick is interesting. Very bold for someone so... covered.

  This one produced a specific reaction. Not laughter exactly. More like a collective intake of breath followed by the kind of laughter that means — oh she actually said that. Two girls exchanged glances. Not disapproving glances. Impressed ones. Like Svetlana had done something athletic.

  Red lip, covered hair. Mixed signals, no?

  Pavel - Who usually says nothing because he has decided nothing is the safest thing. He wants to belong to the expensive, beautiful world this school represents and I am not part of that plan.

  Pavel — the one who wants to belong, the one with the reasonable face and the careful ambitions — laughed at this one. Specifically at this one. He didn't laugh at the others. This one got him. I don't know why I noticed. I noticed. He has a reasonable face. That's all I can say about him.

  Is red allowed? I thought there were rules.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  A girl I will call Nastya — she is in my mathematics class and has never spoken to me directly — turned to her friend and whispered something. Her friend looked at my lip. Then at my hijab. Then nodded. An agreement reached about me without me.

  On Kazan.

  Kazan is lovely. Very ethnic.

  Polina said ethnic back under her breath, tasting it, and Oksana laughed. Timur — one of the boys I had hoped to find something in — was standing close enough to hear. He looked at his phone. Became very interested in his phone.

  You're Tatar? I thought Tatars dressed more modern now.

  A girl behind me — I don't know her name, she has red hair and always looks faintly bored — said quietly to the person beside her: she's very traditional. Said like a diagnosis. The person beside her nodded. Clinical. Complete.

  My father says Kazan is Russia's most interesting city. In a historical sense.

  Dmitri was nearby for this one. He was talking to someone, not paying attention, but Svetlana said it slightly louder than necessary, the way she does when she wants him to hear without appearing to perform for him. He glanced over. Registered the scene. Returned to his conversation.

  I noticed him on the very first day, before anything else began. He is the most handsome boy I have seen in St Petersburg, which means something because St Petersburg boys are considerably more handsome than Kazan boys as a general observation. Dark-haired. The easy authority of someone who is always the most capable person in any room and has made peace with this without making a production of it. He is captain of the soccer team and his name is always said in a certain way by certain people.

  He dates Svetlana. He does not laugh at her performances. This is the best thing I can say about him. He watches with the mild, benign tolerance of someone observing his girlfriend's hobby. Some harmless fun she is having. Nothing for him to concern himself with. I have thought about this. I have decided it is worse than laughing. I have filed him accordingly.

  The quiet ones. The ones that land differently.

  You have such potential. That's what makes it confusing.

  No laughter. This one wasn't for the audience. This one was for me. Svetlana looked directly at me when she said it. Not performing. Just — delivering something. I didn't answer. I looked at a point slightly above her left shoulder and waited for it to be over. Behind her Polina watched my face with the attentiveness of someone monitoring results.

  You're brave. I couldn't pull that off here. But you're brave.

  Two girls who had been watching from the doorway — I had never seen them laugh, they belong to neither the laughing category nor the wanting-to-help category, they simply watch — looked at each other after this one. One of them said something to the other. I don't know what. I don't know if it was kind or not. I have run out of energy for hoping.

  You'd be stunning if you just... relaxed a little.

  Complete silence after this one.

  Then Oksana laughed. Because silence makes Oksana nervous and laughter is her solution to nervousness.

  There are three kinds of people at this school.

  First kind: they laugh because Svetlana laughs and her approval is a currency they cannot afford to waste. Some of them laugh harder than they need to. I notice this. Overcompensating. Whatever makes them sleep at night.

  Second kind: indifferent. They look through me the way you look through glass at weather that doesn't affect you. I actually understand them. Indifference is rational here. I cannot be angry at them.

  Third kind: the ones who want to help but can't. Diary, I have already introduced you to them. Pavel, Dmitri and Mikhai.

  I have to write about the Tatar girl.

  Her name is on the register — Aigul. And there are two boys, Ruslan and Timur, whose faces and names tell me they are not from the Russian west. On day four I looked toward them during one of Svetlana's corridor performances. The way you look toward a window when you need air.

  Aigul was laughing.

  Not Svetlana's bright, performative laugh. Something smaller. Uncomfortable. The laugh of someone who has calculated that laughing costs less than not laughing, and has made their decision, and is living with it.

  Ruslan had made himself as small as possible. Timur was looking at his phone.

  I understood it. Every bit of it. Their calculations were rational. They had arrived here before me and they had learned what I am still learning and they had decided what I have not decided yet. Understanding it completely did not make it hurt less.

  It hurt more, actually.

  I'm going to be honest because this is my diary and there is no one else to be honest to. It hurt more than anything Svetlana has said in ten days.

  At home it is quieter but not better.

  Papa listens. He is an affectionate man and he listens carefully and then he says — Gulnara, I understand. However.

  The however has been living in our house since I was fourteen. It contains everything. The short skirt he doesn't want but would settle for a longer one without a crease. The hijab he doesn't oppose but wishes I wore more loosely, more casually, less like a statement. The red lip he doesn't understand at all.

  He loves me. He just wishes I were slightly different. Just the one thing. You know what the worst part is? He might be right. Practically speaking. Strategically speaking. If I wore what they wore I would not be eating lunch alone right now. But I looked at myself in the mirror on day two after a bad day and I tried to imagine. Just tried to picture it. The short skirt. The loose hair. No crease.

  I couldn't find myself in the mirror.

  Mama said nothing for eight days. She was watching, thinking, the way she does. On day nine — the same day as you could be pretty if you tried — she said, very gently, Perhaps this weekend. Just to look. Mother and daughter.

  I said yes. I don't know why I said yes. I looked at myself in the mirror after and I looked tired. Not defeated. Just tired. The specific exhaustion of holding position for a long time and feeling it in the bones.

  Alina texted the same evening, like she sensed something. She is excited. She has always wanted us to shop together for matching outfits. She sent three enthusiastic messages and a photo of herself in something very short and very expensive.

  I didn't reply immediately.

  Akhmed texted. He said it sounded really hard and he hoped it got better.

  Akhmed.

  Sympathy without motion.

  I put my phone face down.

  Which brings me to today. September 11th.

  The path.

  I followed it because I had run out of ceiling.

  Ten days of lying on my bed looking at the ceiling in my new bedroom that smells of fresh paint and is slightly larger than my Kazan room and feels nothing like mine. I have spent a considerable amount of time looking at that ceiling. It does not help but it is something to look at.

  Today I ran out of ceiling and I followed the path instead.

  It wound through the birch trees for about ten minutes and then it opened.

  Onto a cliff.

  Above the Gulf of Finland.

  The water stretched to the horizon. Grey and vast and cold and completely indifferent to School 209 and Svetlana Morozova and Polina Vasilyeva and Oksana Belova and the weekend shopping trip and the mirror and Aigul's uncomfortable laugh and all of it.

  I should tell you the view was beautiful. I know it was beautiful. I could see that it was beautiful. But I couldn't feel it.

  I sat on a flat rock and pulled my knees to my chest and looked at the water and my thoughts kept pulling me back. Back to the corridor. Back to Aigul's laugh. Back to you could be pretty if you tried and however and Mama's gentle voice and the mirror and the shopping trip and who I would be without the crease without the hijab without the red lip.

  What is left of Gulnara without those things?

  I genuinely don't know.

  I sat there for a long time going nowhere inside my own head. The Gulf of Finland did what it has always done. I couldn't receive it.

  And then.

  A voice. Behind me.

  Male. Deep in the way that arrives in the chest before the ears. Rich and unhurried and entirely at home inside itself. The voice of someone who has never once wondered whether their voice was the right kind of voice.

  It said —

  If you're planning to jump, I'd do it in the next hour or so. And if it's going to be later, can I cut in line? You see, I promised my Grandmother I’d be back by sunset

  I turned around.

  And.

  Okay.

  I need a moment.

  There was a boy leaning against a birch tree as though it had been placed there for him specifically.

  Shirtless.

  In swim shorts.

  In September

  On a cliff above the Gulf of Finland.

  at 5:30 PM, 14 degree Celsius

  With a body that made every Greek statue in my art history textbook seem like it had been describing something approximate.

  The boy is mad, absolutely mad. Insane, I tell you. He should not be let loose on beautiful Autumn evenings.

  And a face. My God, that face!

  The most insolent face I have encountered in fourteen years of careful and precise observation. A smirk that was not occasional or contextual but appeared to be a permanent architectural feature. Like he had looked at the entire human race, assessed it from a considerable height, found it faintly amusing, and decided to wear this conclusion on his face as a permanent record.

  Like an alien visiting Earth. Taking notes. Amused by everything. Impressed by nothing.

  He was looking at me, with that maddening smirk that infuriated me like nothing else since I had moved to St. Petersburg. Like nothing I can remember since ever. I don’t like him. I don’t like him at all, Diary. Not one bit. It is very correct that I met him on September 11. These things always seem to happen to September 11. It must be an omen. I admit I was wrong about St. Petersburg, but I am sure I am right about him. I can’t be wrong about him. If I am wrong about him, then I know nothing about anything

  Diary.

  The shopping trip is cancelled, by the way. Obviously cancelled. No matching outfits with Alina. She will be disappointed, but it’s time she learnt what disappointment is.

  I don't know his name. It must be something horrible, I am sure.

  And the voice.

  Diary, the voice.

  I'm going to go now. I will write more tomorrow. I just can’t write any more. My fingers are shaking. I can’t grip this stupid pen. The pages are all scratched. Stupid paper. Stupid, stupid fingers.

  — Gulnara

  P.S. I could feel the Beautiful view after he left. I don't know what to do with that information. I also don’t know what to make of his Grandmother, but I suspect I would like her very much, even though her grandson is so very horrible.