In the 8th or 9th grade, my friend and I had a dumb tradition (where I came from, I don’t remember): when we see a boy from a parallel class, we shout: Menchakov (his surname), we try to jump and overthrow him. And we must say, at this age we were already fully formed girls, and he was small and sensitive, but these fun Menjashakov liked even more than us. One winter evening, we go with a friend from school, see Meshakov, catch up, with the usual screams we fall into the snow and see the completely blurred look of the unknown guy. The man just walked and didn’t touch anyone, and two mature girls stumbled on him and praised him. It was extremely uncomfortable, he quietly stood up and walked a quick step away from us.