If only cosmonaut Gagarin knew

I breathed the scent of Bella's hair mixed with soap.

That Bella felt to me like a sunlight bunny that comes from nowhere and makes you go 'wow.' I made sure to clasp her hand.

September. Russia. My hometown N. School building. We were standing at the gate — first-graders.

“We will be fine,” I thought. “Who knows what this entails. At least we have each other.”

Two huge bows adorned our heads. As if some clueless dragonflies entangled in our pigtails. We wore matching brown dresses — in the shade of healthy poop.

We didn't complain. I don't remember Bella and me ever complaining.

The teacher crammed us together at the rear of the room into the uncozy school desk. We were too tall to sit up front.

We didn't complain, we laughed — a lot.

Sometimes for no reason. Might be because we were nervous.

Bella’s laugh was like a frog's croak - loud, deep. Her giggle was more squeaky, like a mouse in a TV cartoon.

The classroom smelled of sweat and salt. The newly-painted desk was yucky-sticky. Perhaps the glossy top was crawling with green boogers.

Bella and I were falling asleep from boredom.

Our heads were drooping down, so we gaped under the desk at our boots.

My left boot had a massive hole in it, and I could see my woollen sock through it, like a wet rabbit was sticking out his nose.

We had to stay awake, so we pondered about

“What would be a cool thing to do?”

We thought of soaring about the cosmos, like Gagarin. He was the first man to fly in space and Russian - which made us proud.

“How much fun it would be being weightless, floating upside down, turning rounds of somersaults,” I said wistfully.

“How do you measure the distance from A to B?” The teacher wanted to know instead.

“Are you kidding?” We wanted to scream! “What does this have to do with fun?”

We already knew that balderdash; it was far too simple for us.

In defiance, under the desk we went, deep down into our private chamber and hoped she wouldn't see us.

She was at the blackboard writing. Her hair stood up in all directions like grey question marks. Yet, she wasn't a clown. We wished she was.

She wasn't bad, just boring, like a layer of dust. An alligator nose, sad eyes, like two mothballs. She smelled of chalk, and gloom.

We loved it when she was busy with something, leaving us alone.

Under the desk, we could tickle each other and shake in silent laughter, clutching each other's mouths with sweaty palms, almost bursting at the seams.

“One plus one equals…?” We heard her dejected voice again.

Our bodies under the desk ached not to explode in giggles. Please no! Our faces reddened with fear and guilt.

We peeked from under the desk. No worries. She was busy, still yapping like a lizard in galoshes.

In the darkness of our hideout, we found each other's burning eyes.

“I'm hungry,” said Bella. I heard her stomach growl with low rumbles like a lion.

“Me too,” I said and sighed.

We had exactly six kopecks left after buying one vatrushka for two at the recess.

Now we sure didn't have enough to buy vanilla ice cream for lunch.

So we decided — that was a brilliant idea, now listen. Listen.

We thought of buying a pack of vitamins instead — they were C's with sugar. We saw them at the nearby Apteka across the street.

And off we went, sneaking out of the classroom, as soon as the alligator turned away.

We pretended to be invisible like ghosts. Quiet, we tiptoed past walls with posters of the Russian Revolution and Comrade Lenin, who was long dead but still the leader.

Six kopeks were just enough to buy one pack of C's and eat them for five days.

Those C’s! The sour tarts with sugar. The size of flying saucers. Crystal-white!

The pleasure of them slow-melting on your tongue was like figure skating. With dim lights. Or if we would crunch them, it felt like disco music with confetti.

That was our boon, as if we had won a large pig in the lottery, like my Papa did one time.

If only cosmonaut Gagarin knew, he too would be impressed! 😊

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Dear Readers, thank you for reading! I write mostly about love and meaning of life. Feel free to share stories with your loved ones. I also read my writing at public events as a professional performer. Special Thanks to Pamela Mayer — my tireless friend, editor, and collaborator.