Leila

The morning in the village began early. The rooster crowed — time to get up. The kids quickly washed their faces, ate porridge or bread with tea, and headed to school. They walked — some through the fields, others down the dusty street. In their hands were old backpacks or notebooks in bags.

No one waited for the bell. The teachers at the school were always the same: whoever knew at least something was in charge. One taught math, Russian, and music. Breaks were a formality. Classes flowed one after another, like water in a ditch. The students knew a little, but enough — to avoid arguments. Grades were given more for behavior. Everyone was satisfied. Everything was as usual.

Everyone — except for one girl. Her name was Leila.

She sat at the back of the classroom. Quiet, small, as if she were hiding from herself. The teachers neither scolded her nor praised her. She didn’t disrupt, didn’t raise her hand, didn’t demand attention. She just watched. Calmly, deeply, and always as if looking off to the side.

One day, during art class, when the whole class was lazily painting the sky and houses with gouache, Leila painted a village at sunset. Delicately, tenderly, accurately. The sun in her painting didn’t shine — it melted away, just like in real life.

The teacher stopped and looked: — Is this you?

Leila nodded.

With the start of the fourth grade, a lot changed. The school year now began not with notebooks, but with the fields. Instead of a bell — a warm, dusty morning; instead of desks — a sack and a cotton branch.

The students marched in line, heading to the fields, where each was to gather their quota. The teachers didn’t monitor knowledge but ensured that no one fell behind. Those who were lazy received reprimands. This was an unspoken policy set up to meet the state’s requirements.

When inspectors or auditors arrived, everything changed. Students from grades 4 to 9 hurriedly gathered at the school. Classes seemed to be “going as they should”: notebooks on desks, chalk on the board, teachers strict and businesslike. Everything was ready for inspection, but behind this facade lay only an appearance. The educational process continued, but not as before.

— Why do we have to pick cotton? — Leila suddenly asked one day, turning to the teacher.

The kids around her fell silent, looking at her with surprise, as if the obvious was unclear.

The teacher, slightly taken aback but quickly regaining her composure, raised her head and replied loudly enough for everyone to hear: — For the future of our country; we are helping to develop our region.

Leila pondered this but couldn’t hold back and said anyway: — But isn’t the future of the country us? The development of children should be more important than anything else?

Are you the only smart one? — the teacher narrowed her eyes. — Do you have the right to interfere in politics? If I hear something like this again, don’t expect anything good.

These words silenced the girl. They also robbed the others of the desire to express their discontent.

At the end of the fourth grade, on an ordinary day when the whole class, as usual on Saturdays, was cleaning up — the whole school gathered to help — the principal entered the classroom.

A thin man of middle age with a deep baritone voice walked into the room and, without wasting time, asked: — Who is Usmanova?

— I am, — replied Leila, who was standing on the windowsill with a rag in her hand.

— This is probably for you, — he said, handing her an envelope. And without lingering, he left.

Leila took the envelope, unsure of what to say. It looked unusual. The names of the sender and recipient were written in pen, and next to them in pencil were several other addresses. And beside it was a strange note: “She is not here.”

Curiously, she opened the letter and began to read:

Congratulations on your victory, our dear participant in the contest!

You answered all the questions correctly, and now you can collect your prize within a month. We also really liked the painting you sent, and we plan to print it on the cover of the next issue. We look forward to receiving more letters from you.

Sincerely,

The Znaika Magazine Team.

— Did you send a letter? — asked Leila’s friend, a girl with big black eyes, Nargiza, in surprise.

— Yes, — Leila replied, — but that was last year