A friend said:
At the end of the 1990s, he studied in a very cool school. 10 the class. Children of politicians, businessmen, etc. There are no simple children in principle. Everyone tries to show that he is the coolest of all and everyone else compared to him is an empty place. Clothes, pencil, hair etc. A set of bricks for everyone. Except for Denis. He was the only of the 12 people in the class held by his parents in a "black body" - simple clothes, a simple portfolio and no pants.
No one has hair in the morning. And most importantly - Denis is the only one who goes to school alone - he is not brought with the driver. Denis has no sound surname and his parents do not attend parental meetings.
Dennis did not learn easily. Let’s say it gently. But Denis was a quiet and confined guy, and he was not allowed in school. Therefore, no one beat him, but just stumbled and did not communicate.
In those years, it was ordered to check the passes of all students. This was done by ordinary police officers.
In their school, it was a woman - a sergeant, who worked in the militia clearly not on her own initiative, but for the reason called "life bark." It was the 99th year, the height of the crisis, and for many it was a way to stay floating.

From the communication with the above-mentioned contingent of schoolchildren, not only hostility was drawn on her face, but simply a natural sense of social injustice.
After checking the documents of the whole class, she stopped looking at Denise. The tense face relaxed a little, and she took his passport. Quickly scrolled to the desired page, she looked carefully at the note. For some reason her sight hanged, although the operation usually took no more than 2-3 seconds. Then I looked closely at the first page of the passport, then Denis. Then she opened the ticket again, and looking at Denis, asked:
“Do you live at the address of Novonikolsky street, 15?” “Yes,” Dennis answered surprised and even frightened. "Why didn't the number of the apartment on the passport table?" The police officer asked horribly. From the neighboring ranks who watched the process, jokes about living in the entrance, bombs, etc. immediately sounded.
“There are no apartments there,” Denis replied.
“Why are there no apartments?”
“There are no apartments. This is our home,” Denis calmly replied.
Meaning of your home? This is the address inside the Garden Ring! “Why are you shaking my head?”
“My father bought this mansion from a state auction. The whole family is registered there. This is now our home.”
A police officer silently gave Denis her passport and quickly left the classroom. Her face was wild and her face was filled with social hatred.
Since then, Denis was no longer laughed at - the Mercedes and Versace next to a private mansion two steps from the Kremlin looked somewhat dull and gray.